May 17, 2004
Back when I knew him
There is a fawning profile of the Giant Squid in the New Yorker this week. I've been writing about him for a while, so it's nice to see that the media is finally coming around.
Last year, before he made it big, I'd go down to the shore and we’d chat. I'd complain about my job, and he'd tell me about the lonesomeness of the deep in that strange clicking language of his. Things were pretty good then – Errol Morris had done a documentary about how elusive he was and people were showing up with nets – but it was obvious that he wanted more.
“What’s wrong squid?” I asked one day.
“Nothing really... Just thinking...” He let his tentacles bob in the frothing waves at the rocks. I felt bad for him; he'd been depressed ever since the discovery of the Colossal Squid in October. Some of his friends were worried he might even beach himself.
“Cheer up,” I said. “It’s not that bad. You’ve got a pretty good thing going.”
“That’s what you think,” he clicked. “Whales used to fear me. Sharks even. Now? Forget it. Groupers don’t even get out of the way when I come around. Everybody's all ‘Colossal squid, bigger than a bus, bigger than a whale!' You’d think I’d never capsized a boat for the kind of respect I get anymore. ”
"I'm sure that's not true."
“And they just had to go out find an adjective that seemed bigger than 'giant' for him. Just to make sure that everyone knew he was packing more tentacle than me."
“Aw, that’s just marketing. They don't really know how big he can get to be. The one they found was an adolescent.”
"You don't get it, do you? I’ve been super-sized. The fucking thing has got claws in his tentacles. He’s the tricked out low-rider to my Ford Escort. I can’t compete.”
“Be patient," I said. "They’ll come back around." I kneeled next to the water's edge and gave him a friendly punch in the mantle. "I'm good at spotting trends. You're due pal.”
I haven’t seen the squid at the shore for months now. He’s moved on to better things. I’m happy for him; it's what he always wanted. He was a solitary creature, but I know he liked the attention. I’d like to think I helped him along the way.
I worry about him though. All the parties and interviews. Those media people can be real bastards, and I’d hate to see him change now that he’s part of their world. I bet he misses the old days, floating around the tidal strait when everything was pure potential. That’s how I’ll remember him anyway – a dark mass in the choppy water, taking in the entire skyline with his enormous, all-seeing eye while the kids on the shore tossed ice-cream cones to him.
And who knows, now that he's in the big leagues maybe he’ll do battle with George Saunders at the New Yorker festival. That would be something to see.
Me, I’m still scouting out the deep. I've discovered this cool new sea monster: the Oarfish. He can swim both vertically and horizontally, he can grow to be up to 17 meters long. Check out the low res footage on this hunting site. In 1996 the LA times published these amazing photos of an eye surgeon’s encounter with one in Baja. Occasionally they are spotted off the coast of Florida. Here is an eyewitness account. I love the last line:
“Then as the fish started to expire, it expelled what I thought were thousands of eggs.”
I'm telling you, there's something there. Keep your eyes on the Oarfish. And if you know anyone at the New Yorker, tell those fuckers to stay away.
