In this microcosmal world, life is both busy and simple at the same time.

There are lines to memorize, sails to haul, mouths to feed, and projects to finish, but there is still the simplicity and peace that accompanies the realization that this is your world, at least for the moment. What we have, and who we have, is all we have

Beige sand sifts through my feet as I look up to see the many mounds of an expansive desert. Behind me, a pillar of burnt orange sandstone rises out of the dry air and dominates the horizon… “Julien, hey, Julien.” Confused I turn to hear, “it’s um 12:30 on the 13th and you have dawn watch in like 30 minutes.

For all those that helped me along the way, and to all those to whom I will return the favor - Kiara Louise Bacasen. At meals, I often take the chance to glance up at the galley portholes and ever so briefly see the sea rippling beyond the glass, catching a silent glimpse of life below the tumultuous blue that surrounds us.

Spirits are high aboard the SSV Robert C Seamans as our Stanford@SEA students are now experienced sailors with over 4 days and nights at sea.  We are very close to Iles Maria, the first stop on our cruise track in the outer islands of French Polynesia.

The sighting came while the ship was stopped so we could lower scientific instruments into the deep blue—for the last time.. A large white shape appeared just below the surface not 50 feet away from our side. It moved forward to aft and then disappearing behind us, among the whitecaps and glare of the sun. Moments later, it was back. This time the large creature was almost bobbing at the surface; this time presenting a clearly recognizable shape.  “Whale ho,” went out a cry from the quarterdeck.

Joining the South Pacific expedition in its final leg, I was surprised at what I found. I knew the students had encountered rough seas that dragged down the hardiest of them into a woozy world of seasickness. Broken into three groups, the students had been standing watch, around the clock in six-hour watches to master nautical science and seamanship skills. They got their hands wet, conducting science experiments, often in the middle of the night.

I love diving for the hush quiet it brings. I can feel the lack of noise: it’s heavy and light at the same time, a thick film that shifts easily as I move. It feels like my breadth has just caught in my lungs. It’s thunderous, and wonderous. The muted melodies of the sea often envelope my thoughts, and I’ve come to associate a tangible silence with most aspects of the ocean.

For this blog post I want to share something I wrote about our time in Palmerston a few weeks back. Its bit delayed, just like the time it took to process what an incredible experience it was.

Church hymns still resonating in our minds, the rhythm pulsing through our veins, we made our way to the gazebo area where Mary Marsters and her family ate lunch together on Sunday after church. We sat in silence waiting for all members of the family to arrive.

Captain Pamela says you find your true self at sea. Apparently my true self is a loud and hyperactive jukebox, with the poor hygiene and spikey hair of a 12-year-old boy.

It’s always nice remembering you have the capacity to surprise yourself.

Standing at the helm, I grasp two spokes of the ship’s wooden steering wheel, when the order comes: “Course ordered 355, steering 005.” I recite the order, following ship’s protocol, knowing full well it will send us directly into the path of an oncoming squall. I turn the wheel a quarter turn until the bow points directly toward the looming wall of black clouds.

I can see black streaks on the horizon, curtains of rain spilling out of sky. The junior watch officer barks out commands in preparation for the oncoming deluge.