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Over 80% of our oceans remain unexplored, which begins to make sense when you look down and see nothing. Little more than a vacuous water column, stretching thousands of feet downward, sits between your fins and the ocean floor. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

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I would never say I’ve had a fear of open water. But when you take the plunge out at sea, your mind begins to wander. Your brain wants to invent a bottom, but your eyes won’t let it come to fruition. You become mesmerized by the small particles floating around you and the light rays dancing inwards towards a vague point below. It’s a strange feeling. You listen to your muffled breaths passing through the snorkel. And then you hear them.

Click ……. Click ……. Click Click Click.

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The best comparison that comes to mind is the sound of a single marble bouncing on a granite countertop. This 1-1-3 coda—a short sequence similar to morse code—is unique to sperm whales in this region. Researchers in Dominica are beginning to piece these elements together to learn more about what may be a complex alphabet. These clicks are how the animals communicate and recognize each other across great distances. They are also how the largest predators on the planet locate their prey in the depths below.

Just 5 miles (8 km) off the island’s shore, the ocean plunges thousands of feet. And it’s in these black waters where sperm whales spend 75% of their lives. All sunlight is lost at 3,300 ft (1,000 m), at the fringe of two pelagic zones: the Twilight Zone and the Midnight Zone. In absolute darkness, there may seem to be nothing.

But there is life.

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Creatures that will never see the light of day inhabit this inhospitable world. Organisms whose form and function are extraterrestrial compared to anything we know at the surface. Fish that lure prey with bioluminescent lights dangling in front of their gaping mouths, crabs spanning over 12 feet from claw to claw, mollusks growing over 40 feet long. All existing in total darkness—the stuff of nightmares.

But it’s these massive mollusks that find themselves on the unfortunate side of this tale. If giant squid could dream, their nightmares would be flooded with images of their hunters. Toothed submarines that traverse these oceanic zones in search of sustenance. And in fairness, if you had a creature the length of two buses clicking the hell out of you in the dark before trying to eat you, you might share the same sentiment.

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Sperm whales begin their clicking at the surface before their streamlined bodies start their descent. As light fades, pressure builds, and their rib cages and lungs collapse to a tiny fraction of their volume at the surface. They leverage the oxygen stored in their blood and muscles, allowing these dives to reach depths of more than a mile and last up to two hours. The whales’ succinct communication codas turn to high-frequency pulses as they home in on their prey in the dark, allowing them to hunt somewhere between 300 and 700 large squid daily. They are built for this environment, and for the battle that ensues.

The hunters return to our domain for air, to socialize, and to rest. If it weren’t for the occasional piece of squid hanging from their mouths or the scars on their heads, we would be blissfully unaware of what unfolds in the abyss. 

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My creation of these near-black images came out of a desire to understand what life might look like for these titans of the deep.

But in an alien world below, where the clock always reads midnight, so much remains confined to our imagination.

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-EK

8/10/24

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