Time and Motion

Almost home…
0700 EST
41° 29.558’N, 70° 40.751’ W
Winds: 8 knots
Sea Surface Temperature: 66°F

Something woke me from a deep sleep at 0500 EST. It was something we had not known for many days. It was stillness. We had been transiting through a gale for almost two days and suddenly all was calm. I walked up to the bridge and fixed upon a light slowly flashing far away through the fog. We were almost home, and the peaceful sounds of Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic” began to play in my mind.

The sea fought us for two days. Winds exceeded 40 knots. Waves pushed us back. Periodically, we made 4 knots at best—moving only 4 nautical miles closer to home for every hour that three diesel electric engines hummed below the waterline. Pizza for dinner, two Meclizine for desert, and then quick preparations for a long nap. This included filling a water bottle (you don’t know how long you’ll want to stay in bed), grabbing a good book, and then stuffing extra blankets under the side of the mattress. The latter curls the bed and keeps you off the floor. It may reduce the startling sensation of falling out of bed, but it does not reduce the sensation of falling out of the sky. Of countless such experiences, three were particularly memorable. Laying in darkness, head to the bow, feet to the stern, I would try to visualize our ship from above and the seas that were shoving it. Were we crossing the swell at an angle? That would explain the roll associated with the pitch. Was the wavelength close to the length of the ship? That would explain the regular rise and fall of Atlantis. Were we headed straight into it? That would explain ferocity. There was comfort in predictable regularity, and I nearly drifted to sleep. Then we began to fall. Faster. Head first. We crashed into the trough and the hull rang explosively. A bomb could have detonated under the deck and I wouldn’t have known the difference. According to our third mate, Kami, the wave “was taller than the house. The bow went under, and it knocked the phones out of their cradles.” Three times.

We were able to grab one last multi-core before the transit, but had to forgo two stations. Such is the nature of oceanography. The gaps in our data, and ultimately in our knowledge, are frequently driven by the temperament of our Planet. But in the end, we successfully sampled the majority of our proposed stations and all of our high priority stations. It is hard to believe that so much has happened and 26 days have passed. Does this mean it is over? Not hardly. Our immediate future involves unloading the ship, storing and properly cataloguing our samples in the libraries at WHOI, paperwork, etc… It also involves taking a moment to thank the wonderful crew, to step off the gangway, and to look back on the incredible machine we called home for one month: Atlantis. Followed by properly unwinding, of course.

A new adventure awaits on land—one in which we read aloud the messages stored in our bottles.

Many Hats

Station 18
0656 EST
37° 28.181’ N, 74° 14.403’ W
Winds:11.6 knots
Sea Surface Temperature: 71°F

Before leaving Station 17 yesterday, we completed 4 CTD casts, deployed a sediment trap array, and recovered cores from the bottom of the sea. Sunrise came as Maureen Soon of University of British Columbia, Joe Murray of WHOI, Atlantis' SSSG Alison Heater, and winch operator “Catfish” (not shown) worked together to bring the CTD safely back on deck (see photo). The sediment trap deployment (see second photo) was a bigger show, and required many more people on hand to do it safely. Scientists and crew worked together to build a 2 km long chain of glass ball floats (in protective yellow plasticmolding), wire, three sediments traps (large yellow funnels), and an anchor system. It is out there now and will remain hidden from the sun for one year. During that time, particles will quietly sink into each trap and collect into a bottle at it's base. An empty bottle will rotate into position every two weeks, thus separating 1 year’s worth of sinking particles into 24 discrete samples. Next year we will steam back to this station, place a speaker beneath the ubiquitous waves, broadcast an acoustic signal that releases the anchor and call the traps home. Hopefully.

Traps like ours are perhaps the most common means for long-term chemical analyses of sinking particles. However, particles sinking at an angle, like blowing rain, are less likely to enter the trap and can result in an underestimation of the sinking particle flux. This artifact can be constrained by a very clever system of geochemical tracers: Uranium and Thorium. Uranium-238 is a very long-lived (4.5 billion year half-life) radioactive isotope that decays to become the very short-lived “daughter” Thorium-234 (24 day half-life). While Uranium-238 is more-or-less uniformly dissolved throughout the ocean, Thorium-234 is very “sticky” and can be readily swept away by sinking particles. Therefore, we can infer particle fluxes based on variations in the concentration of Thorium-234 relative to Uranium-238 in the water column. This is one example of the variety of techniques that we are employing to understand our planet. It is also one example of what lured me into marine science—the opportunity to wear many hats.

As marine scientists, we must be chemists, biologists, and physicists. We engineer and machine our own instruments. We employ a variety of analyses, including those of the mathematical persuasion. And we better know a bowline from clove hitch. But we are only one part of the scientific endeavor on Atlantis. Look again at today’s photos. Scientists and crew don hard-hats, share their skills, and work together on the deck in spirited teamwork to get the job done.

For more hats, please visit the following links:

• Café Thorium – Ken Buesseler’s radiochemistry group at WHOI
• Atlantis crew member, Lance Wills, throws his second hat into the ring with these incredible photographs
  

Hiatus

Station 17
36° 41.372’ N, 73° 28.074’ W
02:20 EST
Winds: 37 knots, gusts to 45 knots
Sea Surface Temperature: 73°F

We are situated at the convergence of a tropical low-pressure center migrating Northward and a cold front marching Eastward. They act in concert to pitch 40 knot winds and 18 foot swells. We are rocking, cabinets are creaking, and waves intermittently slap the iron hull like cars hitting a barricade. We are holding station and our work is on hiatus. We only have a few days left to complete a rather ambitious agenda: 2 kilometers of sediment traps, multiple CTD casts, in situ pumping casts, and sediment coring.

When weather gets rough like this, the science party has three primary concerns: 1) securing samples and gear, 2) helping each other as needed, 3) and considering contingency plans that will maximize the scientific value of our limited time at sea. After that we can rest, lay down, and watch a movie while riding out the storm. We are lucky.

The crew of Atlantis is not. They do not go on hiatus when the seas are rough. Whether in the heat of the engine room or high on the bridge, they continue to keep us safe, healthy, and productive. Without them, oceanography would be purely theoretical. For all this and more, we are grateful to the crew of the R/V Atlantis. With their help, our science objectives will be met before steaming into port on Tuesday.


* For real-time marine conditions near Station 17, visit NOAA's National Buoy Data Center, Station 41001

Under Pressure

Station 15
34° 38.463’N, 71° 29.960’ W
14:25 EST
Winds: 8 knots
Sea Surface Temperature: 82°F

We arrived at Station 15 yesterday under clear skies, over blue water, and through strings of bright yellow sargassum as long as our ship. Flying fish soar through the air (occasionally onto our deck) and sea spray encrusts our gear with coarse grains of salt. The sun is shining today on the deepest station of our final transect across the continental slope. The remaining stations will take us ever closer to our homes.

Although the transit to Station 15 offered several hours reprieve from sampling, it did not relieve us from sample processing. For example, WHOI’s Paul Morris is examining the distributions of Radium and Thorium in seawater. One of four isotopes of interest, Radium-224, has a half-life of 3.66 days and will decay to an undetectable abundance within weeks of sampling. If it isn’t measured now, it won’t be measured at all. Katherine Hoering and Kristin Luttazi have been quantifying the abundance of dissolved inorganic carbon (“DIC”, think baking soda dissolved in water) around the clock, trying to keep pace with influx of newly retrieved samples. Other scientists, such Drew Snauffer from the University of British Columbia, have been preparing their samples for long-term storage by filtering and acidifying large-volumes of water (20 liters each). Long hours, intermittent sleep, and focused work are essential to the success of this very expensive endeavor.

Amid the rush to complete our tasks, we do find time to decompress. Our teams have been sharing many laughs, songs, movies, and good meals (have I mentioned how good the food is?). Morale is high, thanks largely to our chief scientist, Tim Eglinton, and the tremendously supportive crew on Atlantis. Our spirits are also indebted to the juxtaposition of our innate curiosity about the natural world and oceanographic traditions. For example, have you ever wondered what the weight of the ocean could do to a Styrofoam cup? The tiny air pockets are no match for the pressure at 4500 m depth (deeper beneath the waves than the summit of Mt. Whitney rises above sea level) and the cup is squeezed into a distorted miniature version of itself (see photos of a cup before (above) and after (below) traveling to the bottom of the sea aboard our CTD). What kinds of life can exist under such extreme pressure? How does it affect the chemical composition of the sea? How sensitive is it to change over geologic time scales? Questions like these drive our work. Camaraderie, this incredible environment, and Stryofoam cups help us endure the pressures.

Wanderers

Station 14
37° 41.713’ N, 68° 28.402’ W
04:19 EST
Winds: 19 knots
Sea Surface Temperature: 80°F

The CTD was in the water and we were in the computer lab operating the winch. Kilometers of wire unspooled on a video monitor and data streamed across our computer monitors. At night, against the backdrop of a black sea, Atlantis’ machinery appears to float in empty space. But not tonight. Something was different. Something barely perceptible on the video monitor was moving outside. Something big. I opened the door and walked onto the back deck. The ship’s frame obscured my view. I walked further and turned around. And there they were. Three giants reflected in the water.

There is nothing quite like moonlight on a calm sea. The bright light of a waning gibbous beamed silver ribbons across the waves from the horizon to our ship. It was being chased by a deceptively small but unusually bright companion. Not quite large enough to burn with the nuclear fires of sun, but presently close enough to reflect ample light, this bright “star” was actually the planet Jupiter. Together, these two giants wandered peacefully across the sky, looking over us while another giant wandered beneath us.

If we look beneath the shimmering moonlight, beneath the waves that batter our ship, we find a system of currents as wide as the Atlantic Ocean (which happens to be about as wide as the Moon). The strongest lies at the surface and is known as The Gulf Stream. This mighty current wanders along the North American margin, carrying warm water from the tropics to colder northern latitudes. It is one of the primary reasons why London’s climate is milder than the more southerly New York City. It is also easy to see why this is the case: the sea surface temperature is 80°F today. This is in stark contrast to the frigid bottom-water temperature of 35°F. Clearly, the system of currents that runs through the deep is complicated. The speed, width, depth, and locations of these currents have been observed to vary seasonally. They surely have varied on much longer timescales as well. What is certain, however, is that they carry more than water and heat. Like rivers running through the landscape, currents carry the physical, chemical, and biological fingerprints of their source waters. That is why we chose to study this site. Particle transport associated with ocean currents needs to be untangled before we can understand how our planet works. In addition to radiocarbon, we are measuring the concentrations and isotope ratios of dissolved Oxygen, noble gases, Radium, Thorium, Protactinium, Neodymium, and dissolved lignin—tracers that allow us to compare the abundance of material transported horizontally by various currents to that raining down from above.

Today we leave Line W and move south toward Cape Hatteras for our third and final transect. With a little help from the wanderers below and illumination from the wanderers above, we will continue to read the message bottles of Earth.

Message in a bottle

Station 12 (i.e., "W")

04:15 EST

39° 3.409' N, 69° 22.632' W

winds: 4 knots

seas: calm

Ship time moves quickly. We finished our transect along the Nova Scotia margin, steamed through Igor’s wake (see picture at left), and have completed half of our stations on our present transect. We are currently on Station “W”, positioned at the intersection of the 3000 m isobath and a straight line (“Line W”) connecting Woods Hole to Bermuda. This will be our highest priority station because it has been continually observed since 2004 and provides a nice record of temporal variability in the NW Atlantic margin. And that is why we are here. To paraphrase the Cruise Planning Synopsis, our goal is to better understand the movement of organic particles (i.e., particles that are mostly carbon, like finely ground dirt or the soft tissues of our bodies) in the Northwest Atlantic margin. The implications of this work are surprisingly far reaching. It should improve our understanding of sedimentation processes, the formation of energy-rich deposits, the interpretation of sediment cores, the origins of organic material found just off of our coast, and the global carbon cycle in general just to name a few. How can we trace so many pathways? Consider the following.

Imagine you walk to the shore for the first time and look out to the sea. It is only natural to start asking big questions with small words. “Where did this water come from?” Not so very long ago people tried to figure this out by throwing corked bottles into the ocean. A letter inside would inform lucky beachcombers on distant shores of the bottles’ origins, with instructions for returning them. In this way, the bottles’ paths could be traced and currents could be mapped. Similar work is still carried out today. Check out Curtis Ebbesmeyer’s book, “Flotsametrics and the Floating World,” to learn how yellow rubber ducks helped map the Pacific. More sophisticated means of tracing the ocean can be found in NOAA’s incredible ARGO array of drifters (Coincidentally, one of our cruise participants, Larry George of WHOI, builds ARGO floats and will be repairing a spray glider recovered during our last transect).

But how, exactly, can we infer the history of organic particles sinking through the ocean? Fortunately, nature has been sending-off the particles with tiny corked bottles of their own: the atoms, isotopes, and molecules of which they are composed. By quantifying these constituents, we are able to constrain their histories. For example, my project will use radiocarbon (¹⁴C) measurements to trace the history of organic molecules dissolved in seawater (collectively called dissolved organic matter, or DOM). Since radiocarbon is an isotope of carbon that falls apart at a predictable rate (5,730 year half-life), we can infer that radiocarbon-rich molecules are fairly new while radiocarbon-depleted molecules are likely older. In this way, it has been shown that organic molecules dissolved in the deep ocean are 4,000 to 6,000 years old on average! In addition to tracing time, radiocarbon can be used to trace source material. If, for example, a particle sinks noticeably faster than its radiocarbon content would suggest, we might infer that older organic material was incorporated along the way. With a little more evidence, we might even be able to figure out where that material came from, how it got there, and more importantly, what it means in a broader context.

Check out the following resources for more information:

• WHOI’s National Ocean Sciences Accelerator Mass Spectrometer (NOSAMS) Facility

• links from the Radiocarbon journal homepage

• Willard Libby’s classic book, “Radiocabon Dating”

• Edgar Allen Poe’s short story, “MS. in a Bottle”

• ask me a question…

An uninvited guest

Station 8
42° 23.995' N, 59° 19.113' W
12:30h
Winds: 11 knots

Our final CTD for Station 8 is now on deck and we are ready to move on. Rather than moving further out into the Atlantic, we are going west. Where, exactly, is yet to be determined.

Like all research cruises, we came here with a detailed sample plan. It included estimates of where we would be, when we would be there, and how long each event would last before moving on to the next station. In our case, that adds up to 26 stations in 26 days under the assumption of 100% successful deployments and no weather delays. While we have had tremendous success so far, we are also aware of an uninvited guest in the Atlantic. His name is Igor, and he is on the move.

Hurricanes are one of our atmosphere's biggest shows. This one is several hundred miles across, but concentrated over a much smaller area. That means we can avoid the full fury, but we cannot avoid the waves. We have already entered into 10 foot swell and it is expected to grow. Fortunately, the dominant wave period (the time required for a full wave to pass by) today is long, approximately 14 seconds, and produces a fairly gentle roll. But it won’t last. And if it gets too rough, we might not be able to work on deck. We will have a meeting at 1300h today to determine, among other things, whether to steam to our next intended station or to circumvent Igor's influence and work through our remaining stations in reverse order. Regardless of our choice, we need to lash down our gear before moving forward.

For more information on the conditions at sea, check out data from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) buoy array. For more information on Hurricane Igor, check out Wunderground.

Capricious Seas and Symphonies

Station 8

42° 24.257’ N, 59° 17.522’ W

13:35 EST

Winds: 6.5 knots

Last night we were rolling and pitching, but yesterday morning was sublime. We hoisted the CTD back on deck at approximately 4 am and the seas began to rest. The ship was holding station and engines were quiet. In the blackness of night over the blackness of the sea, it was hard to tell if we were floating on water or floating in space. I was certain, however, that the sunrise would be a peaceful reward to a long night’s work.

And then it happened. Not suddenly, but subtly. Iridescent cirrus clouds began to shine. They failed to light the night, but rather snaked across like pale Northern Lights. We stood on the aft deck and watched in silence as the show evolved. To paraphrase my friend, Drew, it was a symphony. Strings and woodwinds brushed a heavenly canvas in smooth violet strokes. Occasionally, one instrument would outshine the others then fade into the palette. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the kindle began to blaze. We moved to the bow and enjoyed the music that started our day.

But the seas keep us guessing. Our ship’s dynamic positioning (DP) system keeps us on station, while our Planet’s systems keeps flowing by. The Atmosphere can change on a much shorter time scale than our present occupation of Station 8. Which leads us to wonder, what movement will the symphony play next?

Conductivity, Pressure, and Depth

Station 6

42° 53.684’ N, 59° 48.143’ W

21:23 EST

Winds: 21 knots

The CTD is back on Atlantis. What is it, anyway? While the letters “CTD” are shorthand for Conductivity, Temperature, Depth, “the CTD” commonly refers to a collection of instruments and water bottles (Niskin bottles) bundled onto a steel frame (see photo: WHOI's Joe Murray collects water from the CTD for Radium analyses, 14 Sep 2010). Collectively, this is the primary tool that I use to collect water samples anywhere between the surface and the bottom of the sea. I’m often asked if I dive to collect my samples. While I would love to experience the deep sea untethered, the CTD is a much easier way to grab a few liters of water. Here’s one reason why. Liquid water is a very dense fluid (1 gram per milliliter). Think of a gallon of milk. That’s about 8 pounds. Now think of a stack of 10,000 milk jugs resting one on top of the other on top of your head. That’s about how much pressure we would feel at the depths we are sampling. I would rather use the CTD.

Basically, we lower the CTD over the side of the ship while monitoring the instruments on a computer. This gives us a continuous readout of the water temperature, pressure, salinity (conductivity), oxygen concentrations, etc… throughout the water column beneath us. Among other things, this information reveals where life is most abundant, where particles are raining down, and where the water comes from. After the CTD reaches its maximum depth, we hoist it back to the surface, stopping frequently to fill our Niskin bottles with water samples. We can do all of this from the comforts of our ship.

Recovering the CTD takes a good team and clear communication. It is heavy. And it happens to swing from a crane above the perpetually wet deck of a rolling ship. So you gear up with steel-toe boots, a life vest, and a hard hat. You look over the rail at the wire that disappears beneath the waves. The winch operator keeps winding it in. Faintly, it comes into view—a pale blue leviathan rising from the deep. It breaches the surface with a roar and sprays foam through the waves. Our job at that moment is to grab the swinging mass with 20-foot long hooks, safely assist it over the rail and onto the deck, and then bolt it down for safety.

All of this takes time, of course. Our first CTD cast at Station-6 lasted 5 hours from deployment to recovery. It will be weeks before we can begin analyzing these water samples back at WHOI. It will be months before we will see results. In the meantime, we have 4 more CTD casts and 1 sediment core to complete before moving to deeper waters…

Light winds

Station 6, 20:10 EST

42° 53.684’ N, 59° 48.143’ W

Winds: 33 knots

The CTD on is on its way back to the surface. Two hours ago it was only 10 meters above the seafloor, 2984 meters down into the cold, calm darkness, gently hanging from a 1/4 inch cable. The journey started 3 hours ago when the seas were calm and the winds were light. But three hours can change everything. The winds have picked up to 33 knots, white caps cover the sea like stars cover the night, and Atlantis is starting to roll. And as I type, the sky opened up. It is pouring. But it could be worse... Time to suit up and get this thing back on deck.

Safety First

42°14.385’N, 64°59.658’ W

We arrived at our test station tonight. This is where we work out the kinks in our procedures and equipment before continuing on. We have also sampled some sediment cores. It’s kind of like removing a straw full of milkshake from a cup, except that we dropped the straw 1 kilometer down to the bottom of the ocean, the Atlantic ocean is the cup, and the milkshake is marine sediment. Generally, the older sediment is at the bottom of the straw and the most recently deposited sediment is at the top. Therefore, these cores allow us to read a record of Earth’s history when we analyze their chemical composition from top to bottom. This is just one facet of our work on understanding the carbon cycle.

How do we know what to do each day? It’s planned well in advance, but the plan is constantly revised. For example, we ran into some choppy seas overnight that slowed our progress to this station. We also had some troubleshooting that took longer than expected, so one of our tests will be delayed. You get the idea. That’s why each day starts with an email telling us what to expect. Here is what I read this morning:

“Plan of the Day - September 11, 2010

Hi All,

Here's the schedule for today's activities.

10:30 Fire and safety drill - rear of Main Lab.

13:00 Science party meeting - Library

~18:30 Arrive @ test station (1000 m water depth).

Tentative order of activities:

1. In situ pump test cast

2. Multicorer test.

3. Hybrid CTD rosette/pump test cast”

The first event today was a safety drill. We learned about the various alarms, where to muster if there is a problem, and how to get into a “gumby suit” (see photo) among other things. It’s all part of getting our sea legs. But tomorrow we steam to our first official station. Ready or not, the science begins!

Moving On

40°28.04’ N, 68°50.19’ W

We are now officially cruising into the North Atlantic! The first day is always exciting. Bustling to load and lash our gear in the labs. Last minute purchases from the stockroom. Calling loved ones before losing cell service for one month. But then the horn blows and the ship slowly pulls away from land. You glide through the calm blue waters of the harbor, stand on the aft deck and see your town from a new perspective for the first time. The tiny buildings and green trees fade below the horizon. You now have a vast blue world to explore.

The RV Atlantis is an incredible place to work. The resources are unbelievable (I still can’t believe that I’m blogging from here) and it is full of treasures. Take Alvin for instance. This little sub is perhaps the most famous oceanographic diver, and it is right here with us. The crew is even more impressive. This is their home and they went out of their way to welcome us aboard. Not to mention the food they served us. You may think we subside on canned beans and sour kraut, but our cook prepared some delicious sesame-crusted tuna steaks for dinner. Did I mention this place is incredible?

The sea is calm, the ship is stable, our gear is stowed, and all is well. It’s time to get some rest before the big day tomorrow. We will be gearing up for some tests at approximately 1730 h (Eastern time) before moving on.

Why go to sea?

September 10th. That is the day we leave port and begin living a "National Geographic Moment" for almost 1 month. Wrestling a 500 pound lead weight swinging from the crane as the ship rolls and pitches. Stinging your fingertips with freezing-cold water pulled from 4 kilometers below the surface. Working on the deck with 10 people who were strangers only days ago, but now who are colleagues that you trust with your life. You are part of a team. You focus. You take the A-frame in. Stop. Shackle the instruments to the line. Stop. A-frame out. Watch the Boatswain. His arm is up. His finger is tracing circles in the sky. Stay focused. His fist clenches above his hardhat. STOP. And you do stop. And you continue to focus. But all the while you notice the sun is rising behind him. It hasn't breached the horizon yet, but is illuminating clouds above that didn't exist moments ago. When you started this morning the sky was black and the your entire world stretched from the illuminated deck below your feet to the blackness just beyond. The sound of water splashing against the ship was your only assurance an ocean was out there, but there was nothing else for hundreds of miles. You wonder what your teammates might be seeing so you turn around. The sky is subtly purple, the sea is metallic, and a single storm petrel is cruising between the waves. Focus. You turn around and the sun has already breached the horizon. A red hot coal lighting the sky, warming your face, and casting long shadows that get shorter by the minute. These are the days that keep drawing us back to the sea.

We will be heading into the North Atlantic on September 10th for an opportunity to explore our Earth. We aim to take samples of seawater, its chemical constituents, and sediments from a series of "stations" between Nova Scotia and the Mid-Atlantic Bight. What could we possibly learn there that we haven't already? After all, ships have been traversing these waters for nearly 500 years. And it is just saltwater. Right? All fair questions. It turns out that the vast majority of what we understand about Earth was learned within roughly the last 50 years. And we still have a long way to go. Looking down on our planet from above, it is clear that the vast majority of its surface is ocean blue. A sapphire gem reflecting the light of our sun. Take a look for yourself at what I consider to be one of the most beautiful of human endeavors--a NASA video of our Earth spinning through 1 full day (NASA/Goddard Space Flight Center Scientific Visualization Studio).

We have accumulated a sufficient body of knowledge to create the cameras, communications, and rockets necessary to launch a satellite into space, turn it around, record photons bouncing off Earth's surface, and finally send the images back to us. More importantly, we had the vision to do so. By any measure, humans are a small component of the universe. But we are the only component of the universe (so far as we know) that actively tries to understand itself. This video is proof. It is also proof that the ocean is much larger than you or I. It would take a tremendous amount of time and resources to explore all of it. And even if we did, we cannot forget the most fundamental variable of all: time. What we observe today will not necessarily manifest tomorrow. Furthermore, new observations beget new questions, and new questions beget new perspectives on what needs further study.

These factors--the enormity of the oceans, their variability over time, and novel insights--are what makes oceanography interesting, but also challenging. The working environment doesn't help either. One of the first orders of business on a research cruise is lashing down all of our equipment. Nothing of value or heft should be sitting untethered before leaving port or else it will fall. The ocean will see to it. It is relentless, constantly working the ship, wave after wave, trying to bring it down. The high humidity and vibrations from the engines can change the responsiveness and sensitivity of our instruments. And those are the good days. On bad days when wind are blowing at 30 knots, when your ship is listing 30°, when the water is breaching the rail, you simply do not work for safety's sake. And if anything breaks on the high seas, it will not work again unless you are very clever (either at repairing instruments with improvised tools, or at thinking ahead and packing spare parts). The oceans are unexplored because they challenge us.

So, why go to sea? We know it can be a thrilling adventure. We also know that the ocean is largely unexplored, both physically and intellectually. But I would also argue that we go to sea because of urgency. Science can be an incredibly slow process, and surely we've all contemplated this at one time or another in own lives. "If only science could find cures for diseases before our loved ones succumb to them." Or perhaps you have considered this generality: "If I knew then what I know now, I might have done things differently." We are collectively, often unknowingly, driving the largest experiments that this planet has ever seen. We are redistributing elements and energy throughout the Earth at an industrial pace. We are growing in number exponentially, and our demands for food and other resources are following suit. We know that the Earth must respond in some way to these changes, but we haven't even constrained how it works in our absence. We go to sea and hopefully become more informed and responsible stewards of our home.

We go to sea September 10th.

The Adventures Begin...

Sea spray exploded over the bow as we crashed into the canyon. The ship shuttered--280 feet of vibrating iron beams and rivets--and our stomachs were shackled to it. She rolled to port then began to rise. Heavily. She rolled hard back to starboard before surging through the crest of the 50 foot monster and free-falling into another canyon. Smoke fumed from the stacks, foam washed across the deck, chairs crashed down the hall, the smell of diesel filled the air, and every door was dogged shut. We were in a storm and it wasn't going to stop. Not for 3 more days. We were crossing The Drake Passage.

Despite our technology--GPS navigation systems, satellite communications, powerful diesel engines, and a profound history of engineering achievement--the sea reminded us of what we really were on that day in November, 1998: planetary explorers. We were crossing an ocean ultimately created over billions of years from immense nuclear reactions, exploding stars, massive colliding rocks, volcanic outgassing, and planetary evolution. This was the Southern Ocean, and we were at it's mercy. As scientists, we were there to discover its secrets.

This blog is for students of Earth and planetary science, whether amateur or formally enrolled, who are interested in learning more about science and scientists. What is a "scientist" anyway? We are often categorized based on our areas of expertise: chemist, biologist, physicist, geologist, oceanographer, etc... But that is a little misleading. Perhaps we are best described by what we have in common. Namely, scientists share an innate, insatiable curiosity about the world around us and the desire to find answers to our questions. Sound boring? Consider a few more examples of what some scientists do.

• trek across the glaciers of Greenland, Antarctica, and the Himalaya to discover changes in our planet's climate that were recorded in the ice itself;
• live for weeks to months on an icebreaker studying the frozen seas, their currents, chemical compositions, and the organisms that somehow survive there;
• dive in submarines to explore undersea volcanoes, vast fields of methane hydrates, and the incredible life surrounding hydrothermal vents;
• fly into the heaving winds of hurricanes to understand how they work and, among other things, improve our ability to predict them (this is a particularly germane example of scientific adventure given Hurricane Earl's expected arrival in Cape Cod tonight);
• orbit the Earth at 17,000 mph to perform experiments in an environment that is more common in the universe than Earth's surface, but much more difficult to simulate;
• Walk on the Moon! (Dr. Harrison Schmidt, geologist, Apollo 17, December 1972)

These particular adventures, their associated thrills, and inherent risks, were born of the desire to explore frontiers of knowledge, clarify what is unknown, and ultimately discover and understand something that no one else ever has. Science is the work of a detective; it is not a collection of facts.

My intention is to provide insights into the life of a chemical oceanographer working aboard a research vessel on an upcoming cruise. I may not be able to provide regular updates because the work is demanding and satellite connections are not infallible. However, I do hope to provide sufficient detail to satisfy your curiosity.

We will depart Woods Hole aboard the Research Vessel Atlantis on September 10th and return to port on October 5th. We are heading into the North Atlantic to study carbon dynamics along the North American margin. More on that later...

In the meantime, I'm sitting in my room in Falmouth, MA, tuning-in to NOAA's weather report on my two-way radio, watching the wundermap radar for Cape Cod, and listening to our Planet outside. Hurricane Earl has arrived.

The adventure begins...