28 January 2013
I have to go to work, but I can’t not record in this diary that yesterday at the tiny beach in San Francisco between the touristy part of Fisherman’s Wharf and the Presidio (I think), Enzo found a small octopus under a rock, beached. We coaxed it into a venti Starbucks cup. Then we added water and some seawead, and it didn’t want to leave. Its suckers held on tight. You could see them flush against the clear plastic. We set the cup on its side, half-submerged in a tiny tidepool. Nothing doing.
Enzo wanted to dig a habitat for it. Teresa wanted to put it in the open water. We poured and shook it into the small, land-locked tidepool and watched it for a while. Then we scooped up again and put it in the bay, and it shot under a rock.
It was a beautiful, strange creature: pink/coral/white with pulsing head and orange and black eyes. It looked back.
I also want to record the picture of Enzo on the beach, shirtless, jeans soaked and sagging, butt-crack and upper cheeks on full display, running in the water.