Story By: Michael Shapiro

Photos By: David Liittschwager

According to one translation of the Hawaiian creation myth, the Kumulipo, our universe is only the latest in a long line of universes, each new one created upon the destruction of the last. The he‘e, it’s said, is the lone survivor from the universe just before our own, a creature that somehow squeezed through the narrow crack between worlds. How else to explain the strangeness of the octopus—an intelligent, gelatinous mollusk with three hearts, a being that can jettison clouds of ink or change the color and texture of its skin in an instant? That universe before ours must have been wondrous indeed.

Of the three hundred or so known octopus species, about fifteen live in Hawai‘i. Five inhabit nearshore waters and intertidal zones, and though we share their beaches and tidepools every day, only rarely do we have the good fortune to encounter these remarkable creatures.

The native? If the Islands have an endemic octopus, it’s Octopus hawaiiensis, like the one at left caught at Makapu‘u on O‘ahu. The Hawaiian octopus was first described in 1914 and then “lost” until 2005, when a specimen was rediscovered in the Paris Museum of Natural History. But it’s not clear whether hawaiiensis is really its own species, says Heather Ylitalo-Ward, a graduate student in zoology at the University of Hawai‘i who’s one of only two researchers studying Hawai‘i octopods. It’s frequently mistaken for another intertidal octopus, the rock take (Octopus oliveri). “No one’s done a genetic study to determine if it’s really a different species,” she says, and despite their presence along the state’s most popular shorelines, “we know very little about them.”

The night crawler: In Martha Beckwith’s translation of the Kumulipo, the god of the underworld, Kanaloa, is called kahe‘ehāunawela, or “the hot, striking octopus.” If any of Hawai‘i’s octopuses fit that description, it’s Callistoctopus ornatus, the night octopus, notorious among Island he‘e hunters for its aggression. By night it prowls the nearshore reef flats: The one at left was collected off Kāhala, O‘ahu. Like all octopuses, ornatus can—and will—deliver a venomous bite, though its saliva isn’t harmful to humans. (The only octopus known to be lethal to humans is the blue-ringed octopus, which isn’t found in Hawai‘i.) A true escape artist, ornatus is capable of autotomy—that is, of dropping its arms when threatened. While any octopus can regrow a lost limb, only a few species are able to autotomize at will.

The master of disguise: The day octopus (Octopus cyan, seen on the opening spread) is found throughout the world; it’s among the most common in Hawaiian waters, and it’s the one most likely to wind up as sushi or poke. Because it’s diurnal (hence its name), it’s “one of the best octopuses at camouflage in the world,” says Ylitalo-Ward. “They’ve got some of the highest number of chromatophores,” or pigment cells, “of any octopus,” she says. Cyanea also one of the smartest octopods: They’ve been observed carrying objects like coconut shells for protection, they can solve mazes and even, like the resident day octopus at the Waikīkī Aquarium, twist open a jar to access food. All this makes them adept at catching rather than becoming prey. “They’ll see you coming long before you see them,” says Ylitalo-Ward.

The aeronaut: The rock tako, a.k.a. he‘e pali, lives up to both its common names: It can crawl on dry land (“pali” is Hawaiian for “cliff”) for extended periods—no one’s sure how long exactly—as it hunts prey like the ‘a‘ama crabs that inhabit rocky areas above the waterline. Octopus oliveri can also take a lot of abuse, says Ylitalo-Ward, who collected the one at left in the punishing surf zone of Honolulu’s Kaka‘ako Beach Park. The hardy oliveri also does well in captivity; Ylitalo-Ward has several in her lab, where she studies sexual selection—that is, how oliveri chooses its mates. The only problem, she says, is that they’re so intelligent and curious that it’s hard to stop them from escaping. The solution? Astroturf around the lip of the aquarium. “They don’t like the feel of it,” she says, “so they stay in the tank.”