Drew Collins’ dive began like countless others in the cold waters of the Pacific Northwest. The date was an overcast January day in Des Moines, Washington, and Drew was suiting up for another underwater photo adventure. Wearing a drysuit and carrying his DSLR camera rig, he met with his longtime dive partner, Randy Williams. The two shared lighthearted jokes, as they often did, before entering the water. Both were seasoned divers and active marine science volunteers in the Seattle area.
They had explored the region’s underwater terrain many times before, but this dive would turn out unlike any other. Unknown to them, it would be one filled with unexpected drama and documentation.
As they descended into the emerald waters, visibility was typical for the area—limited but manageable. Marine life moved about in the dimly lit environment, and it wasn’t long before Drew spotted something special nestled in a rocky crevice: a giant Pacific octopus resting inside its den. With experience and patience, Drew approached slowly, camera in hand. This was the type of moment underwater photographers live for—an intimate portrait of one of the sea’s most intelligent and elusive creatures.
He lifted his camera and began to compose his shot. The creature’s arms, partially visible, hinted at the mass hidden behind the entrance of the den. Drew adjusted the strobe lights, fired off a few shots, and reviewed his LCD screen. The lighting was good, but he made a quick adjustment for a better exposure. The octopus remained still but aware, watching from the safety of its rocky shelter.
Then, something changed. Two long arms began to stretch outward from the crevice. Drew remained calm and captured the moment—more arms meant more subject in the frame. It was exactly what he was hoping for: a bold display of the octopus in motion.
He didn’t expect what happened next. As he reviewed the third image, the octopus struck without warning. One arm reached up and grabbed his mask, while another clamped tightly around the camera rig. Drew reacted instinctively. With one hand, he repositioned his mask and cleared it, maintaining visibility. His other hand gripped the camera, which was now being pulled with surprising strength.
The octopus, weighing around 40 pounds, had begun an aggressive tug. More arms followed, emerging rapidly. Drew was suddenly in a high-stakes battle. He tried to peel the arms off one by one, but for every arm he removed, another two latched on. The octopus was determined.
His breathing quickened as cold water flushed into his gloves and began leaking into his drysuit. The seams failed under the pressure, and the 42-degree water rushed over his wrists and arms. It was becoming harder to maintain control. Drew planted one arm against the rocks to gain leverage and used his other arm to pull. No progress.
Realizing the seriousness of the situation, he took a moment to regulate his breathing. His air supply was still sufficient. That was a relief. But the octopus had no intention of letting go.
The moment called for a critical decision. Drew knew that he had to prioritize safety over equipment. The camera rig was expensive and brand new, but it wasn’t worth risking his life. With measured resolve, he released the housing from the lanyard that connected it to his BCD.
He began the surface swim back to shore, cold water now soaking through much of his drysuit. Drew estimates that during the event, he took on nearly a gallon of frigid seawater. Every breath was heavier, every stroke more labored. But he made it back.
Randy, already on shore, pulled out his phone to record a video—proof of the unbelievable underwater encounter. The two men exchanged stunned laughter. The loss of the camera was a blow, but they hadn’t lost hope. They were already planning a second dive.
And so, the story of Drew, Randy, and the giant Pacific octopus had only just begun.
The Recovery Mission
After Drew Collins surfaced from his unexpected wrestling match with a giant Pacific octopus, he was soaked, breathless, and dripping cold seawater from his drysuit. The camera, along with its housing, strobes, and dome port, was now somewhere beneath the surface. But Drew wasn’t discouraged. The story wasn’t over yet—not for a diver as experienced and determined as he was.
Randy Williams, his dive buddy, greeted him with both concern and disbelief. Despite the shock of the event, Drew maintained a calm demeanor. The two of them stood on the rocky shoreline, replaying the scene again and again in their minds. A creature of the deep had not only taken Drew’s camera—it had done so with calculated purpose, as if curious or mischievous.
Randy reached for his phone and started recording. Drew recounted the bizarre underwater struggle, still dripping from the seawater that had forced its way inside his gloves and suit. His face was flushed from cold exposure, but his voice was steady. Though the camera gear was valuable and the dive had gone sideways, he found some humor in the absurdity of it all.
They both knew the camera rig couldn’t remain underwater for long. It was built for diving, but not for endless exposure—especially not in the grip of a curious octopus. Fortunately, Drew had released the rig near a buoy before swimming up, giving them a potential reference point for their next dive. Time was critical.
Drew began stripping off his soaked gear while explaining the details of the octopus’s strength, how the arms tightened around the camera, and how water began rushing into his drysuit. The lanyard attaching the camera rig to his BCD had given him one final tug before he unclipped it, effectively surrendering the equipment. At that point, he felt as if he were handing it off to the octopus itself, like a trophy in some underwater contest.
The plan was clear: rest, rehydrate, warm up, re-gear, and go back in.
Preparing for Round Two
Back at their vehicle, Drew and Randy began the prep for a second dive. Drew carefully dried himself off and changed into a dry base layer. He sipped water, slowly regaining core temperature. Despite the cold water shock and the physical effort from earlier, he was mentally clear. The adrenaline was still flowing, and the idea of retrieving the rig gave him motivation.
The second dive would be more deliberate. They decided to execute a search pattern, using the buoy as the starting point. From there, they would expand outward in an arc, moving slowly and thoroughly. The reef had many crevices and hiding places, and if the octopus had managed to drag the camera deeper into her den, recovery would be difficult. However, if the rig had remained near the den entrance or had been too large to pull inside, there was still a good chance of finding it.
Randy double-checked their gear. The camera was gone, but everything else was functional. He tested the dive lights, ensured the air tanks were still at safe levels, and carefully inspected Drew’s repaired suit. No room for failure this time.
With one last check of the tide, wind, and surface conditions, they entered the water once again.
Descending with Purpose
The second descent was filled with tension. Drew’s heart pounded—not out of fear, but focus. His eyes scanned the blue-green murkiness. Every shadow on the seafloor, every dark rock, every flicker of motion might have been the octopus—or the rig.
Randy and Drew swam slowly, carefully staying close to each other. Visibility was better than expected, and that worked in their favor. As they neared the bottom, they hovered a moment, orienting themselves near the buoy marker. Drew took the lead. Each meter covered brought a fresh wave of anticipation.
Ten minutes passed. They combed the area. No sign. Another ten minutes. Still nothing. Drew felt the familiar tinge of concern creep in. The octopus might have retreated deep into the reef. Worse, the camera might have drifted or been damaged beyond use.
Then, at minute twenty, a silhouette caught Drew’s attention—subtle but distinct. Something unnatural among the natural: the faint curve of a dome port. Drew swam closer. As the outline sharpened, he recognized the acrylic housing, scratched and covered with silt. The octopus was still there.
Her arms were draped over the rig, as if guarding it. She had pulled it close to her den but had not succeeded in dragging it aside. One arm was wrapped around the strobe, and the other was coiled over the lens. She was in no hurry. She was nibbling on the dome port, curious or perhaps hoping it would yield something edible.
Drew signaled Randy, and together they approached slowly. The camera wasn’t lost after all—but now came the harder part: retrieving it.
The Struggle for the Camera Rig
There’s an unspoken rule among divers: don’t provoke marine life. But when that marine life has your equipment, the boundaries blur.
Drew and Randy positioned themselves on either side of the octopus. They didn’t want to frighten her—just gently persuade her to let go. But as soon as Drew touched the housing, the octopus tightened her grip. Her arms moved with surprising speed, wrapping around both the rig and Drew’s forearm.
This time, Drew was ready. He wasn’t caught off guard. He used one hand to stabilize the camera and the other to work at freeing her arms. Randy stepped in to assist, helping to unwind the powerful suckered limbs from the handles and strobes.
It was like trying to untangle a dozen high-tension cables, each one sticky and strong. The octopus reacted with subtle intelligence, shifting her grasp in response to their actions. For every grip they loosened, she readjusted her hold somewhere else.
The dome shade was gone—chewed or pulled off. The dome port itself had visible bite marks. The rig had survived, but it was battered.
Drew began applying gentle counter-pressure. He rotated the rig slightly, trying to disorient the octopus without causing her harm. Randy lit the scene with his dive light, aiming for the eye. The octopus, disturbed by the bright beam, loosened her grip ever so slightly. That was the moment they needed.
Together, Drew and Randy pulled the rig free. The octopus didn’t pursue. Instead, she slowly retreated into the safety of her den, curling her arms back inside.
Drew gave her one last look—an acknowledgment of respect. She had fought with the force of a creature defending its space, not out of malice, but perhaps out of curiosity or play. In any case, she had earned the title of legend among divers.
With the rig safely in hand, the two divers began their ascent.
Surfacing with the Prize
Back on the surface, the sun had shifted across the horizon. The water was still and quiet, contrasting with the energy that pulsed through both men. They emerged from the water slowly, methodically, as if exiting a battlefield.
Drew climbed onto the rocky shoreline, this time not soaked by seawater—but triumphant. The camera rig, although scarred and scraped, was intact. The strobe lights would need repair, and the dome port might need replacement. But the housing had held. Even the memory card remained sealed within.
They had won. More importantly, they had the entire story—footage from before the attack, photos from the moment just before the strike, and a video recorded afterward. Together, these fragments would form one of the most unusual dive tales ever captured.
Once the gear was secured and rinsed, Drew and Randy laughed. It was a wild day, an unexpected one, but also one filled with adventure, nature, and a reminder that underwater photography is as much about patience and respect as it is about composition and gear.
Lessons from the Deep
As they packed up their equipment, Drew reflected on the experience. He knew that underwater photography comes with risks—flooded housings, missed shots, unpredictable wildlife—but nothing had prepared him for this. The octopus was not aggressive in the traditional sense. She was simply curious, and perhaps playful. But her strength was real, and the danger was present.
The dive had reinforced several important lessons. First, always prioritize safety. Letting go of the rig was the right decision. Second, never underestimate the intelligence of marine life. The octopus had evaluated and engaged with the equipment. Third, always dive with a trusted buddy. Randy’s presence had made all the difference—from filming the aftermath to assisting in the recovery.
Drew would later share his experience with other divers, environmentalists, and photographers. It wasn’t just a funny tale or a lucky escape—it was a case study in diver interaction with one of the ocean’s most intelligent creatures. It was a reminder that when you enter the underwater world, you’re no longer in control. You’re a guest.
That day, the guest had lost a camera but gained a story. And in the end, both the diver and the octopus parted with something to remember.
The Aftermath and Impact
Back on dry land, Drew Collins and Randy Williams sat together beside their gear, decompressing from the wildest dive either had ever experienced. The camera rig, retrieved and battered, lay nearby—scratched, dome-less, and marked by the unmistakable signs of octopus curiosity. Though it had endured a temporary underwater hijacking, it had returned with its internal components intact. The memory card had survived. The photos and footage captured before and after the encounter were readable, offering a firsthand record of one of the ocean’s most extraordinary interactions between diver and animal.
But the recovery of the gear was only the beginning. What followed in the days and weeks afterward left a more lasting impact than either diver expected. Word of the encounter began to spread. First among local divers. Then across marine conservation circles. And eventually, across wider photography and scuba communities. People were captivated by the idea: a giant Pacific octopus stealing a DSLR rig mid-dive. But as with all great stories, it was more than just a headline.
The deeper story spoke to the relationship between humans and the ocean, between photographers and their wild subjects, and between two men and the creature that had, if only briefly, outwitted them.
Processing the Dive Experience
In the hours following the dive, Drew couldn’t stop replaying the moment in his mind—the sudden grip on his mask, the tightening pull on his rig, the instinct to fight back, and the final moment of surrender. It had all happened so fast, but the memory etched itself into his mind in slow motion.
He found himself vacillating between laughter and awe, shock and fascination. While seasoned divers often encounter unexpected events underwater—a sea lion brushing past, a current pulling stronger than expected, a shark cruising at the edge of visibility—few ever experience something as oddly confrontational as an octopus initiating a tug-of-war over a camera.
For Drew, the event redefined the idea of interaction. This wasn’t a passive observation of nature. This was physical, personal, and strange. In the ocean, humans are merely visitors, and this octopus made that abundantly clear.
Randy, too, spent time reflecting. As a diver and videographer, he had seen plenty of marine life up close. But nothing had matched the raw intelligence and insistence shown by this octopus. He remarked that the octopus had acted almost playfully, not with aggression, but with a kind of investigative persistence—testing the rig, pulling, resisting, and chewing as if trying to make sense of this strange alien object.
They both agreed: this wasn’t about the gear. It was about something more meaningful—an unexpected moment of connection, a glimpse into the mind of a creature many consider to be one of the smartest invertebrates on Earth.
Sharing the Story
Within days, Drew and Randy edited their footage and selected a few photographs. The image of the octopus reaching out from its den, just moments before the strike, became iconic. It held a kind of cinematic tension—a calm before the chaos.
Friends and fellow divers were the first to hear the story. Then dive groups and local underwater photography forums picked it up. It wasn’t long before marine biologists, environmentalists, and diving communities across the country reached out with interest. Not only was the story captivating, but it opened a dialogue about animal intelligence and diver ethics.
Some asked if the octopus had been provoked. Others wondered if such behavior was common. The answers, while straightforward to Drew and Randy, sparked bigger discussions. No, the octopus had not been harassed. Yes, she had approached of her own volition. And no, this was not an everyday occurrence—this was something unique.
People wanted to know how it felt, how the decision to release the rig had been made, and whether Drew would dive again. The answer to the last question was always yes. Without hesitation.
Media outlets picked up the story. Dive magazines requested interviews. Photos of the octopus chewing on the dome port surfaced across blogs and social media. Some even joked that the octopus was trying to take selfies or make a short film.
But amid the humor, something more serious was unfolding. The event was helping to educate others about cephalopod intelligence, marine awareness, and how divers can safely interact with marine life—especially the clever and strong.
Understanding the Octopus
The giant Pacific octopus (Enteroctopus dofleini) is renowned for its intelligence, adaptability, and strength. Native to the northern Pacific Ocean, particularly around the coastal waters of the Pacific Northwest, this species can grow up to 16 feet across and weigh over 100 pounds. While Drew’s underwater assailant was not nearly that size, she was large enough to assert control over a diver’s rig.
Cephalopods have been studied for years due to their problem-solving abilities and advanced behaviors. They can open jars, navigate mazes, remember patterns, and even mimic other animals. They possess complex nervous systems, most of which is distributed across their arms. Each arm contains neurons that allow it to operate semi-independently, coordinating movement with remarkable precision.
Marine biologists weren’t surprised by the octopus’s behavior. Many noted that giant Pacific octopuses are naturally curious. They’ve been known to sneak up on divers, explore hoses and fins, and interact with cameras left unattended. What made this event different was the level of resistance—the physicality of the struggle, and the refusal to let go.
One expert Drew spoke to explained that the octopus may have perceived the camera as a threat, a competitor, or perhaps a food item. The dome port, shaped like a fish eye, might have appeared edible. Or perhaps the octopus, drawn by its reflective surface and texture, simply couldn’t resist examining it more closely.
Whatever the reason, the octopus’s actions reinforced the need for divers to remain calm and respectful, even in strange situations. The creature wasn’t attacking Drew. She was engaging, exploring, and asserting her presence. And in that moment, she had more control than most divers would expect.
Lessons in Equipment and Diving Ethics
After the event, Drew took time to assess the damage. The dome port was irreparably scratched and cracked. The lens cover was gone. One of the strobe arms was bent, and the housing had a few bite marks. But it could all be repaired or replaced. The data had been saved, and that was what mattered most.
The experience led to discussions in online forums about securing camera gear during dives. While Drew had used a proper lanyard and housing setup, the event showed that even the best precautions can be overwhelmed by nature. Some divers debated whether a stronger tether could have helped. Others argued that in such rare cases, safety should always come first.
For Drew, the main lesson was about readiness. Not just readiness for gear failure—but for the unexpected. The ocean isn’t a controlled environment. It’s a living system filled with intelligent, curious creatures. Respecting that reality is the key to being a good diver and photographer.
He also emphasized the importance of situational awareness. Had he panicked when the octopus grabbed his mask, the situation could have worsened. Instead, by staying calm, breathing steadily, and making deliberate decisions, he avoided injury and regained control.
As he spoke to students and new divers in the weeks that followed, Drew framed the story not as a cautionary tale, but as a celebration of nature’s unpredictability. It was a reminder to observe without interference, to engage without aggression, and to always place human safety above material value.
An Unlikely Symbol of Connection
In the months that followed, the image of the octopus stealing the camera became something of a symbol. Not of loss, but of wonder. People were drawn to the octopus not just for her strength, but for her strange familiarity. The way she reached out, gripped, pulled, and examined seemed almost human.
Drew and Randy began giving talks at dive expos and environmental seminars, showing footage of the encounter and answering questions about octopus behavior. Their tone was never alarmist. Instead, they focused on respect—for the ocean, for its creatures, and for the strange moments that sometimes emerge from the deep.
Drew even gave the octopus a name—“Inky,” after the famous New Zealand octopus who escaped an aquarium. It became a running joke among divers. “Inky’s cousin strikes again.”
What started as a dramatic incident turned into a teaching moment. Schools, aquariums, and dive clubs shared the story. Children were fascinated. Teachers used it to explain animal intelligence. Conservationists pointed to it as an example of why marine ecosystems must be preserved—because who wouldn’t want to live in a world where wild octopuses roam the reefs, interacting with divers and stealing cameras?
The story reached beyond the diving world. It touched on curiosity, wildness, and humility. For Drew and Randy, it became a legacy—an unforgettable episode in their lifelong relationship with the sea.
Looking Forward
Drew continues to dive and photograph the marine life of the Pacific Northwest. If anything, the event deepened his appreciation for the creatures he captures. He now spends more time observing before shooting, letting the animals dictate the pace.
His story has encouraged others to take their time underwater, to notice the details, and to stay alert not just for the shot—but for the unexpected. Gear can be replaced. A moment like that? Once in a lifetime.
The octopus, as far as they know, remains in her den. Occasionally, Drew and Randy dive in the same area, quietly wondering if they might see her again. If they do, they won’t bring a new rig too close. But they will say hello.
Reflections Underwater
Weeks after the dive, Drew Collins found himself back in the familiar cold waters of Puget Sound. The incident with the octopus had spread widely through the diving and photography community, but for Drew, the ocean remained what it always had been—a place of peace, observation, and curiosity.
There’s a particular silence in cold water diving, one that strips away distractions. The rhythmic inhale and exhale of the regulator, the occasional hum of distant fish, and the muffled creak of equipment moving through dense water create an atmosphere unlike anything on land. Drew, now more reflective than ever, let those sounds surround him as he descended once more into the home of the octopus.
Returning to the site wasn’t about closure. It was about reconnection. He did not expect to see the same octopus again. Nature doesn’t guarantee sequels. But he was drawn back by the richness of that encounter—not just its drama, but its message.
As he swam along the reef, his new rig in hand (a replacement housing and dome port), he noticed the familiar shapes of anemones, starfish, and kelp dancing slowly in the current. Everything seemed unchanged, but he viewed it all differently.
Diving had always been about images—finding the perfect moment, the striking composition, the behavior that tells a story. But now, Drew was equally interested in the intervals between photos—the stillness, the quiet glances from fish, the subtle pulse of life across the seafloor.
He moved deliberately, taking time with each subject, watching more than photographing. In the process, he began noticing things that might have escaped him before: the alert twitch of a crab’s eye, the way sunlight filtered down like cathedral beams, or the slow spiral of plankton drifting near his mask.
A Photographer Transformed
The octopus encounter had transformed Drew’s photographic approach. Where once he might have taken dozens of shots of a single creature, adjusting strobes and angles relentlessly, now he captured only a few images and spent more time appreciating the moment itself.
He began publishing more essays with his images, telling stories about the relationships between diver and subject, animal and habitat, rather than focusing solely on technical settings or gear.
In one essay, he wrote about “the moment before the shot”—the tension and trust that exists when a diver hovers near a wild creature. In another, he described how the octopus reminded him that wildlife isn’t ornamental. These creatures aren’t props for photographers. They are complex, sensitive beings that deserve patience and care.
That message resonated widely. Aspiring photographers reached out, not only for technical advice but for perspective. Drew’s story, once a humorous tale of a stolen rig, was becoming something more: a call to rethink how we approach underwater life with our cameras and curiosity.
Lasting Echoes in the Dive Community
For Randy, the encounter had also left a mark. He became more active in educating newer divers about respecting marine creatures, particularly cephalopods. At local dive clubs and marine centers, he shared video clips from the event, not to provoke laughter, but to inspire awareness.
He and Drew often laughed about the scene in retrospect—the sheer absurdity of the tug-of-war, the surreal feeling of losing a prized rig to an octopus—but the humor never obscured the seriousness of the lesson.
Their story also entered the world of marine conservation. Scientists used it in presentations about animal intelligence and environmental awareness. The octopus became a symbol of what makes marine ecosystems worth protecting—not because of their beauty alone, but because of their mystery, unpredictability, and depth.
Drew and Randy were even invited to contribute to educational programs that focused on diver-animal interactions. The story helped illustrate why conservation isn’t just about preserving biodiversity—it’s about preserving relationships. Every diver who enters the sea forms a relationship with that world, and those relationships shape the kind of impact we leave behind.
The Octopus Revisited
On one of his later dives, Drew paused at the same den where the original encounter had taken place. The crevice was empty. No arms reached out. The octopus was gone.
Whether she had moved to another part of the reef, retreated deeper into the shadows, or passed on, Drew didn’t know. But her absence felt like a closing chapter.
Still, he hovered there for several minutes, watching the subtle movement of kelp near the entrance. In his mind, he replayed the moment she had stretched out, grabbed his mask, and pulled.
He didn’t take a photo. Not of the empty den, not of the reef. It didn’t feel right. Some moments belong to memory, not megapixels.
Conclusion
The story of the giant Pacific octopus and the stolen DSLR rig will be told many times. Around campfires, at dive shops, in classrooms, and among friends sharing dive stories over coffee. It will be retold with slight embellishments, reenactments, and laughter. But at its core, it will always remain a story about respect.
Respect for the creatures that live in the sea. Respect for the unpredictability of nature. Respect for the balance between technology and presence.
Drew often ends his talks with a reminder:
“In that moment underwater, I wasn’t a photographer. I was just a visitor. The octopus didn’t see a human or a camera. She saw something unfamiliar and decided to learn more. That’s what we’re doing, too—learning. And if we’re lucky, the ocean will keep teaching us.”
He keeps the damaged dome port on his desk now, not as a trophy, but as a reminder. A cracked, scratched, chewed-on symbol of a story no photo could fully capture.
And somewhere out in the cold green waters of Puget Sound, perhaps another octopus watches from her den, curious, intelligent, and waiting for her next visitor.