Any sign of your existence has all but disappeared. Guess that’s what happens when heavy ocean waters pound against you for more than 150 years.
Oceanic highways deliver billions of nourishing parcels.
Delicately curled feather star fingers wait.
Opening slowly; gathering quickly.
Life underwater goes on.
White as snow, flowing vanilla ice cream catches my eye as I gently glide over the reef while scuba diving.
Or is it rock-hard, ice lava sludge invading minute orange blossoms? All frozen in time.
Scuba diving with wet bikes. Transport on transport; albeit both are no longer moving.
SS Thistlegorm stopped transporting war transportation on 6 October, 1941.
She now rests near Ras Muhammad in the Red Sea and is a brilliant site for scuba diving.
Yes, I see the parrot in parrotfish. Totally. The large, powerful beak. The striking, beautiful, bold colours. The pecking as it consumes. It even has wings… well, sorta.
The resemblance is so ditto I actually tried having a conversation with one while scuba diving in the Maldives. Although it never replied to my “Hello Pretty-Polly!” greeting underwater. Or my “So, you’re obviously not polyunsaturated, are you?”
Phew, definitely need to check the air mixture in my scuba diving cylinder after this dive.
Open lines for feeding time underwater. A feather star stretches out a feathery fan and gathers what it can filter from the ocean current. Microscopic morsels caught in its soft linear webs.
Arms curl inward and transport the prey to an open, waiting mouth. Free-swimming and stalkless they prowl the muddy ocean floors.