A Typical Sequence

by Howard Hall

   The garibaldi cowered at the base of his nest as we descended upon him with tripod, movie camera, and 1000-watt movie lights. We planted the tripod less then three feet away and mounted the camera on the tripod. Then we attached the lights to the top of the camera flooding the garibaldi's nest with incandescent light. There were three of us, all wearing SCUBA gear that poured roaring streams of bubbles into the water. We surrounded the nest with our diving gear, movie cameras, and lights. At the center of this calamity cowered the garibaldi, in horror and disgust. We had invaded his home with all the implements necessary for producing underwater motion pictures and were prepared to film his natural nesting and reproductive behavior. Mr. Garibaldi was not amused.

The male garibaldi ©Howard Hall

For almost half a day the garibaldi cowered at the base of his nest in a state of fear, confusion, and depression. Of all the garibaldi nests along the entire coast of Southern California, why did we have to choose his nest? He must have felt like someone who had built a get-away home in the secluded country then awakened one morning to find a freeway cloverleaf had been built surrounding it. He began to get mad.

   Anger replaced apprehension and the garibaldi resolved to run the alien monsters off his land. In the afternoon, he rose to face the lens of the camera and rushed at it clucking like an angry owl. But at the end of the day the divers hadn't moved an inch. Occasionally we would leave for an hour or so, but the camera and lights remained.

   At dusk we removed the camera and lights. The tripod was left behind and perhaps the garibaldi thought he could live with that. But early the next morning we were back with our roaring bubbles and glaring lights. And the garibaldi's life was made miserable once again.

   It took two full days before he accepted his fate. The garibaldi finally realized that the divers were never leaving. If he was going to find a mate and reproduce, he was just going to have to get on with it. We were pleased with his decision. The garibaldi had decided to ignore us.

   Female garibaldi continually passed high above his nest advertising their availability. It was the male's task to attract one. He had built a beautiful nest. He did this by carefully removing all living growth from the side of a rock leaving only one species of red algae. In this way he had cultivated an attractive circular patch of the bright red plant life. It was such a good nest that he would have no trouble attracting numerous females to lay eggs in its circular patch of red algae. Except for the crowd of divers surrounding it.

   Every time a female passed overhead, the male garibaldi rushed up to her and clucked three times. Then he would turn and dash to his nest hoping she would follow. Many times he tried. But females took one look at the divers and the gear surrounding the nest and just swam away in fear or disgust. Then finally, in the afternoon of the third day, he scored. A female was so impressed with his melodious voice that she descended to his nest and began laying her eggs. The male garibaldi was ecstatic. So were we.

   The camera was rolling as the female passed back and forth across the nest depositing her eggs among the tiny leaves of red algae. After two minutes she was done. She glanced over to the male and then quickly turned to eat a few eggs! But the male was prepared for this. He'd had his way with her and now it was time to kick her out. He rushed at her, clucking madly and biting at her tail. She dashed away.

   The garibaldi was pleased with himself. He leisurely fertilized the eggs and turned to look for another female when, to his astonishment, the glare from the movie lights died and the divers gathered their ponderous equipment and departed. We were pleased too. It had taken three days, but we had what we wanted: a two and a half minute sequence for our one-hour wildlife film. As we swam away the garibaldi clucked in joy! So did we.

   Two weeks later we returned to the garibaldi's nest with our camera and lights. He was still there guarding his nest. He watched in renewed horror as we again mounted the camera on the tripod and turned on the powerful lights. Then he turned and looked at his nest. His algae patch was no longer red, the bright yellow eggs had all hatched, and the young had long since departed. His nest was empty. The garibaldi probably hadn't noticed that his offspring had left home, but when saw those lights come on again he must have decided that he had had enough for one year. He turned to the camera, clucked twice and swam away never looking back. We filmed the empty nest and moved on to film the nesting behavior of an unsuspecting pair of kelpfish.

   I've made many wildlife films during the last twenty years. The films are often aired on PBS and last for one hour. People tune in and tune out. Some watch the entire show, and some switch between my show and football, or an "I Love Lucy" rerun. Divers tend to watch.

   The films are usually made up of twenty-five or so behavioral sequences. A typical sequence takes four to eight days to shoot. So it takes me between 100 and 140 days of diving (spread out over about eighteen months) to make a film. When I look back at a project, it's the dives I remember and not the film itself. It's been more than ten years since I filmed the Garibaldi sequence, but I remember it easily and in detail. As if it were just yesterday.