Grasping the thick and sturdy stipe of a bull kelp with my left hand and coiling its stable frond around my leg for support, I still felt as if I might be far flung by the powerful current of the Campbell River. My right hand was holding onto the buoyant camera that was entrusted to me for this week's scuba diving. My legs were being pulled down by the force of the ocean and my own bubbles were moving at a rate so fast on both sides of my face. Despite the shallow depth of the water, my dive buddy, Andrea Humphreys, and I were unable to move from our kelp-locked position.
If we let go of the kelp, we’d be swept down and out into the raging ocean channel between Steep Island and Vancouver Island’s mainland. From the surface, the water looked even more ferocious. But that’s the thing about the Campbell River area of British Columbia—you must precisely time your dive because under the most ideal of conditions, the current can shift in an instant. We found ourselves in one of those moments where, despite our heavily planned descent time, we couldn’t fight the power of nature.
For twenty-five minutes, we clung to the kelp, alternating hands to keep our grip, trying with all our might to move down to the kelp’s holdfast for better support. Our heavily gloved hands slipped occasionally, especially if any adjustments were needed with our drysuits protecting us from the extremely cold water. Maneuvering everything effectively felt like the ultimate challenge. We were already tired from a week worth of diving in a series of challenging conditions. However, this was by far the main event.
I could feel exhaustion setting in, but we had to keep holding on. The current was so strong it kept opening my drysuit’s exhaust valve, adding another layer of difficulty. Meanwhile, we could see harbor seals above, circling and eyeing us, probably wondering why we couldn’t keep up with them. As time ticked by, I sincerely wondered how we’d get out of this one. Thankfully, I was with a seasoned local who knew these waters as well as anyone could. Andrea and I communicated with head nods and eye signals, deciding what kelp we wanted to hop to next, and when we could make our move out of this forest all together.
When a brief lull in the current came (or as much of a lull as we could’ve hoped for), we unraveled from the fronds, let go of the stipe simultaneously, and allowed the current to take us down and around Steep Island’s corner. Ripping through the water like we’d be flung down a water slide, we used our buoyancy to position ourselves and let the current carry us. As we rounded the island’s exterior—the side closer to Vancouver Island’s mainland—we passed the famed White-Plumed Anemones and gigantic Northern Feather Duster Worms that make this area iconic in the diving world. Zipping by, we could even see the massive Sea Lemons and White Berthella nudibranchs, which were so much larger than their tropical counterparts.
The colors were outstanding, ranging from electric pinks and purples to vibrant yellows and blues. Crimson Anemones were so striking that we fought against the current just to take a closer look briefly. Clinging to the massive wallface with a single finger, we inspected these crimson wonders, only to find hordes of tiny Candy-Stripe Shrimp calling the anemones home. Crustaceans are abundant here, and it’s common to encounter various species on dives. But you probably would not guess that these creatures are responsible for multiple human feet washing ashore in this region. You read that right: human feet.
In British Columbia and Washington state, over 20 human feet have mysteriously washed ashore since 2007, though this phenomenon has likely been happening much longer. The evolution of sneaker design has made modern footwear more buoyant, so when a body decomposes in the ocean, scavengers—particularly crustaceans—target the softer tissues around the ankle, causing the foot to detach while remaining encased in the floatable sneaker. The unique conditions of the Salish Sea, including its complex tides and winds, guide these preserved feet to shore, making the region a consistent site for such unsettling finds.
Andrea and I continued on, signaling to each other that we were good on air. Our spirits were high, and eager to keep exploring, regardless of the rage carrying us along. The water ranged from 10-12°C (50-54°F) depending on our depth. According to the United States Coast Guard, cold water is defined as anything below 21°C (70°F), though many divers consider anything below 10°C (50°F) to be truly cold. We weren’t in that cold state yet, even though we had been underwater for nearly 45 minutes. We passed through more light kelp forests, observing the profoundly abundant crustacean life, including the Graceful Decorator Crabs, Kelp Crabs, and Helmet Crabs. Never had I experienced thinking about death so much as I passed by so much life, with British Columbia's foot problem ringing in my mind.
Yet what really caught my attention were the starfish, ranging from massive to tiny, in colors from vibrant orange and purple to muted blues and pinks. The Leather Star, thick with orange and yellow standing out prominently, was particularly striking. The Mottled Star, with its pink hues and tiny white splotches, seemed almost delicate in comparison. The Blood Star, with its deep, blood-orange color, was as dramatic as its name suggests. The Six-arm Star, a beautiful blue with—you guessed it—six arms, and the Vermillion Star, which looked like a festive holiday cookie with its vivid red color, were among my favorites. And of course there was the Purple Star, massive and electric in its vibrant hue, dominating the seascape with its presence.
However, it was the Sunflower Sea Star that hooked me the most. I had never seen one in person before because all of the diving I had done along the Pacific Coast in California had lost them to the devastating Sea Star Wasting Disease. This mass mortality event took hold up and down the Pacific coast, ranging from Mexico all the way to Alaska—with some places getting hit worse than others. It annihilated 20 different populations of sea stars, which eat urchins and keep their populations in check.
The Sea Star Wasting Disease causes stars to twist their arms unnaturally, develop white lesions, and ultimately disintegrate into nothing. Yet here, there were tiny new stars and gigantic, thriving ones. And with the sea stars came kelp—kelp that Andrea hadn’t seen in these parts even just a year ago. Although my 4mm crushed neoprene drysuit, which was supposed to keep me somewhat protected from the cold, had started to leak through the pressure sleeve seals, I felt a renewed sense of hope in these newly budded patches of kelp forest. However, the drysuit was telling me it was time to make our exit.
Exiting these waters required a live boat to locate us and scoop us up amid the chaos of Campbell River’s ocean. Earl Lowe, the captain of the boat dubbed “Most Outrageous” from Abyssal Diving, has been navigating this river for thirty years, so he knew exactly what he was doing. He successfully dropped us into the right places at the right time for a week straight and continued to tell us that, regardless of his meticulous timing and perfect drops that aligned with currents and tides, there would be unpredictable changes down there that would shock even the most experienced divers. We certainly checked off that lived experience in full force.
The boat moved us a few minutes down to Grouse Island, where we were greeted by curious seals at the surface. And despite the challenge of that first dive, we both knew we were going back in. After our surface interval and some warming hot chocolate, we spent 90 minutes in the shallows, surrounded by seals swimming all around us. They cautiously kept their distance but still felt the need to impress us by putting on something of a show. We watched the seals graciously weave through the kelp forests with ease, while we simply tried to avoid becoming tangled or disrupting the natural flow. They repeatedly snuck up behind us to touch our fins before darting away, only to return a few minutes later to check back in.
Our final dive of the day proved to be the best of them all, and thankfully the current had drastically subsided after leaving Steep Island for Grouse. We had been diving at the site called “Inside Grouse” with the seals, and now we were venturing to the site called “Outside Grouse” on the other side of the island. Andrea was known for finding the resident Wolf-eels that live here. Wolf-eels, though not true eels, inhabit crevices and are typically found in Pacific waters, from Mexico to Alaska, similar to the beloved sea star. Eating crustaceans and urchins, they have a wise, ancient appearance and are critical players in this kind of underwater ecosystem. Unfortunately, we didn’t see the local residents. Instead, we encountered the one-and-only Giant Pacific Octopus, the true “star” of British Columbia’s dive scene.
To my surprise (and excitement), this happened with the very woman who went viral for her legendary octopus encounter a few years earlier. In November 2022, while diving with friends, Andrea discovered a giant octopus sitting in the open—a rare sight. The octopus on its own free will enveloped her with its tentacles, and even sucked on her lip—an interaction she described as "mind-blowing" and the experience of a lifetime. She was quoted in the media saying, “Its tentacles were reaching through the camera to feel my face, and then at some point, it crawled on my body, on my hips, and was giving me a hug!”
And just like that, we were reliving her moment (minus the lip-sucking, sadly.) The octopus was out in the open, moving around us as if to scope us out. At one point, it reached out to take my hand and started climbing up my arm. The creature seemed to drag my arm up and down, almost like a handshake and as if it wanted to show me something. Over the course of thirty minutes, the octopus led us to its den and showed us its home. After the encounter, it slid into its hiding spot, signaling that our welcome was over—right in time for the current to return to its former intensity. It was as if the octopus was signaling that it was our time to ascend.
As we surfaced from that final dive, the Campbell River region had shown us both its ferocity and its beauty in equal measure. From the powerful currents that tested our resolve to the vibrant marine life that rewarded our persistence, this slice of ocean proved why it’s a legendary dive destination. These dives were the ultimate reminder of the raw, untamed nature of the underwater world and the incredible life it sustains. Campbell River had left its mark on me, and although I didn’t know when or if I’d be back, I was going to carry these memories with me for a lifetime.
To be continued …
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