My boots slid on algae and patches of melting ice as I slowly picked my way along the rocky Maine coast. Close to the crashing waves, I knelt down and reached into an icy tidepool, then waved a patch of rockweed aside.
Peering into the rippling water, I was searching for one of Maine’s most ancient animals: sea anemones.
Sea anemones evolved more than 500 million years ago, making them among the earliest animals on Earth. They’re simple creatures, without a brain or sensory organs. In fact, they’re often mistaken as plants.
Their common name “anemone” is due to their flowerlike appearance. A certain woodland blossom holds the same name.
As a little girl, I always pictured sea anemones in vibrant, tropical coral reefs — or as scenery in Disney movies like “The Little Mermaid” and “Pinocchio.” I didn’t know that they lived along the coast of Maine until I was an adult and learned more about tidepools: saltwater pools that form between high and low tide.
In Maine, in addition to living in tidepools, sea anemones often adhere to pilings and — on occasion — hitch a ride on hermit crab shells.
The Gulf of Maine is home to several anemone species, each with a slightly different appearance. There’s the frilled anemone, burrowing anemone, ghost anemone, striped anemone, silver-spotted anemone and northern red anemone.
Finding them in tidepools can be tricky. They’re certainly not as abundant as other tidepool creatures such as barnacles, periwinkles, dogwhelks, limpets and crabs. Nevertheless, in recent years, I’ve stumbled across a number of locations where anemones seem to thrive.
On a recent sunny day, I gazed into a frigid tidepool, hoping to spot some anemones.
I watched a tiny green crab dash between the shelter of two rocks. Dozens of periwinkles waved their antennae-like tentacles as they crept along the bottom, scraping algae from the rock with microscopic teeth. The pool was full of life, but no anemones.
Undeterred, I continued my search. I often find anemones living in wide, water-filled crevices rather than open pools, perhaps because there are fewer predators. So, I located one of those. And lo and behold, an anemone clung to the rock, its tentacles swaying.
Anemone species differ in color and shape, but for most, the general body structure remains the same: a tubular body topped with tentacles surrounding a mouth. A muscular foot at the base of the anemone allows it to adhere to hard surfaces and slowly move to new areas.
This particular anemone in Acadia was pale gray, with undertones of purple and brown. Beside it sat two miniature versions of itself. I suspect they were clones.
Many sea anemones can reproduce asexually, meaning they can split off a piece of themselves to create new individuals with the same genetic makeup. This allows them to build colonies, which can offer defense against predators such as sea slugs.
In the book “Life Between the Tides,” author Adam Nicolson wrote about these clones.
“In asexual, cloning sea anemones, the individual is effectively eternal,” he wrote. “It grows not by getting larger but by developing more and more bodies of itself.”
He goes on to explain how large anemone colonies in the Pacific Northwest actually have a division of labor among individual anemones, depending on where they’re located in the colony.
Anemones along the outer edge serve as “scouts,” moving to expand the colony outward while detecting rival colonies. Farther in are “warriors,” which protect against predators with venomous stinging cells on their tentacles. And at the center are large reproductive anemones.
This division of labor is remarkable, considering how simple anemones are.
“Their muscles and nerves are simpler and less organized than almost any other animal… They are living ancientness,” Nicolson wrote.
Two years ago, I vacationed on the Olympic Peninsula in the state of Washington and visited a beach known for its massive anemone colonies. The giant purple, green and pink creatures were a sight to behold. They lived clustered together on the sides of boulders and in tidepools.
When exposed at low tide, I noticed that many of the anemones were covered in pebbles and shells. According to California’s Monterey Bay Aquarium, this is no accident. Certain types of anemones will actually collect items as protection from the sun.
To eat, anemones use their tentacles to sting and capture animals such as shrimp as they swim past. However, Nicolson described them more as “scavengers, eating the dead or broken parts of animals that float past in the tide.” They take the food into their mouth, break it down with digestive enzymes and spit out anything they can’t digest.
Of the more than 1,000 known sea anemone species, only a small percentage live in Maine. Yet I’ve noticed a great deal of variety.
After admiring the pale anemones living in the rock crevices in Acadia, I found a nearby pool that was home to dozens of deep pink anemones. Clinging to bedrock covered with pink algae, they blended into their surroundings. I almost looked right past them.
Also in the park, I’ve found tiny anemones the color of orange sherbet. They were nestled in a water-filled crack near the low tide line.
If you’d like to search for sea anemones along the Maine coast, exercise care. Without a skeleton, they’re easily crushed. I suggest looking from the edges of tidepools, but not wading into them.
The stings of Maine anemones are generally harmless to humans. With hands free of sunscreen and bug spray, I’ve reached into the water to gently brush their tentacles and watch them retract. However, I’ve never picked them up. Anemones can be easily damaged if pulled from a surface where they’re adhered.
Next time you visit Maine’s rocky shore, I hope you come across an anemone, or a whole colony of them. Just remember, there’s more to these ancient sea creatures than meets the eye.