June 20, 2010
By David M. Lawrence
Sometime yesterday afternoon, probably about the time we had swim call after field day, the closest point of land was the Canadian island of Newfoundland, more than 900 miles to the north.
Most of the time when we look out on the horizon, we see nothing but water and sky. Occasionally we see another ship, but most of the time we are locked in watery isolation far from any other humans. At times (as SEA volunteer Jacob Keaton has pointed out in another reflections piece), the closest humans are in the International Space Station 200 miles above the surface of the Earth.
To add to the sense of isolation, we see few other signs of life other than what we haul up in our neuston tows. I have not seen the greater shearwaters in several days. There are no whales, no porpoises, no sea turtles. Most of the time there are no fish – no sharks, no ocean sunfish, no swordfish or tuna – nothing but the occasional flying fish to remind us that we aren't the only relatively large animals in the neighborhood.
In many ways this is understandable. The waters of many subtropical seas, such as the Sargasso Sea, are short on nutrients, which means they are short on life. It is like a desert – such as the Chiricahua and Sonoran deserts – in which lack of water places severe limits on the life that can inhabit them.
When I look out on the horizon, it is hard to comprehend the vastness of the ocean before me. I appreciate the distance separating us from Virginia (where I and my shipmate Leslie Peate live), from Bermuda, from Newfoundland, and from the Azores to the east. Distance is in many ways a number, easily compared with others to assess which number is bigger and which one is stronger.
But understanding the science involved or the mathematics involved is not the same as understanding the significance involved. How many mariners have experienced the isolation and remained unchanged by it? I doubt many. Their world shrinks to their fellow crewmates and the ship. The shore, at least for the time they are at sea, does not exist, save for some fantasy of a visit home or a port stop in a far-off land.
Mariners have had to be self-reliant and at the very least competent to handle any situation that the ocean or the technology they depend on throws at them. Many succeed. Some fail, and for those that fail, I cannot imagine a more lonely end.
Nevertheless, the isolation of the sea is part of what attracts some of us to it. For much of my life I imagined what it would be like to look out and see nothing but a vast watery expanse. But my imaginings could not prepare me for what it is really like. And nothing in my fantasy world could ever prepare me for the sense of awe and wonder that greets me every time I walk out on the deck and am greeted by the sight of Neptune's realm.
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And finally, a belated Father's Day message:
Dad -- There are a few older fellows on board this fine vessel who'll serve as reasonable fatherly facsimiles during my time on the water. But none of them (at least so far) has offered to build me a sandbox, or provide me with plastic dinosaurs, or suggested that we go biking through falling leaves at the arboretum together. Perhaps they will, but I'd still rather spend my time biking, building, and pretending with you. I'm sending much love to you this Father's Day from the high seas, and looking forward to our next adventure. -- Matthew
