I’m sitting on the ATLANTIS in the middle of the Atlantic, with the unique and amazing ALVIN. Yet it is neither of these that mesmerize me. I stare out into the seemingly infinite sea and ponder on my humanity, on my fragility of being a human so utterly out of her element. In the middle of the ocean the creaking of the ship is a constant and begins to fade quietly into the back ground. The constant movement becomes comforting. The occasional thud of the hull from things unknown no longer jostles me. The only thing that terrifies me is the thought of falling overboard. Not so much the fall itself, but the fact that on a transit there is less activity, people go about their daily routines quietly, often times not seeing one another for a day or two. So if I fell overboard I surely would not perish from the fall itself, but from the exposure to the elements. This long dwindling of hope as you see the boat drive on at 12 knots with you floating in the water, hoping only that someone, anyone, saw it happen, and knowing that probably no one did, terrifies me. So as the sun sets, and darkness begins to climb I head inside, for this is a place where the darkness owns all, and no screams would be heard, no splash would be large enough, no matter how fast you could swim it would not be enough. You would slowly meet the sun in the morning on your last day as you faced the elements, and your creator, on the planets terms. We are fragile humans, playing in the realm of giants, out here in the middle of the ocean. I am usually a night person. Anytime I am back on land, and generally during times when science is aboard I love the night. Some people are night people. My grandmother was a night person, and on an evolutionary sense it is only logical to have a certain percentage of people whose circadian rhythms awaken them when the rest of the clan is sleeping. Someone needs to keep a watch out; someone needs to be around to make sure everyone who is asleep can do so safely. I have been that person my whole life; always calling night time my home, always being comforted by the darkness and the inability to see too far. Maybe it has something to do with my poor vision. I am a rather myopic individual, only able to see unaided approximately four inches in front of my face before things become a jumble of color patches and vagary. At night I don’t need to see far. At night things seem at peace, but not out here. The darkness still holds a special place, but it is the ever churning seas whose moans and wet splashes against the hull over ride this peace I normally feel. It is during this time that I can imagine Lovecraftian deities raising up from the bottomless abyss and bringing me to meet their creator.

    Some would ask, why subject yourself to abject fear in the face of nothingness. Because I am human, and the greatest part, to me of being human is the curiosity of the mind. To let it wonder into the dark places that unsettle you in the hopes of bringing back knowledge that can change our fundamental understanding of how this vast ocean works. I can’t speak for anyone but myself, but the thirst for knowledge has driven me most of my life, that thirst to know the unknowable, to ascertain the uncertain. This has driven me to learn how to repair cars, to leave the collision repair industry and pursue an academic degree, to work in a lab, and now to live on boats for six months. Learning is not found only in text books, learning is not found only in the classroom, often times the best learning comes from doing. These are lessons no book can ever teach properly, no teacher can ever test you on, no standardized entrance exam can ever hope to quantify. These are the lessons the ocean chooses to teach you, and the lessons people you work with day in and day out choose to share with you. No one can take those from you; no one can live them but you. So as I stare out into the uncomfortable blackness that stretches before me on this over cast night, I can’t help but wonder on what lessons tomorrow will bring; what simple truths will the new day share with me. Seek out your own path, and maybe one day you too will be staring into the blackness of an overcast night in the middle of the Atlantic wondering, contemplating the mysteries of life.