June 14, 2010

By David M. Lawrence

Last night, I was dog tired. I joined my watch late after filing my updates for the expedition Web site. The crew are tolerant of my periodically going AWOL – they recognize that I have a job to do and support me in every way they can. I came up just before sunset, was assigned a boat check, and had to deal with my claustrophobia and fear of large machinery in the engine room. I survived the experience – albeit with my usual klutziness recording data in the log book – and felt much better for having faced what is to me a stressful situation without losing my head (figuratively AND literally).

The night was to get much better.

Once I came up, I was rewarded with a turn at the helm. I love steering ships like the SSV Corwith Cramer, even though visibility forward is limited with deck cabins, masts, and sails obstructing the view. It was a fine night. I saw lots of lights – because of an obscured horizon, I thought one might be a ship. It turned out to be a star like most of the rest of the lights in the biggest sky of all.

While there wasn't much wind – we had foregone sailing some hours before – the ship generated its own breeze as it cut through the Atlantic. I loved the breeze. Others added more layers to keep warm, but I stayed in my day clothes and took full advantage of the coolness. Much of the time I was alone, but periodically Colleen Allard, our second mate and B Watch leader, came out to the quarterdeck to observe the workings of the ship.

Colleen was singing. It was hard for me to hear her because of the noise of our diesel engine, but I heard things about sailing thousands of miles at sea and wanting to return home to loved ones. I could relate. I'm not dying to get home right away, but I wish my family could have seen what I was seeing last night.

I also wish they could have heard what I was hearing last night. Colleen has a pleasant voice – certainly one most appropriate for the setting. I could have listened to her for hours, and I hope I get the chance to do so in the remaining days of the expedition.

I also had an epiphany while at the helm. I have always wanted to see bioluminescence in something other than a darkened aquarium. I kept thinking I was missing it, but finally realized that the glow in our wake wasn't a reflection of any of our lights. What I saw from the helm was amazing, but when I was relieved from helm and sent forward to bow watch, what I saw left me very nearly speechless. A fluorescent green explosion lit the ocean along the bow as it crashed through the swell. I wish I could take the images from my mind and share them with the world.

Another light show came from above. I have seen moonbeams on the water, but last night I saw a planet beam. I'm not sure what planet it was – Jupiter, I guess – but its light was strong enough to lay a tight beam across the surface of the glassy sea right toward our ship. Clouds eventually drifted in the planet's way and the beam disappeared, but that is one image that, as with the bioluminescence, I wish I could share with the world. It is one of several from this expedition that I will revisit as long as my mind stays intact.

This morning I worked a science watch. We deployed a carousel and a neuston net. Both went well. But what I noticed most were tiny – and some not-so-tiny – bits of plastic floating on the ocean surface. Not even I, with my bad eyesight, needed any visual help in seeing the pollution. For the rest of the expedition, and maybe for the rest of my life, I will try to think of ways to encourage my fellows to take better care of the oceans before we destroy the scenes I enjoyed so much last night.