All language subtitles for (scene-rls.net) 02 Wildest Places (2019)

(calm music)

- [Narrator] It covers 1/3
of the world's surface.

Ringed by fire,

constantly reshaped by the almighty clash

of Earth's tectonic plates.

Creating life forms that in
turn become the architects

of underwater empires.

Here, the world's most
primitive life forms

have outlived dinosaurs

and found astonishing
ways to adapt and survive

in one of the most competitive
environments on the planet.

(dramatic music)

This is the Wildest Pacific.

The Pacific Ocean sits

atop the world's largest tectonic plate,

over 103 million square
kilometers in size.

From deep ocean trenches
to the highest mountains,

these plates are the outer
pieces of the Earth's surface

that shape our planet's terrain.

Along the edges of the
biggest plate is an area

of seismic activity known
as the Pacific Ring of Fire.

It's a 50,000 kilometer chain

of volcanoes circling the Pacific.

90% of all earthquakes
occur along these lines.

Over millions of years, volcanic
archipelagos have formed,

stepping stones for marine
life to evolve upon.

Of the Pacific's 25,000 islands,

roughly 2/3 are in the Coral Triangle.

The triangle is a small
western Pacific pocket

from Indonesia, north to the Philippines,

and across to the Solomon Islands.

Though marveled for its reefs,

within the volcano-lined bays,

another astonishing ecosystem has emerged.

(bubbling)

This one is less of an underwater rainbow

and more of a fascinating dark cloud.

The muck zones.

Here, creatures thrive
in sludge and soot left

from the continental
reshaping of eons past.

The ash and minerals that
choked many forms of life

have allowed others to bloom here.

Between the volcanic
mountains and the bay below

are the protectors of
the coastline, mangroves.

Mangroves evolved in the Coral Triangle

long before currents
carried their seed pods

to other parts of the Pacific.

This area still grows the largest tracts

of mangrove forests on the planet today.

In a latitude prone to
tsunamis and cyclones,

these mangroves absorb wave energy,

shielding the land behind them.

They also protect sea life

by soaking up nutrients from runoff

that could cause smothering
algal blooms offshore.

Mangroves have harnessed
the unique ability

to survive in water
nearly 100 times saltier

than most other plant life.

Their roots sink into the
brackish mud for meters.

Here, an entire ecosystem has adapted

to the alien architecture.

Predators can't reach small fish hiding

behind the fence of roots.

These are forests that live between tides

and so too do many of the animals.

Mud burrowers forage at low tide

and hide at high tide.

Small sand crabs, like these fiddlers,

help stimulate the turnover of nutrients

on the mangrove flats.

They feed the mud into their mouth parts

and filter algae and bacteria from it.

They then spit out

and deposit the remaining
unusable sand back on the ground.

Rather than leaving a messy
trail in its feeding wake,

the deposits are left as
perfectly formed balls

called feeding pellets.

One claw of a male fiddler
crab is so enlarged,

it actually impedes feeding.

Bright orange and red, he uses
his claw to guard a burrow

and try to catch the
attention of a passing mate.

The ultimate mangrove grazer is one

that can take full advantage
of both low and high tides.

This is a fish that does exactly that.

The mudskipper breathes
air and walks on land.

It spends up to 90% of its
life above the water line.

It retains water in its gills.

But the fish's skin has also adapted

to absorb oxygen directly from the air.

Mudskippers can survive out of water

for up to 36 hours this way.

Their eye lenses have flattened out,

so while they see clearly on land,

their underwater vision is clouded.

An additional fin segment, not
found in most swimming fish,

has effectively created a
shoulder for the mudskipper,

allowing it to use strong pectoral fins

to drag itself across the mud

and virtually walk on water.

(water splashing)

These archers have also
evolved eyesight differently

to most fish.

Binocular vision allows archer fish

to see through a distorted water surface

and gauge distance beyond.

They're looking for small
insects and crabs resting

on the mangrove roots.

A channel runs from the
back of their throat

to their mouths, which
effectively acts as a water pistol

to target prey above the water line

and gobble up the wounded as
they hit the water's surface.

Archer fish have adapted so
well as mangrove hunters,

they rarely leave.

But many others do.

Mangroves are reef nurseries.

Some species spawn upstream,

knowing the coastline
will provide sanctuary

for juveniles not yet big enough

to survive the harsh reef city life.

When it's time to
graduate from the nursery,

other habitats grow just offshore

that allow enough cover for a
first foray into ocean life.

Often mistaken for seaweed,

seagrass is more closely
related to a terrestrial plant.

Whereas generally accepted
most life came from the ocean

and eventually moved to land,

seagrass migrated in reverse.

Coastal grasses adapted to salt
around 100 million years ago

and gradually moved further into the seas.

They have roots, stems, and leaves,

and produce flowers and seeds.

Like their land-based cousins,

they depend on sunlight
to photosynthesize.

Seagrass is a vital food source
for large marine grazers.

Dugong, shore birds, and sea turtles.

The grass roots extend into the sediment.

Here they anchor the plant,
absorb and store nutrients,

and hide small burrowers.

There are 60 seagrass species.

They spread far and
wide across the Pacific

with the help of turtles.

The green turtle adults are herbivores.

They rely on the seagrass and
keep meadows at healthy levels

with constant mowing.

In return, they travel
hundreds of kilometers

to new feeding areas,

with grass seeds as tiny
passengers on board.

The turtles will digest
and pass the seeds,

sowing new grounds.

Elsewhere in the sea grass,

an anemone has anchored away

from the bustling coral civic center,

where there's less competition for space.

An animal closely related to
coral polyps and jellyfish,

the anemone has a foot disc
that attaches to a hard surface.

And like many other species,

this one sees the real estate value

in setting up shop away
from the busy reef,

near a seagrass patch.

Anemones in sparse areas like
this become satellite suburbs.

A saddleback clownfish family
has moved into this one.

Saddlebacks often take up
residence away from the reefs.

They're born with a thick protective mucus

to afford some immunity from
the anemone's stinging arms.

The clownfish adds to
this coat as they grow.

They brush up against the host's tentacles

until the protective coat is
roughly four times thicker

than the average fish.

The anemone isn't so
kind to other species.

It uses harpoon-like nematocysts

to paralyze prey passed
to a central mouth.

It absorbs the nutrients

and spits out the parts it
can't digest, shell and bone.

In return for sanctuary,

the saddleback provides the anemone

with another food source
in the form of waste

and chases away predators
like butterfly fish,

which have developed a taste

for the nutrient-rich anemone flesh.

Though few can withstand the
anemone's firing nematocysts,

there's still competition
for this prime real estate.

The anemone shrimp isn't
immune to the animal's sting.

It acclimatizes through a long
process of gradual contact,

which can take up to five hours.

When the host is used to its new visitor,

it will allow the shrimp
to walk around unimpeded

and feed from the anemone's skin.

Another visitor is the tiny
spotted porcelain crab.

It uses the anemone as a safe place

to launch its own
evolutionary spectacle, fans.

This filter feeder isn't a true crab.

It's evolved much like one in shape

but it's more akin to a flattened lobster.

It's grown feathery arm-like
appendages from its mouth,

designed to cleverly net plankton.

Porcelain crabs rarely share

the same anemone with clownfish.

But in a seascape with
little other protection,

these small colonizers
have learned to coexist.

The saddlebacks lay their egg clutches

as close as possible to the
protection of the stinging arms.

The male clowns are charged
with guarding the eggs.

He gently aerates the eggs by fanning them

and picks out the unfertilized ones.

Nearby, the seagrass is providing cover

for another nesting site.

Bigfin reef squid.

The male bigfin flashes colors

to attract the attention
of a passing female.

When he's successfully mated,

he will dutifully stick
around to guard the female

while she lays her clutch.

Small barracuda, yet to
graduate to the outer reef zone,

lie in wait at the seagrass edges.

Other male squid are on the lookout

for females of their own.

The egg capsules will take
two to three weeks to hatch

before several hundred
tiny squid larvae emerge

to join the planktonic slipstream.

Despite their union for
the egg-laying process,

the parental squid won't be around

to defend their young when they hatch.

Squid have short lifespans

and usually die not long after mating.

These bigfin live out
their entire life cycle

in just under a year.

Seagrass predators aren't limited

to patrolling the perimeters.

Danger can also appear from below.

On the rising tide,

bluespotted ribbontail rays
cruise the seagrass flats.

Gel-filled pits across the
front of their faces allow them

to pick up electrical signals
from the tiniest movement.

Much like the terrestrial life

that exists just below a rainforest floor,

worms and crustaceans
consume decaying leaves

that line the seagrass beds.

The ribbontail ray pinpoints activity,

vacuums up the morsels, and crushes them

between specially adapted
mouth plates in mere seconds.

By the end of entree,

the ray is hidden just below the surface,

with eyes perched atop
to scour the sea floor

for the next course.

(dramatic music)

Free swimmers, like the razorfish,

have gone to extraordinary
lengths to blend in.

The razorfish swims head down

and backwards in dense schools,

in an effort to mimic the
blades of grass it shadows.

Many bottom dwellers, like
this eel snake blenny,

have taken on vivid greens
in an effort not to be seen.

A finger dragonet will raise
its elongated green top spine

at full mast to mimic a blade of grass.

In some species, these spines are tipped

with a further deterrent, venom.

One animal that rarely deigns
to attempt camouflage is

the aptly named flamboyant cuttlefish.

Growing no longer than eight centimeters,

a living specimen of the
flamboyant wasn't discovered

until the late 1980s.

This cuttlefish puts on
a dazzling color display,

shimmering through a
range of vibrant yellow,

maroons, and white.

And amazingly, it walks.

The cuttlebone that helps with
buoyancy in most cuttlefish

is relatively small in the flamboyant.

It can't propel very
fast or for very long.

It's adapted two front clubs
to tread along the sea floor.

Pulsating skin alerts predators
to a poisonous secret.

Its flesh is highly toxic.

The flamboyant cuttlefish
tests the full gamut

of its color range when hunting
for small squid and crab.

It can send waves of color along its body.

It's thought in an
attempt to hypnotize prey.

Or it may lighten to color
match its surroundings,

to tone down slightly right before

a strike.

This tiny cuttlefish has twin
tentacles it uses for hunting.

It launches them together
as a single spear

with deadly accuracy.

With hunters stalking the seagrasses,

it's a wise decision to hail transport.

Imperial shrimp are brightly colored

and just a couple of centimeters long.

To ensure safe passage
from one area to another,

they frequently catch
a lift on a nudibranch,

a colorful type of sea slug.

Or they may choose to
travel by sea cucumber,

a long worm-like animal
related to starfish

with a mouth surrounded by tentacles.

Both the nudibranch and
sea cucumber are shell-less

and often toxic, therefore
ignored by most predators.

In return, the hitchhikers
conduct a quick house clean,

eating algae and parasites.

Usually spotted in pairs,

they'll squabble over the best patches

until they arrive at new feeding areas.

There are 14 seagrass species
in the Coral Triangle bays,

along with a number of seaweeds.

This macro algae is Halimeda.

Halimeda is generally found
in bays and inshore of reefs.

It's made up of calcific
plate-like segments.

When it breaks down, it becomes
calcium carbon sediment,

or simply sand.

Halimeda has a very rapid growth rate,

which means the sand in
many Coral Triangle bays

can be attributed more
to the Halimeda fields

than the reef itself.

Unlike seagrass, Halimeda
doesn't have roots

sinking into the sea floor.

It attaches to rocks and hard surfaces.

Visual predators can hunt
easily in the scant cover,

so these algae gardens have produced

some astonishing adapters.

Fish and crustaceans that bend and blend

into the Halimeda itself.

Ghost pipefish are master mimickers.

The Halimeda ghost pipefish
takes on the green, red,

or brown of the algae it
descended on as a tiny larva.

It's a close relative of the seahorse.

But like the Halimeda,

this fish is covered in large bony plates.

It swims mouth to floor,

sucking up tiny mycid shrimp
with its tube-like mouth.

It barely merits a second glance

when it's suspended
next to the macro algae

that pipefish's entirely
physiology is based on.

It's not the only pretender
in the Halimeda kingdom.

At just three centimeters long,

this tiny crab is a
perfectly proportioned bite

for a lagoon carnivore.

Stingrays, eels, and octopus.

To blend in, it's developed
a long bright green shell.

But that's just step one of the deception.

The Halimeda crab will pinch
off segments of growing algae

and affix it to its head
with the help of tiny hooks.

The top-heavy weight can cause it

to stagger slightly in the current,

which only adds to the illusion

of a plant swaying in flowing water.

The Halimeda algae
itself is a food source.

This minuscule sap-sucking
slug feeds on the plant

and ingests chloroplasts
into its body as it does so.

Incredibly, it then photosynthesizes

the absorbed plant matter.

It can live for months
without food this way,

essentially becoming a solar-powered slug.

The finer details of just
how they're able to do this

are still being researched
as new species are uncovered.

This one feeds on a close Halimeda cousin,

the toxic sea grape,

and has taken mimicry to a new level.

(calm music)

Sea urchins slowly crawl along
the open plains of Halimeda.

Long sharp spines discourage hunters

and of the 200 odd species of urchin,

some also wield spikes filled with venom.

They're the ideal hiding
place for young cardinal fish.

The male cardinals take on
the primary parenting role,

in the early days at least.

They are mouth brooders.

They keep the eggs and
hatchlings in their mouths

for up to three weeks.

When the baby fish, called
fry, are ready to leave,

the male will find a spiny nursery.

He delivers them to the safety
of a sea urchin's spines,

where they can grow further

before graduating to coral reefs.

The sparse vegetation also
invites sand burrowers.

This giant goby lacks the ability to dig,

so it's struck up one

of the bay's more unusual partnerships.

The snapping shrimp is blind

but is happy to pay for
the services of a watchman.

The shrimp spends the best part of its day

tirelessly digging a burrow.

It shares its home with a giant goby,

which has evolved large pectoral fins

to sit stop the burrow lip and keep watch.

Gobies have excellent eyesight.

Remarkably, fish and shrimp
have developed their own system

of interspecies communication.

The shrimp will only emerge from the hole

after extending an antennae
and touching the goby's fin.

It waits for a wiggle to let
it know the coast is all clear.

The goby will vary its wiggle signals

to the shrimp throughout the day

to keep it up to date
with the danger levels.

(dramatic music)

While it's working outside of the burrow,

the shrimp never loses
contact with a goby.

At all times, one antennae
is touching the goby's body.

In the late 1980s,

Indonesia's dive expedition
industry began to flourish.

With it, reports of a small
brightly-banded octopus,

not seen anywhere else before,

started to trickle back
to scientific circles.

It wasn't until 2006

that the wunderpus photogenicus
was officially described.

With identifying head markings

as unique as human fingerprints,

the rare wunderpus has
fast become a darling

of the dive world in unique areas known

as the Coral Triangle's muck zones.

Muck zones are covered in silt and mud.

They seem unlikely areas to support life.

Bordered by volcanoes, many
Coral Triangle bays are made up

of black sand, remnants of
pulverized rock and ash.

The ash is mineral-rich,

but the resulting sludgy
sediment forces animals

to adapt or die.

The sludgy sediment can
smother the symbiotic algae

living in coral reefs.

Without these foundations,

muck zones are not an easy
place for organisms to thrive.

However, the harsh
conditions have forced some

of the bay's most unusual adaptations.

Ambush predators and
highly skilled camouflagers

have learned to take advantage
of the slightest cover.

This frogfish is just
a few centimeters long.

Frogfish species vary
in color and texture.

They're very good at blending in.

But this brightly colored painted frogfish

is equally confident slowly making its way

through the muddy wasteland.

It has specially adapted
fins it fans out like feet.

It can walk or push into a glide.

However, frogfish aren't
exactly ergonomically designed.

They have rounded faces

and their tails are often shoddy rudders,

curving to the side.

Moving about can be a
slow and awkward process.

This fish can even use
its fins much like hands

to anchor itself in place

when the current gets to be too much.

At this pace, it's hardly surprising

that the frogfish doesn't
chase down its prey.

Instead, it's come up
with an ingenious plan

to tempt passersby to
come in a little closer.

The front dorsal fin has evolved

into a form of fishing rod,

a long spine with a bulb on the end.

Much like a fishing fly,

the frogfish will deploy the lure

and twitch it to see
what comes out of hiding.

An ambitious cast.

The escaping lizardfish

was nearly double this frogfish's size.

Other species have also
adapted their bodies

in strange ways.

This stony gargoyle is
a demon stinger fish.

Like many slow movers, it's
tipped with venomous spines.

It has no known natural predators.

Its ghoulish reputation
is clinched by these.

Hooks either side of the
fish sink into the muck

and drag the fish along the floor.

Their modified spines long ago detached

from the rest of the pectoral fin.

As a larvae, this
leopard flounder presents

much like a free swimming fish,

with eyes on either side of its head.

But as it grows, its body flattens out

and one eye slowly migrates to the top.

It can now settle into the sea floor

with in-built periscopes

that keep a 180 watch
for incoming predators.

Like dolphins.

However, the flounder has
an unusually shaped mouth.

Unlike its eyes, it didn't
quite make the migration

from a free swimming juvenile
to floor-dwelling flatfish.

The sideward gape, a vestige
of evolution in progress.

Another variety of
flatfish, the banded sole,

has poisonous glands at
the base of its fins.

However, this is not a banded sole.

It's a mimic.

The mimic octopus.

The mimic octopus is a cephalopod,
a suborder of mollusks.

With the exception of the nautilus,

most cephalopods abandoned shells

around 100 million years ago,

forcing them to specialize
in other defense techniques.

A squid has speed.

Cuttlefish blend.

This small brightly-banded octopus

has developed a novel method

for crossing the sparse muck flats.

It pretends.

Gliding across the sea floor,

it flings all eight arms
behind and undulates,

copying the movement
of the toxic sole fish.

And if that doesn't work,

a predator will think twice
before wrestling a lionfish.

It's thought this display
mimics the feathered fins

of one of the muck's deadliest stingers.

These shapeshifters were only spotted

off the Indonesian coast in 1998.

At last count, the mimic
octopus's repertoire includes

more than 15 shapes.

From sea snakes to starfish.

And if all else fails,

it can bury itself below sand in seconds.

Other masters of muck mimicry
are these, decorator crabs.

The name encompasses a
broad number of species.

Some are hermit crabs,
crabs with soft bodies

that live in the abandoned shells

of sea snails for protection.

Others grow with their own exoskeleton.

But the common trait of a decorator is

to add a few extra items
to their shell or carapace.

This spider crab picks up small stones

from its algae-covered surrounds

and uses tiny hooks to affix
the pebbles to its back

and legs, giving it a
jewel-encrusted appearance.

Others will use anemones,
small stinging animals

that have the added benefit
of packing a toxic punch

if a predator comes too close.

Some decorators simply pick
up whatever is closest to hand

and hang on for as long as
the costume holds together.

This leaf from the jungle above also makes

for a perfect hang glider in the current.

There are few places on Earth

where the reef touches the
doorstep of the jungle.

When these ancient ecologies collide,

a specific muck zone emerges.

Tree stumps and leaves
line the bay shallows.

Here, nothing goes to waste.

Life has learned to use the
offerings from the world above

for nests and refuge.

Rotting vegetation provides nutrients.

Fallen leaves retain stored carbon

and redistribute it into the sea floor.

Many of the animals adopt a
specific camouflage dress code.

Be like the leaf.

The cockatoo waspfish comes
in varied autumnal colors

of decaying leaves.

But this fish takes leaf
mimicry one step further.

It's a terrible swimmer.

In a fiercely competitive habitat,

that could appear to be
an evolutionary mistake.

However, there's no room for
such missteps in the muck.

The cockatoo waspfish has
developed an elongated dorsal fin

that peaks highly on his forehead.

It's a rudder.

The waspfish sways in
the prevailing current.

And when it sails at full
mast, simply lifts into it

like a leaf caught in the tide.

If the ruse isn't convincing,

the dorsal fin is tipped with venom.

So are the spines of
this leaf scorpionfish.

It's a masterful ambush predator.

It allows the leaf mimic
to hide in plain sight.

Another ambush predator prefers
to bed down into the muck.

A stargazer has a wide mouth

and large eyes to look
upward for the passing meal

that will soon be drawn out by dusk.

An octopus does some housekeeping
before the day's end.

They have several layers
around their territory,

so there's always an
escape bolt hole nearby.

This one, at the base of a coral bommie,

appears to be its preferred dining room.

The outskirts are lined
with the remnant shells

and carapaces of meals past.

An octopus's garden.

As the jungle above
prepares for the evening,

dusk too heralds a changing
of the guard below.

Fire urchins, usually solitary
as they roam the muck floor,

begin to amass.

Little more than a mouth and gut,

they move about on hundreds of tiny feet.

Once a year, they come
together for a ritual,

to ensure the continuation
of their species, to spawn.

Resident cardinal fish,

living in the protection of
the urchins' spines, merge,

creating a super school cloud
above the writhing mass.

The urchins will only
come together this way

when water conditions allow the best odds

to carry the sperm and
eggs out to open water.

The en masse release gives
the cloud the best chance

of surviving long enough to fertilize.

How they communicate to each other

that tonight is the night is unknown.

The bigfin squid is also laying
the last of her egg clutch.

She too knows it's a numbers game.

Few of the emerging baby
squid will live to adulthood.

This female flamboyant
cuttlefish needs all the protein

she can capture tonight.

She's looking for a place to lay eggs.

She's found it in the shell of a coconut,

a gift from the Papua New Guinean jungle.

The opening leaves just enough room

to allow the tiny cuttlefish
to push her eggs inside.

She lays the eggs one by one
but will carefully deliver

up to two dozen perfectly round pearls

into the coconut shell.

It's the safest place
she can find for them

but to be sure, she'll spend
the coming weeks close by,

protectively guarding it.

Clouds of tiny juvenile
fish begin swarming

to take advantage of the
cover of darkness to feed.

A leopard anemone extends
its arms into the moonlight.

It appears to be safe harbor
in the vast seagrass beds.

But at night, the ocean floor comes alive.

The muck food chain is
triggered into action.

For the leopard anemone,

there are just a few
precious hours to feed.

Its tentacles grasp and stun anything

that ventures too closely.

The water is so thick
with schooling juveniles,

the yellow frogfish doesn't
even need to deploy its lure

to bring them into striking distance.

Six milliseconds.

It's the fastest strike rate
of any living vertebrate.

(gentle music)

The moon is also a cue for life to awaken.

It's time for the flamboyant
cuttlefish to hatch.

They incubate in their egg
sacks for about 50 days.

Inside, minuscule fully-formed
versions of the adults,

just millimeters long.

The adult parent usually
dies before the eggs hatch.

The babies are on their own.

However, these cuttlefish emerge

with all of their superpowers
ready to be unleashed.

They switch on the skin chromatophores

that allow them to change color

and flash their poison alarm to predators.

They will also immediately hunt.

The newly emerged
cuttlefish will drift off

into the slipstream of
tiny planktonic forms

that make up the lowest
rungs of the food chain.

The muck zones of the Coral Triangle bays

are an astonishing ecology,

born from the depths well
below the Earth's crust.

Right across the Pacific Ocean,

the slow grind of tectonic
plates marches on,

giving rise to new geological formations

and the surprising life forms
that find a way to adapt

in every corner of the ocean.

(calm music)