Two shrimpgobies (Amblyeleotris sp.) share a burrow near an island — a symbiotic alpheid shrimp can be seen inside the burrow behind them. This shrimp-goby symbiotic system has been little-studied (a friend of mine, at the University of California, Santa Barbara, is trying to rectify that with his research around Moorea and elsewhere in the Pacific) and is quite fascinating. Basically, the blind shrimp excavates and maintains the shared burrow while the goby (usually you'll only see one goby per burrow) keeps watch for predators. The shrimp keeps apprised of the situation by always keeping an antenna in contact with the goby, monitoring its 'body language.' It's usually fairly difficult to get close to vigilant shrimpgobies. (Restorf Island, Kimbe Bay)
A shrimpgoby (A. periophthalma) with two alpheid shrimps (probably Alpheus djiboutensis, that seems to have several different color morphs) sharing the burrow. (Restorf Island, Kimbe Bay)
Another shrimpgoby (A. periophthalma) with an alpheid shrimp in tow. (Restorf Island, Kimbe Bay)
A different species of shrimpgoby — the spotted shrimpgoby (A. guttata) — on a more exposed seamount reef. This goby is quite a way out of its hole, but note the shrimp's antenna on the posterior part of the fish's body. (South Ema Reef, Kimbe Bay)
This goby is probably a Steinitz' shrimpgoby (A. steinitz) sharing its home with what is probably the alpheid shrimp species A. djiboutensis. Actually, given all the hard work that the shrimp puts into maintaining the place, I should abandon my piscocentric view of the world and say that the shrimp is sharing its home with the goby. Still, the goby risks all for the relationship, and that is pretty steep rent. Perhaps the most formidable of the shrimpgoby's predators are dolphins, who have a sonar-based detection advantage. (Restorf Island, Kimbe Bay)
A yellow shrimpgoby (Cryptocentrus cinctus) and an unknown Alpheus shrimp (one that I've often seen with different goby species) peeking from their home in the sand. (Restorf Island, Kimbe Bay)
Look on sea whips and you'll probably eventually find some of these tiny, translucent, gobies (Bryaninops sp. — maybe the Erythrops goby, B. erythrops). Good luck getting them to stay still long enough for a photo! This one, and his friends, drove me crazy in a stand of sea whips at about 20-m depth on a nearshore reef — Clif, my assistant who was waiting for me to begin a fish-survey, wondered why I'd suddenly become obsessed with sea whips. I spend most of my time underwater looking at big animals, so it's nice to pause for a minute or two to pay attention to the little details...stop and smell the gobies. (Numundo Reef, Kimbe Bay)
A spectacular twinspot or 'crab-eye' goby (Signigobius biocellatus) outside its burrow on a coral-and-sand slope around an island. This specimen is relatively young and so far a solo act (these gobies often occur in pairs). (Restorf Island, Kimbe Bay)
This blueband goby (Valenciennea strigata) was hovering just outside its burrow in a tiny sand patch behind the barrier reef's crest. I considered myself fortunate to get this close when, just as I tripped the shutter for a slightly closer view — having eased very patiently toward the small fish — the goby vanished into its hole faster than my eye could follow. The only proof that I have of the speed of its movement is a noticeable absence of the fish in that second picture. (Pig Island, Madang)
A goby near the steeply-sloping wall of an island's fringing reef. It took me a while, but I finally identified this beastie as a Miller's damsel (Asterropteryx ensiferus). At least, I think it's a Miller's damsel. This fish has a somewhat confusing common name, given that 'damsel' is usually reserved for members of the damselfish family whereas this is squarely within the goby camp. Just another reason why scientific names can come in handy. From the limited ID materials that I had available before finally scouring FishBase, I wondered if this little fish was perhaps the spinecheek goby (Oplopomus oplopomus), photos of which revealed some variation in coloration. Because colors can vary so much even in live fishes, taxonomists, systematists, and others whose work involves extensive identification of reef fishes tend to rely more on scale and fin-ray counts, body proportion, and other 'meristic' characters. Adding to the fun is that gobies are a tremendously diverse group — they form the largest single family of marine fishes both worldwide and in PNG. Understandably, most ID books skimp on their coverage of small and cryptic fishes like gobies and blennies. (Restorf Island, Kimbe Bay)
A Collette's blenny (Ecsenius collettei, named in 1972 after US National Marine Fisheries Service ichthyologist Bruce Collette) on the steeply-sloping fringing reef around a lagoonal island. This species is known only from Madang Lagoon and this individual is the only one that's yet caught my eye. (Sinub Island, Madang)
A striped blenny (Ecsenius prooculis) rests on its little patch of the reef, watching the world go by. (The Crater, Kimbe Bay)
Another striped blenny perches in the gaudy surroundings of a bright orange sponge (sort of a '70s-style decor, really). (The Crater, Kimbe Bay)
A fire dartfish (Nemateloetris magnifica) — a member of family Microdesmidae — above its burrow on the slope of a channel between two islands. Dartfishes are small fishes (maximum length is about 8 cm) that are strikingly colored but very quick to dart into their burrows. (Ann Sophie, Kimbe Bay)
Three fire dartfish on the reef slope around an isolated, uninhabited island surrounded by deep water. (Kimbe Island, Kimbe Bay)
Mandarinfish (Synchiropus splendidus) peeking from its refuge in an intricate maze of coral on an inshore reef. This reef, located almost within stone-throwing distance of Walindi's dock, features unusual coral formations that are quite spooky to behold (especially at twilight) and that are home to a host of small and unusual animals. The star attraction, though, is the mandarinfish — a small and brightly-patterned dragonet that's also been called the 'psychedelic goby.' Five days after Clif and I conducted an unsuccessful search for these beasts at the end of a hard day on the more distant seamounts, Shannon Seeto (then Director of Mahonia na Dari Research and Conservation Centre) took me to the reef for what was to be my last dive of the trip. The Great Mandarinfish Hunt of 1999 was on. We had a very narrow window of time, as twilight became night, within which these tiny dragonets would be active enough to be detected. After a very lengthy search — during which I shot a good deal of my film on other small fishes that I hadn't had much opportunity to pay attention to during my barracudafests — Shannon found a group of perhaps six mandarinfish. It was little wonder that Clif and I, with our cursory search, had failed to turn up these miniscule fish. Even with Shannon pointing to them, I found it hard to see what was what (the red filter I use on my aiming light, intended to reduce the impact to nocturnal creatures of my presence, didn't help my discriminatory powers). Of course, the very best shot that I framed was the one that coincided with me running out of film. Still, the dive was a very fulfilling and totally atypical end to my Kimbe Bay trip. I hope to make it back to this reef again, someday, to get some better shots of this insanely colorful little fish. (Mandarinfish Reef, KImbe Bay)
A male mandarinfish raises its dorsal 'flag' — probably instrumental in the its frequent courtship displays — as it spots my camera port looming over its tiny domain. The odds are good that, like many animal signals, the fin-flick is multifunctional and doubles as a courtship display ("yo, baby") and as a threat display ("back off, or..."...or...what?...). (Mandarinfish Reef, KImbe Bay)
Looking down on a mandarinfish — these things were tiny! (Mandarinfish Reef, KImbe Bay)
I'm not sure that there is such a thing as a cooperative mandarinfish, but at least this one gave me a different pose. (Mandarinfish Reef, KImbe Bay)