A day in the life of Cassandra

February 16 2011

We’re late into day four of a NOAA Antarctic research cruise off the South Shetland Islands and eagerly getting ready to sample. For the first time, we are trying out a Tucker Trawl, which can deploy multiple nets at once allowing us to sample krill and fish simultaneously. The boat is a buzz with anticipation while I am feeling contemplative about “science” and our mechanical methods for trying to collect information about the world around us.  

I admit that my brainwaves may be partially inspired by a book I am re-reading tonight called A Language Older Than Words. The author Derek Jensen suggests that those of us living in the western world have deafened ourselves from hearing the true language of the earth and all its living inhabitants. 

He is, of course, not the first to suggest such a thing and it’s something most of us have experienced at one time or another (perhaps with our pets, our in my case, while running around the woods as a child).  But tonight, I wonder what would the fish and krill of the Southern Ocean have to tell us if we were to shut off our gear and listen? 

What an effort we as scientists go through to try and collect information! We spend millions of dollars and hundreds of thousands of gallons of fuel to tow nets through the water 24 hours a day.  All of this to gain an idea of how big the krill population is and how much it’s changing from one year to the next. But krill are the keystone species of the Southern Ocean – their massive swarms provide sustenance for Antarctic fish, seabirds, penguins, seals, and whales. Understanding krill allows us to interpret the health of the Southern Ocean and science is the tool we know how to use.  But maybe in the next haul, I’ll bend down and listen really hard.  And maybe, just maybe I’ll hear something more than the scurry of little krill legs treading water. 

We are on a new boat this year called the Moana Wave and it’s 20 percent the size of our old one.  As the name implies it’s an old University of Hawaii boat and looked teensy tiny next to all the other Antarctic boats. Needless to say I left port rather apprehensive.  But our first day out was smooth sailing through the Chilean Straights of Magellan.  Then a day later, before we fully cleared the continent, things got really rough. I made the mistake of thinking I could bounce out of bed and hit our tiny awkward gym on the boat (what can I say, I was trying to start the cruise off right).  I paid for it.  I was sick as a dog the rest of the day. 

I’ve only been seasick two other times in my life and I had forgotten how absolutely horrible it is.  I pity those who get seasick on a regular basis! I wanted only to be in my bed lying horizontal. Every simple task, like brushing my hair or tying my boots was an absolute exhaustion that sent me right back to bed. Food smelled terrible and looked even worse. I couldn’t even keep my saltines and water down.  I was a bit terrified that I had lost my sea legs or that this boat just wasn’t going to cut it for me.  But by nightfall (and 16 hours of sleep later) things had calmed down. I caught a gorgeous sunset and worked through the night. We continued across the Drake Passage with delightfully calm seas and equilibrium had stayed with me since. 

I now sit and write from my bunk, which has an amazing porthole view off the starboard side of the boat.  An almost full moon casts its glow across deep black waters.  Every few minutes I catch a flash of white – a wandering albatross (with a 12 foot wingspan!) or little cape petrels soaring in the moonlight.  Two days ago (in between my 16 hours of sleep), I lay here and watched as hundreds of birds dipped, rose and soared outside my window, including black browed albatross and giant petrels.  They were joined by an occasional small pod of dolphins riding the waves just outside my window. It’s wonderful to be back out here.