Clownfish attacks you

That Sunday the water off Sharp Island was a jade green, hazy, visibility maybe four meters. I sank slowly past granite boulders and soft coral until I saw it, a modest anemone, waving orange tentacles, with one clownfish tucked inside. Little. How cute. I fanned in close for a picture. That was my first mistake.

The clownfish came out like it was shot out of a gun, not retreating, but shooting straight for my mask and then swerving to headbutt my regulator hose. I pulled back in a cloud of startled bubbles. It didn't stop, darting at my fingers, my camera, the strap on my fin, radiating pure indignant fury for a fish the size of my palm.

I backed up, hands in surrender, and it led me two meters away from its anemone before turning back, happy, to go back on guard.

Back on the boat I watched the footage: ninety seconds of shaky orange blur, and somewhere in there one very small, very angry fish had managed to defend its entire home from a five-foot intruder in a wetsuit.

Sharp Island: 1 Me: 0