A bubble in the hand . . .

is worth any number in the eelgrass.

It's interesting, how once you've gotten familiar with the shape and movements of a critter, that you see them in places where you looked before, without finding any. Like the bubble shell snails; I've waded knee-deep in the eelgrass beds at low tide in Boundary Bay many times, and all I saw were crabs and isopods. This last time, I recognized the bubble shells, dozens of them.

They're easy to catch; they hang out on the eelgrass blades, and when they're disturbed, they just let go and float down to the next blade. And they're just as content to land on my hand.

I got this one still on his eelgrass. He's upside-down, twisting up to get a look at me.

Setting out to explore. Isn't he a cutie?

"Hi, there!"

These snails are incredibly fragile; their shells are paper-thin, and as brittle as eggshell porcelain. Other snails have thick, sturdy shells, essential for survival in crab country. Even so, I find many empty shells, peeled back by crabs to get at the tasty meat inside. How do the bubble shells, without that protection, manage to live?

Watching them on the eelgrass, it all became clear. As long as the eelgrass in underwater, it stands upright, swaying in the current. The crabs scuttle along underneath, but only the smallest climb the eelgrass; it won't support the weight of the larger ones. Up at the top of the bed, there are no hard edges, no stones, no crabs, nothing to squeeze or bang those fragile shells.

When a bubble shell drops to the sand, he buries himself immediately. I've been watching in my tank, as they just ooze down between the sand grains and disappear, in seconds. The next time I see them, they're climbing an eelgrass stalk, up to safety.

Bubble shell egg ribbon, on eelgrass

I have seen these egg ribbons many times, but didn't know which snails they belonged to. Now I do: I've watched the bubble shells laying them, gluing them to the eelgrass blades near the top of my tank.

There must be thousands of eggs in one ribbon, and a bubble shell will lay several ribbons over the course of a few days. Few of them survive, or we'd be wading through a mass of bubble shells. Hermit crabs love them; fish eat them, so do nudibranchs. Even in the gentle eelgrass beds, life is precarious.

Hearts in bubbles

From the Merriam-Webster dictionary:

Ham·i·noea noun \ˌhaməˈnēə\
Definition of HAMINOEA
: a common genus of bubble shells (family Akeridae) of the Pacific coast of No. America with a shell so thin that the pulsation of the heart of the translucent yellowish brown animal within is commonly visible through it.

I've got three new bubble shells in the aquarium, and they're big enough (over an inch long) for me to see this. And they hang out near the water surface, so I've got video, too!

Cool, eh?

All cracked up, and pooping

It all started with Val, the anemone. Beautiful though she is, she's deadly. All tentacle, mouth and stomach, and no mind, she sits in her corner where the water currents are strongest, tentacles waving merrily. Waiting. Sooner or later, something falls off the wall into her open maw, and the tentacles close in quickly, trapping and stinging the unfortunate wall cleaner. A minute later, it has disappeared into her stomach, and she spreads out her empty net again. The snail (and it's usually a snail) eventually reappears as an empty shell, ready for occupancy by a growing hermit crab.

Val, just beginning to open up after a meal. With a leftover snail shell.

The two bubbleshells were part of the crew of glass scrubbers. They wandered around happily, eating algae, mating, laying more eggs every day. Then one, the big one I called Hammy II, disappeared. Sir Ham, the smaller one, moped for a bit, then went back to work. I kept a close watch.

Then, a few days ago, I was just in time to see Sir Ham, all curled up, caught in Val's tentacles. I quickly reached in and flicked him out with a fingertip. (Val was not pleased; she sulked for hours.)

The bubbleshell was still moving when I moved him to a bowl of water. Barely moving. I needed a lens to see it. I was sure he would die, but I set him up in a "hospital tank", with fresh water and a protective covering of sea lettuce, and kept an eye on him.

Hours later, when I was going to bed, he was almost black, curled up tightly, not moving at all until I touched him gently. I left him overnight in the fridge; warm water would stress him even more. And he was still alive in the morning! I was surprised; he even seemed to be starting to stretch out a bit.

For three days, he hovered between life and death, but last night, he looked at the sea lettuce and found it interesting. And this morning, when I looked, this is what I found:

A trail of bubbleshell poop!

Sir Ham is eating again!

This evening, when I changed the water, it was full of little poopy pellets. Good on you, Sir Ham!

Sir Ham, convalescing.

But look at his photo now: The shell is cracked and scored. It wasn't before. I'm starting to wonder if maybe the largest crab hadn't tried to split it open to get at the delicious bubble meat inside. And maybe that's why Sir Ham wasn't strong enough to resist the current any more, and fell into the anemone's mouth. Predation in tandem: not fair!

So there he stays, for now, in the hospital tank, while I decide what's to be done. Return him to life as it is, dangers and all, or provide safer housing in a corner of the tank? And I need to find him a new mate; don't those eyes look lonely?

(Cleaning the tank, I found Hammy the Second's shell, all cleaned out. So he probably met the same fate, but without a rescuer handy.)

Bubbles in love

On a wide, flat beach, small animals seek shelter wherever they can get it. Under the eelgrass, in burrows, on the sides of waterlogged wood, under rocks; or in populated areas, under and around human artifacts, trash, boats, anchors, bottles. One favourite hiding place is an abandoned clam shell, the bigger and more solid, the better.

At low tide, I keep an eye peeled for large shells, especially the older, seaweed-encrusted, barnacle-thickened ones. I look inside each one; no telling what I may find. Sometimes it's a scale worm or two. A couple of weeks ago, it was a collection of those little, unidentified egg casings.

Scale worm, 1 cm. long.

Egg cases. I've seen them identified recently, but can't remember where. UPDATE: Possibly the Leafy Hornmouth, Ceratostoma foliatum.

On our last visit to Boundary Bay, 'way out near the bottom of the intertidal zone, a clamshell I collected had a live bubble shell snail inside. I didn't have a container big enough for the shell, and in a plastic bag, the critter would dry out, so I walked back towards shore, carrying this clam shell half full of water. But it leaked; there must have been a crack somewhere. So at every little pool, I stopped to fill the shell again. I needed some better way to keep it wet.

When we reached another tide pool full of eelgrass, I dug out several plants, roots, a handful of sand each, and all, and stuffed it all into a plastic bag. I carefully put the clamshell and bubble snail on top, and covered it with more eelgrass, dripping wet. That should hold it.

And my last handful of eelgrass roots and sand came up with a second bubble snail. Two in a day! It went into the bag to keep the first one company.

Hammy the second, at home in a plastic cup. Love the eyes!

They both made it home ok, and made themselves at home in the tank right away. They are not like the previous one I had, a Haminoea japonica (I think); it spent most of its time in the sand. This pair wanders around on the eelgrass, and often on the glass walls of the aquarium.

Belly view, just under the water surface. With a grazing snail. (See the little pink mouth.)

These two are a native species, Haminoea vesicula, the white bubble snail. They are eating the algae off the inside of the walls, and probably off the eelgrass. When they have been knocked off onto the sand, they usually head straight for a wall and go on up. They move quite rapidly, for a snail.

Hammy the Third (aka Sir Ham), the smaller of the pair, checking out the big world above the waterline. He looks like some fat owl in a waistcoat. The round "belly" is his shell, and the flesh folds over it.

I can always find one of these if they're somewhere on a wall, because they leave a slime trail behind themselves. It catches bubbles from moving water, marking their path for several hours.

A couple of inches of slime trail, with bubbles.

I had tracked Hammy II to a spot on the front wall, and went looking for Sir Ham. I found him at the beginning of Hammy's trail, hurrying along it, staying with it, like a bloodhound on a scent. When he ran into a gap where a snail had broken the string, he cast about, up and down, until he found it again.

When I checked back, the two were together, doing what snails do in the springtime.

Hammy II above, Sir Ham below. And an intrusive periwinkle. Ignore that; the bubble shells certainly are.

They twist around some. At one point, HII was floating free, except where he held onto Sir H. Slime swirled around. This I couldn't get on camera, but towards the end, a long, thick cord dangled down below them, several inches long. When they left to go about their separate ways, it stayed behind, and gradually dissipated in the current.

And the next morning, this is what I found on the eelgrass:

Ribbon of eggs. Thousands of eggs, it seems.

This helps to identify the bubble shell; each species makes a different egg mass.

And the next day, they mated again. This morning, there is a new egg ribbon. This afternoon, they were back together. Busy little beasties. I'll be looking for eggs again tomorrow. I wonder if any will survive to grow into new little Hammies.

These snails are hermaphrodites, so both can lay eggs. I don't know who is responsible for the eggs they've laid so far.