The night of the ostracods (the fifth day after full moon, 40 minutes after sunset)

The sun had already set behind Klein Bonaire island, but there was still a hint of twilight. We kept waiting, wet and cold, drinking hot tea in Ñandú’s cockpit. We were still in our wetsuits, after setting a weighted line dangling from the dinghy, and practicing diving down the line with our eyes closed. We were waiting for the total darkness of a moonless night to jump back into the water.

40 minutes after sunset, we donned our fins and masks again, and jumped in. The scene was spectacular. The disturbance we created in the water stimulated the luminescent noctilucas (noctiluca scintillans, or sea sparkle). We were immersed in a galaxy of thousands of bright stars moving and floating around us, everywhere. The effect was magnified by the darkness and our eyes adapted to the conditions. It wasn’t what we expected, though, so I dived down the line in search of the mysterious ostracods, but didn’t see much of a difference down there.

It was a scuba diver friend in Chile who relentlessly insisted we had to see the ostracods when she saw the picture below and figured we were in Bonaire. She claimed it was the most incredible thing she’s seen underwater. Ostracods are small crustaceans that squirt a luminescent goo as part of their mating ritual. The show lasts for less than one hour, and starts promptly with total darkness for a few nights after a full moon, peaking on the fifth night. She experienced them by scuba diving to a coral reef after sunset and quietly waiting at depth for the show. It wasn’t clear you could witness the ostracods display without scuba gear, but we were not going to fail by lack of trying.

We kept enjoying the amazing noctiluca show until Kathy shouted “Snake! Snake! It tried to bite my fin!” Since we were anchored in front of town, the street lights provided just enough illumination to distinguish shapes close to the surface. Even though I thought she had mistaken a piece of rope by a living creature, I quickly followed her out of the water.

After a few minutes we hesitantly went back in, motivated by a new form of luminescence that we started distinguishing occasionally here and there, more in line with what we expected from ostracods. It didn’t take long until I myself was attacked by the sea monster, as if punished by having doubted my trusty partner. I saw it coming straight to my face. The former piece of rope was now a fast and furious whipping serpentine of undeniable flesh about two feet long. That marked the abrupt end of the show for us. Night’s tally: half a dozen faint ostracod lights (but thousands of bright noctilucas!).

We did our due internet research the next day, and concluded the attacker could not have been a sea snake, as they don’t exist in the Caribbean. It was most likely a sharp nose eel, even though they rarely leave their burrows at the sea bottom, and this thing was at the surface, eight meters above the sea floor—and crazily attacking harmless humans!

The next night we executed plan B: rent a car to try another location, farther from the lights of town. We also rented a diving flashlight from a scuba dive shop and asked the attendants to recommend a place we could see the ostracods close to shore. They seemed kinda lost but did suggest a diving site that had coral reef not far from land. We drove there, waited under the rain for nightfall, performed the dancing ritual to get into our wetsuits, and halfheartedly entered into the water in almost total darkness. It was a rocky shore and there was some small waves breaking, making things unappealing. There was only one obvious point of entry, and my concern was that the current could move us around and make us miss that point at the time of exiting. In the background there was a faintly illuminated house that I registered as a reference to identify our exit point. We swam perpendicular to the shoreline until we saw coral under us. We turned the flashlight off, held hands, and waited, looking down, breathing through our snorkels while floating weightlessly. And waited. And waited some more. We saw nothing. Just plain and uniform darkness. Night’s tally: zero ostracod lights.

So, another night, another plan. Plan C was a rather lose one: just go to our favorite beach, enjoy a romantic evening with wine and cheese and improvise from there. And boy, did that pay off! The evening and sunset at the beach was indeed lovely—we don’t need no stinky ostracods to enjoy that. After sunset we had the entire beach to ourselves. A quiet, dark, starry and positively romantic night followed. And then, on a hunch and with no expectations, we hiked to a lookout point on the rocks at the end of the beach. The point juts out from a low cliff, so you are right above deep water. We were rewarded with the most striking show of sea lights we have seen… and without even getting wet! The only thing we couldn’t understand is why we were the only ones there. Night’s tally: hundreds of ostracod lights!

I don’t have pictures of the ostracods show, but in lieu of them I have more picture of Bonaire. Now, what are we doing back in Bonaire? Well, the seas between the ABC islands and Colombia are known for the potential to offer the worst conditions in the Caribbean, and by some accounts the passage ranks among the top five worst ones in the world (although to be fair, I presume that’s valid only if you’re crazy enough to do the passage in the wrong direction: west to east). So we’re just waiting for milder conditions, that typically start in April, and decided to do part of that wait in our beloved Bonaire (and part of it in California, where we flew to spend a few weeks).

Carnaval, another Bonairean colorful display

Washington Slagbaai National Park