Katie Wood
Freediver, Writer, Explorer
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Katie Wood
Freediver, Writer, Explorer
It was a green sea turtle. I was twenty-one, diving off the coast of Maui. I remember thinking it would be a spiritual moment—me and this ancient creature, eye to eye, connected by the same saltwater. It swam past slowly, like it was offering me something. I reached out and brushed the edge of its shell.
It flinched.
And I felt like a thief.
In that instant, the magic I expected to feel dissolved into guilt. I hadn’t just touched a turtle—I had interrupted something. A thought, a rhythm, a life. I didn’t know it then, but that moment would come back to me every time I saw someone chasing a dolphin, holding a starfish, or trying to pose with an octopus for Instagram.
It’s not malicious. It rarely is. Most people don’t touch marine animals out of cruelty. We do it because we want to feel closer to something wild. Touching becomes proof: I was there. It was real. In a world increasingly lived through screens, touch feels honest.
But here’s the problem: what feels real to us may be deeply unsettling to them.
Marine animals don’t interpret our gestures the way we do. An open hand might mean peace to you—but to a ray, a fish, a seal pup—it might signal danger, confusion, or intrusion. And they don’t have the option to say no. They can only flee, freeze, or submit.
Research on human-wildlife interaction consistently shows that even minor contact can cause stress in marine species. A 2018 study on spinner dolphins in Hawaii found that repeated exposure to swimmers and boats disrupted the dolphins' rest patterns, which affected their ability to hunt and communicate. They didn’t need to be touched—just approached too often.
Corals, often mistaken as colorful rocks, are animals too. Touching them, even lightly, can strip away the protective mucous layer that keeps them safe from bacteria and bleaching. The same goes for starfish and anemones, which can suffer cellular damage from the oils and bacteria on our skin.
And octopuses—highly intelligent, emotionally complex, capable of learning and problem-solving—can become disoriented or even aggressive when handled by divers. Not because they’re mean. Because they’re overstimulated.
Yes, some animals approach us. Dolphins, seals, whales. The encounters can be stunning. I’ve had a dolphin swim right up to me, pause, and look me in the eye. But that doesn’t mean it’s inviting a hug.
This is where things get nuanced.
Just because an animal initiates contact doesn’t mean it understands the consequences. Many of these creatures are young, curious, or desensitized due to prolonged exposure to humans. The same way a squirrel in a park might climb on your lap—not because it trusts you, but because it no longer fears you. That’s not a sign of harmony. It’s a sign of imbalance.
Touch, in this context, becomes a slippery slope: from mutual curiosity to interference. And sometimes, to harm.
Let’s be honest: social media has warped the ethics of the underwater world. A freediver posts a photo with a sea turtle in their arms, a tourist swims with a manta while grabbing its wing, a spearfisher lifts a grouper for the camera like a trophy. The likes roll in.
This creates a feedback loop: the more impressive the interaction, the more attention it gets. And the more we equate interaction with value.
But here’s what rarely makes it into the frame:
- The cuttlefish that inked and darted away after being poked.
- The moray eel that stopped coming out of its hole after repeated visits.
- The seal pup that abandoned its resting rock after a human touched it.
We don’t see those stories because they don’t go viral.
There’s a kind of contact that’s more meaningful—and less invasive—than physical touch. It’s presence.
Just being there, floating still, watching. Allowing the animal to remain as it is, not as a prop, not as a selfie. Just as itself.
This requires patience. You may not get the photo. The encounter may be brief, or not happen at all. But when it does, and it’s unforced, it becomes something else entirely: a moment of mutual awareness, not performance.
I’ve had sea lions twirl around me like dancers. A cuttlefish once hovered, changed colors, and extended a tentacle toward my fin—not my hand. I didn’t move. It stayed for nearly a minute. That was enough.
Here’s the thing we rarely say out loud: touching a wild animal is a power move. Even if it's cloaked in awe or reverence.
They can’t consent.
They don’t understand why we’re there, what our intentions are, or how long we’ll stay. When we reach out, we impose. Even if gently, even if lovingly.
And while our individual actions might seem small, collectively they reshape ecosystems. The reef becomes a petting zoo. The dolphin pod relocates. The octopus hides.
In the early days of underwater exploration, interaction was king. Jacques Cousteau rode on turtles. Divers wrestled sharks for TV ratings. But times have changed. Our understanding has deepened.
Now we know: observing is enough.
Letting animals approach (or not), letting moments unfold without interference, respecting boundaries even when they’re not clearly drawn—this is the new paradigm.
It’s more humble. It’s less cinematic. But it’s more ethical.
In controlled research, under veterinary guidance, or in cases of rescue—maybe.
But recreationally? No.
The ocean is not our playground. Its inhabitants are not toys. Touch, in most cases, is not an act of love. It’s an act of entitlement.
And yet, this isn’t a call to shame. It’s a call to pause. To reflect.
