a fixture 20 years later, forever
vilifying the worm.
Although they’re known
worldwide, much about these
secretive worms remains a
mystery. For starters, even
though more than 350 species
have been scientifically described
in the genus Eunice, a great
deal of the early work needs
revision. Even for the few Eunice
experts around, it is virtually
impossible to identify one from
a photograph, and it can even be
challenging with the specimen in
hand. Genus members, all armed
with their notorious mouthparts,
range from small animals only
inches long to titans such as the
one we saw in Lembeh. A few
collected specimens measure
10 feet in length, and one
Australian colossus is reputed
to have reached 20 feet. Perhaps
unsurprisingly, the worms’ natural
history also remains a mystery.
After the other divers lose
interest and wander away, I
remain kneeling beside the
beast, transfixed. I’m particularly
intrigued by how the jaws collapse
back onto themselves to disappear
inside the worm’s fleshy head.
No less bewitching is the sheen
of rainbow iridescence rippling
along its back. In the midst of my
reverie, the worm offers a rare
gift — a reward for my chronic
curiosity — releasing a stream of
smoky spawn into the night.
I have an even more memorable
Bobbit worm encounter on a
subsequent trip to Dominica,
a lush volcanic island in the
eastern Caribbean. During a
safety stop at the top of an
offshore pinnacle, my dive guide,
Imran, points toward a hole in
the reef. Glancing down I see the
unmistakable form of a large reef-
dwelling Bobbit crawling through
the shadows.
In one of those “What was I
thinking?” moments, I slip my
steel wand beneath its body and
lift. The worm comes out without
the least bit of resistance. Imran
retreats, his eyes bulging. Amazed,
I keep lifting until the creature
dangles in a great U from my
stick. Astonishingly, the famous
jaws remain retracted. I slip my
upturned hands beneath the
belly and watch as it crawls over
my palms like a pet corn snake.
Measured against my height, the
body appears to be at least 6 feet
long. I drape the worm across the
bottom and snap a portrait before
inserting the head inside the hole,
where it calmly disappears.
Back aboard the boat, Imran is
dancing in disbelief: “That’s crazy,
man. You’re lucky to have a face.”
“Yeah,” I answer, still attempting
to sort through what just happened
myself. “I guess I am lucky.”
Word travels fast on Dominica,
and the next morning at least a
half dozen disbelievers meet me at
the dock. Although few locals on
the island dive, everyone has been
raised with horror stories about
the monster worms inhabiting
their waters. In a weird sort of
way, you could think of the Eunice
worms as island mascots. After
retelling my tale for a third time,
I retrieve my computer from my
room and display the portrait.
“No, mon. Look at dat. It’s
obvious de worm is some kind
of sick,” one skeptic claims. The
others gathered around the screen
nod in agreement.
“What else can I say?” I reply.
“You can believe it or not.”
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From top: This Bobbit worm in
Dominica spreads across the sea
floor for a portrait; the iridescent
skin of a Bobbit worm; a Bobbit
worm spawning.
Opposite: A Bobbit worm springs
from the sand in Lembeh.
