Author: Emily Cheung

 

When I wake up we are dockside in St. Georges. The wind, too, has shifted. Typically, there is a steady breeze coming in from the Northwest, or no breeze at all. But today, at sunrise, I face East and feel wind on my cheeks. The sky is pink and warm.

Even though the cruise is complete, there is still unloading of all the scientists and their equipment, which can take a couple of days if everything goes smoothly. After demobilization, there is usually some time to fix any issues that arose while at sea, maybe get a day or two off, and then prepare for the next batch of scientists.

Dockside in St. Georges

This week, Jillon returns! She is another technician aboard the Explorer, and once she is back I will no longer be the only female on the crew. Women at sea are a rare breed, tasked with forging their own space in a workplace that continues to be largely dominated by men. Life at sea is not glamorous or forgiving, and includes living on a boat with a bunch of boys. For these reasons, I have found that the women who have chosen this life are resilient, independent, and pretty incredible.

Jillon arrives and lives up to the expectation. She is all smiles with a bright and sunny disposition, a surfboard strapped to the side of her moped, a sticker-covered water bottle in hand, and the symbol for ground tattooed on her forearm. I spend most of the week with her.

We begin work with the waterwall. The underway seawater system is designed to pull seawater in at the bow of the ship, where temperature and salinity of the surface water are measured. Through a series of pipes, the seawater winds its way along the port side of the ship, past the steward’s stateroom (which it occasionally floods), through hallways, and inside the forward lab. The foremost wall in the lab is covered in sensors that measure the rate of flow, fluorescence, and dissolved carbon dioxide. A network of tubes connects the sensors and directs the water through each and subsequently into the sink and overboard. This allows for water sampling to be done at any time from the convenience of the lab and for constant monitoring of the ocean’s surface water characteristics throughout the cruise.

During the Sentry cruise, one of the fluorometers began to leak seawater, so we discreetly shut down the waterwall and removed the sensor. The previous group of scientists weren’t interested in the underway data, but the upcoming BATS team definitely is. Jillon and I remount the sensor, more securely this time, and tinker with the valves and water pressure until the flow meters spin.

We make other repairs and handle issues as they pop up. Jillon also teaches me how to terminate cables and solder electronics, which I am very excited about. By the end of the week it feels as if we have accomplished a lot. Jillon is driven to be productive, and in just a short time, I have learned a great deal from her.

Jillon on the back deck

In our free time we drive to the ocean side of the island and I swim while she surfs. The sand on the south shore is fine and speckled with rose-colored bits that have made Bermuda famous for its pink beaches. The surf isn’t spectacular, the waves are short and steep and crash all at once, but that doesn’t stop anyone from trying. Anyways, it is healthy to just escape the boat every once in a while.

I have completely lost track of time, and I suddenly realize I am just a couple weeks away from my departure. All of me wishes I could stay longer. This upcoming cruise will be my last, at least during this internship. Now, there is talk that the next cruise may be postponed; a tropical storm is inbound from the east. Jillon’s face brightens at the thought of the surf.

3: Across the horizon

On a clear day, we can see for miles in all directions. The swell is low, but the ship still rolls back and forth as we cruise on.

Our course is set for Hydrostation S; only a few dozen miles south of Bermuda. This site has been visited and sampled every other week since 1954, making it the longest-standing oceanographic time series in existence. The sampling at Hydrostation compliments the Bermuda Atlantic Time Series (BATS), another sampling station, even further south, which began in the eighties. Hundreds of cruises have been completed to support this endeavor. In turn, hundreds of research articles have been produced that provide fundamental understanding of issues such as oceanographic processes and global climate change.

 

Sunset at sea.

The BATS team is our primary client. The scientists that run this operation are based at the Bermuda Institute of Ocean Sciences (BIOS), the same research facility that the Explorer docks at. Some members of the lab have been part of the BATS team for decades and are very familiar with the ship and crew. Time aboard Explorer is incredibly pricey. Depending on the demands of the cruise, costs can run as high as a thousand USD per hour. Every second aboard the vessel is incredibly precious, and the BATS scientists know very well how to make the most of every moment.

As soon as we reach Hydrostation, we prepare for our first cast. To monitor the physical and chemical properties of the water column, we use an instrument that measures Conductivity Temperature Depth (CTD for short). Much of the research and operations during the BATS cruises revolve around its successful deployment and recovery.

The name, and instrument itself for that matter, is clunky and large. Looking down from above, the CTD is a rosette of collection tubes around a metal skeleton. We prep the bottles by cocking the ends into a locking mechanism, leaving each tube in an open position. To do this, I hoist myself up on the frame just to reach the latches. With closer inspection, the instrument is decorated with sensors galore, which monitor essential elements and nutrients such as oxygen and light. We remove caps and syringes from the sensors, and Nick radios the bridge to request permission to deploy.

Using a coordination of machine and manpower, the CTD is lifted from the deck of the ship and suspended over the water. It pauses at the surface, then dives down into blackness and out of sight. Now a thin metal cable is the only connection between us. As it sinks, data is collected in real time. This information is communicated upwards through hundreds of (and up to six thousand) meters of water to the ship. From the comfort of the tech lab, I can see that a thousand meters below me, the temperature is 5? C. Nearly ice cold.

 

Deploying the CTD.

Nick tells me that prior to modern GPS, a constellation of Long Range Navigation (LORAN) outposts were used to find Hydrostation. In place of a CTD, scientists would cast a spruced-up segment of glass to the bottom of the sea floor. As the glass sunk and conditions changed, a needle would scratch its surface. From this piece of information, scientists could interpret depth and temperature and create an informative profile of Hydrostation. I find that incredible.

Operations on deck continue throughout the day and night. We split into shifts to cover all hours. The weather is calm and I have my fingers crossed that it remains this way for the rest of the cruise.

Until next week,

Emily

 

 

Minnie & me.

From my window seat I watch the tops of clouds pass. Underneath them: the infinite ocean. I feel my stomach lift as we begin our descent. We land in Bermuda at sunset. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Landing in Bermuda. 

Bermuda is not a single landmass, but an archipelago of nearly two hundred islands. They rest together upon a massive platform in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, parallel to North Carolina. North of the islands, the platform is shallow: perfect for reefs. To the south, the platform drops off immediately to hundreds of meters: perfect for oceanographic research. 

It is dark when I arrive at the dock, but the crew is still up and about. I am immediately welcomed aboard, given a tour and settled in. My stateroom is adorable. It is outfit with a bunk bed, closet, and sink. A sign on the porthole reads: Do not open. Tempting. 

The Explorer is spacious, well kept, and among research vessels, she is elegant. Of course, she has her fair share of quirks: stairs that are a few inches too large and a companionway with a downhill slope. She’s got character, and a crew to match. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Explorer dockside.

The next cruise is scheduled to depart in five days’ time, and there is a lot to prepare. In the morning, I meet Nick, my mentor, up in the tech lab. We hit the ground running. The tech lab is the brain of the ship; it houses a stack of computers that pull data in from a variety of sensors and then send information back out to be processed and viewed throughout the vessel. All of this communication is achieved through an incredible network of cables that weave in and out, through walls and ceilings, and converge in the hub of the tech lab. Over the course of the past few years, cables have been added, rerouted, but rarely removed. 

Behind the rack of computers and switchboards, I find Nick hidden in a waterfall of cables, weeding out all of the unnecessary ones and laying them into a nest about his feet. He says he is giving the lab a haircut. I do my best to keep up as he darts around and spouts off a litany of acronyms and technical jargon. By the end of the day, the rack is condensed and organized, and I have a much greater sense of how the data collection process operates. 

Over the next couple of days, I start to gain my bearings. I know every crew member by name, I can find my way around the ship, and whenever I get the chance, I take time to explore the island. Things around me are starting to take shape. 

All of a sudden, Sunday is here; a week has passed! Dock lines are cast and we are off. Our movement churns up sand and clouds the turquoise water. We push on through the channel, out to open ocean! Conditions are perfect today. The ocean is calm and clear and Explorer moves steadily onwards. Even though it has only been a few weeks since I last sailed, it feels good to be at sea again. My first shift begins and will continue well into the night. The sun sets and the last glimpse of the island shrinks into darkness. 

“Skylark¹,” Jessie calls at me through the wind. I lift my head and watch my crewmate as she shimmies toward the shrouds and climbs down the mast. I step aside and allow her to pass, but for a moment she pauses beside me and we look around in silence. There is no sight greater than the ocean from above. The water is clear clear clear and I bet we can see a hundred feet beneath the surface before the blue and green turns to complete darkness. The bow of our ship splits the waves and brings forth white ocean spray like torrents of sea glass. Evening renders the clouds pink² and crisp against the setting sun, and there are tears in my eyes from the wind whipping my face and hair about. The air is clean and dry and warm. Everything is perfect. I turn and Jessie is gone, already on deck, another sixty feet down.  

Emily at the helm.

For the past few months, this elegant brigantine has been my home. Our homeport is San Pedro, in the heart of the Port of Los Angeles. The surrounding cranes, cargo ships and industry are a stark contrast to the wooden hull, canvas sails, and thick fibrous lines of our tall ship. Every morning, we depart our berth appearing to be caught in the wrong century. With calloused hands we spend the day hauling lines; lifting sails we hope will fill with wind. By day we coil lines, furl sails, mend tears, scrub the deck, and at night we bunk up side by side in our humble crew quarters. It is a unique lifestyle: definitely out-of-date, but probably kept alive for its uncanny ability to build character in just about anyone and the unparalleled beauty of it all.

Crew leaders after their completing our first voyage. 

I am leaving this boat and heading East³ where I will spend six weeks aboard the R/V Atlantic Explorer as a MATE Intern. It has been three years since I was aboard a Research Vessel; in college, I signed up as a volunteer scientist through NOAA to survey Atlantic Scallops on the R/V Hugh R. Sharp. In fact, it was on that cruise that I first heard of the MATE program and internship, and first became interested in the role of a Marine Technician.

My formal education is in Biology, although through my college, I was fortunate to participate in opportunities across the globe that also touched upon Geology, Oceanography, Art, Religion, and Anthropology. My interests span across many subjects, and one of the reasons that I find a career as a Marine Technician so appealing is because it combines my love for travel and life at sea with my interest in high quality, peer-reviewed, ground-breaking marine and oceanographic research. Above all else, I thrive when I am in an environment that challenges me to learn and problem solve. As a Marine Technician in training, I hope to do just that.

My day of departure creeps closer and closer. My bags are (almost) packed, my work visa is secured, and my passport has been located. Soon, I will be on a plane headed towards new adventures, new challenges, and new seas!

Fair winds,

Emily

 

 

¹ A term used by mariners to describe the act of playing around while working up in the rigging of a ship.

² Red skies at night usually indicate moisture to the West. Unfortunately, in Los Angeles vibrant sunsets are more often than not, attributed to smog and pollution instead of weather.

³ Travelling 4,879 miles by car and plane from San Pedro, California to St. Georges, Bermuda.