The sea trees of Trondheim

The sun set several hours ago. We pad along the pier, fully equipped for diving. After today's earlier meeting with the corals, we are planning to snoop about in the shallows with our cameras.
Erling and Frank Emil are a few metres ahead of me as we slide down the narrow crevice in the steep cliff. Our lights creep over the rock, where sea cucumbers strive to stand firm in the current.
Just below me at about 16m I see a long, narrow fish sliding into Erling's torchbeam. The next few minutes are chaos.
We have found another stray from the deep, a creature we had been curious to see for years - the ratfish, or sea mouse.
We had seen it before only in illustrations. Its Latin name, Chimaera monstrosa, originates from Greek mythology and refers to a fire-breathing goat with a snake's body and a lion's head. Pictures show a creature with big, golden eyes and a whip-like tail.
The others catch sight of the ratfish at the same time as me, but it is not alone - there are five of these "monsters"in the cleft.
In their efforts to take pictures while stopping themselves descending, the divers' fins stir up a lot of mud.
Their lights keep flashing, and I stay above and out of the way until things calm down. The eyes of the ratfish are very sensitive, and the flashes obviously make them uneasy.

Two of them head towards me. Their heads resemble those of dogs, and their big eyes sparkle with green brilliance in the light of my torch.
One comes close and "snuffs" at my camera before turning back down and disappearing. moving with incredible grace.
Suddenly they are all gone, leaving in the crevice three dazed divers amid clouds of mud.
Later in the week we would meet these extraordinary fish several more times.
The sky is bright, and the sea is almost calm. I am sweating as I arrange the equipment, and the excitement in the boat is almost tangible. Have we found it? Soon we will have an answer.
I tumble into the water and slide down the shotline. It is low tide, and there is little current. I need to check that there really is a reef down here. If I cannot find anything near the mooring, I will play out my line and make a circular search out from the shotline.
The computer indicates that I am near the bottom. Expectantly I play my light down into the darkness.

A big, white object appears as I land on the dark sand. I identify it as a sponge. As the light sweeps up the slope, I can just make out something else big and white on the edge of the cone. I swim somewhat nervously into the unknown.
I will never forget that swim. Large fan sponges and trees of ricegrain corals (Primnoa resedaeformis) surround me, and Norway haddock (Sebastes viviparus) hang around in the water. I feel as if I am in some weird, bewitched forest.
These quaint creatures have never before been disturbed by humans. Why should such beauty be hidden under masses of cold, dark water?
It really is the Lophelia reef (Lophelia pertusa), and not one but three. They are not big; Lophelia reefs of up to 500,000sq m have been found in Norwegian waters, usually on the Continental shelf between 200 and 400m. This one is at 55m. "Our reefs" are no bigger than a VW van, but that doesn't matter. We have found what we were looking for.
Carefully I touch the fragile corals. They are quite hard, like stone corals in warm waters, and the reef reminds me of a thick thornbush. It bears a striking resemblance to shallow tropical coral reefs.
I have hardly time to acknowledge a few shrimps and a couple of troll lobsters before I have to head back to the shotline. On my way back I pick up a small, loose piece of live coral from the bottom. Perhaps it was torn off by a fisherman's jig.
The deco-stops give me time to absorb the dive, which ranks among the most wonderful experiences of my diving career. I want to go straight back down, but there is plenty of time.