The sea has a way of teaching lessons without words. Sometimes it takes the shape of a small creature, soft and pulsing with color, resting in a child’s hands for just a heartbeat.
Paul was still small when a fisherman, sunburnt and smiling, lifted a baby octopus from his net and placed it gently on his palms. For a moment, fear and wonder wrestled in his face — those curling tentacles, the cool texture, the impossible intelligence behind those eyes. Then, just as gently, the fisherman lowered it back into the blue. The child’s laughter followed it down.
I remember thinking how delicate it all felt — that pulse of life, those three hearts beating for a moment against the shore of our world.
Back then, I still ordered octopus at every taverna. It was the island’s flavor — grilled with vinegar and oregano, served with cold wine and sea breeze. But one evening, as I sat watching waves lick the harbor wall, a waiter looked at my plate and asked quietly,
“Why do you eat them? They are so intelligent.”
He said it without judgment, but it stayed with me. The idea that this creature, with its mind scattered through eight thinking arms, its heart that stops when it swims too hard, its gift for disguise and curiosity — that it might feel in ways we barely understand.
Since then, we stopped. No more octopus on our table. It felt like a small act of grace, a thank-you for what the sea had shown us.
In Crete, things are changing. Once upon a time, octopus hung from balconies and tavern roofs to dry in the sun — leathery shapes against the blinding white of midday. You could smell them on the salt wind, a sign that dinner was near. But you do not see that anymore, not in Heraklion.
New awareness has crept into the culture, as quietly as tides. Environmental rules, sustainable fishing seasons, and the eyes of tourists who ask questions — all these have pushed the old habit toward memory. Perhaps it is better that way. The sea has fewer secrets to give now, and more that need protecting.
Some say it is because of laws. Others because of conscience. I think it is because we have begun, finally, to listen.
