I convinced two rich men to buy me a boat—not for pleasure, not for performance, but for purpose.

The boat I chose was a 30-foot wide, 50-foot long self-propelling sailboat with a 90-foot mast—massive for a solo sailor, but it had to be. I needed something capable of self-sufficiency, with the range, storage, and redundancy required for me to search remote coral heads and island drop-offs alone. I outfitted it like a mobile lab, because my mission wasn’t to cruise — it was to find something new.

I’ve always believed the most alien terrain on Earth isn’t above ground — it’s beneath the waves, particularly around volcanic islands and ancient coral heads. In several areas I visited, I encountered what I can only describe as Martian topographies. Spires, canyons, ridges and pits shaped by eons of isolation. Structures so intricate and layered that they seemed sculpted more by thought than nature.

And I believed every time I dived there was at least a 10% chance that some of these systems harbor unrecorded species. No amount of interconnectedness will stop the species from prioritizing its safety and staying home if the ecosystem allows it.

Why Here? Why Me?

Most marine species discoveries come from deep-sea submersibles or genetic sampling of known habitats. But these places — these twisted reefs, shadowed sinkholes, and current-fed microhabitats — are largely bypassed. Too shallow for deep-sea teams, too complex for trawling, and too remote for regular diving ops.

But I could go there. And I did.

What I Saw

I encountered fish that behaved like gravity was optional—moving upside down, sideways, then straight again without breaking rhythm.

I found fin structures that resembled tentacles, not invertebrate appendages but articulate, probing extensions that moved with intention.

I saw patterns and colors I couldn’t find in any database, and trust me, I looked. Patches of bioluminescence. Skin textures that shimmered like oil on stone. One species flashed a signal I thought was reflection — until it flashed again in the shadow.

The deeper I went, the harder it got. Even just 50 feet down, the ocean’s natural desaturation turned vibrant markings to muted greys. I began to understand how many species may be hiding in plain view, camouflaged not by biology but by physics.

Why It Matters

These were not hallucinations. Some of what I saw was documented on camera, but often it was just me, hovering, drifting, watching something that didn’t belong — or rather, that had always belonged, and had simply never been named.

These small species, evolutionary curiosities, outcasts of adaptation, forged in isolation and thriving in obscurity. Finding them isn’t about novelty. It’s about unlocking new understandings of reef resilience, predator-prey dynamics, and evolutionary bottlenecks.

What’s Next

I found the most number of atypical predator prey relationships in cavern ecosystems. From time to time the light would no longer be able to slip further into these holes, and they would would turn into underwater caves.

I’m returning. I’ve refined my equipment. Better tools, more focused locations. If I find a new species — or ten — I’ll publish, yes. But more importantly, I’ll record and share the method, the habitat, the context. Not just the animal, but the story of how it avoided being seen.

Because maybe the Martian landscapes beneath our oceans are trying to tell us something. And I plan to listen.