Worms live in the ground, birds live in the air, cá lóc live in lakes and octopuses live in the ocean, right? Wrong! Octopus can also live in the river.

I’ve long professed my love of miền Tây for the many oddities and unexpected pleasures it contains, from stylish sluice projects to plastic bags saving ripening fruit from flies. But on a recent trip to Cà Mau, I encountered one of the most incredible sights of my life.

Located at the very tip of the finger nail of Vietnam’s outstretched hand, Mũi Cà Mau National Park is where the swamp meets the sea. Established in 2001, the 41,862-hectare area is an expanse of tangled mangrove roots clutching the muddy banks of labyrinthian waterways. Vital for national security as well as a natural buffer against floods, erosion and landslides, it contains important biodiversity and opportunities for tourism. All of these features made it number one on my ever-dwindling list of “must-visit” places in Vietnam. I wasn’t prepared, however, for what I encountered earlier this month.

Hunting for crabs in the river.

While staying at a homestay within the national park my friends and I ventured out at night to catch the province’s famed crabs, specifically ba khía (three-striped crab). Along the shore of the many rivers, canals and channels, they build holes in the mud, sometimes partially submerged in water or hidden by foilage.

Our guide pulled our canoe forward, pushing aside leaves and breaking apart clumps of earth in search of divots containing the crabs. These crustaceans are one of many sources of income, and he said he catches between two and three kilograms on an average night. We were less lucky, or less skilled. About 15 minutes into our slow meander up the river, we had only gotten two tiny ones (with one more that had pinched its way free of a gloved hand). Suddenly the guide plunged his hand into the waters along the bank and dropped something into our bucket. I peered in and saw a blob of blueish-gray pulp, a plump tessellation of everything we do not understand about this world clinging to the plastic wall.

An octopus! Too smart, too emotionally complex, too different from our own human experience of existence, I couldn’t let it die. It resisted my grip, but ultimately gave in, then tumbled off my hand when I brought it above the water, which, because of its connection to the sea, was just brackish enough to support its life. And not just this one octopus; our guide said they commonly find octopuses and even fish for them purposely.

It hit the surface and immediately darted deep into the murk, leaving a cloud of ink in its wake. A coming storm had filled the sky with clouds that obscured the moon. I immediately thought of my favorite poem by Basho about Japan’s octopus fisherman, the power of singular images, the illusory nature of time itself:

[Top photo via Facebook page CanGio Seafood - Hải Sản Cần Giờ]