The Deck Dance
Sailing away from Victoria en route to the Pacific Ocean is one of my favourite parts about going to sea. The vessel passes by the southern tip of the city of Victoria as we make our way west, and before long, the signs of civilization start to dissipate. The shelter provided by the surrounding land masses makes for smooth sailing and allows for an unburdened appreciation of the ecosystems that make up the Pacific Northwest. The frosted peaks of Washington’s Olympic Mountain Range are separated from the rainforests of Vancouver Island by the narrow waters of the Juan de Fuca Strait. Here, the marine and terrestrial realms meet in a sharp transition that provides habitat for countless marine and terrestrial species, including bald eagles, bears, seals, and fish. At its mouth, the Juan de Fuca Strait dumps out into the seemingly infinite expanse of the Northeast Pacific Ocean.
On the first night of our expedition, I stayed outside overlooking the bow well past sunset, peacefully contemplating my life up to the present moment and building excitement at the prospect of carrying out a project that I had spent the last two years conceptualizing. On the heels of two unsuccessful field seasons, I was feeling confident in my preparations yet nervous about the prospect of beginning my third year of PhD studies still with no data in hand. However, I was determined to emerge on the other side with something new and exciting to show the world. I took one last glimpse of the land we were leaving behind, then made my way towards the aft-deck to see who might still be awake. Jimmy, a veteran deck hand with 30 plus years of seafaring experience, was sitting in a deck chair enjoying a cigarette and polishing off another Lucky Lager.
“How are you now, Jimmy?”
“First class, Brett, first class”
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It doesn’t take long for geographic coordinates to lose meaning as land fades from view, water touching sky at all horizons. In a few short days, life on land feels like a distant memory. Blue skies and favouring winds bring a sense of serenity; a calm refuge buffered from crowds of people by hundreds of kilometres of open ocean. Waters shimmer under the penetrating rays of sunshine, and the vessel pitches softly over an ethereal blanket of light blue. On a perfect day, the open ocean can lay flat as glass. On days like these, fresh seawater breezes fill the lungs with each breath and the stresses of daily life diffuse from the bloodstream.
Off the back of the aft-deck, short-tailed albatross glide with still wings inches above the sea surface. Humpback whales wave with fin slaps and Pacific white-sided dolphins use the bow wake as a playground. Jelly fish pass by at the whim of ocean currents and sunfish bask in the warm light. Beneath the surface, schools of herring forage synchronously, moving gracefully as a formless dark mass. On the seafloor below, coral and sponge gardens carry on in complete darkness as they have for millennia, illuminated briefly by the floodlights of a remotely operated submersible. The entire symphony of life crescendos on a stage that feels too magnificent for words. In the evenings, a cold pint pairs nicely with a clear night sky, unobstructed by the glow of city lights. The sounds of waves lapping against the hull rise above the low drone of engines, and bioluminescent plankton flaring up in the trailing froth of propellors mirror the celestial night sky above.
On a good day, operations on deck are like a well-choreographed dance. It’s actually quite beautiful to witness. A small group of strangers, forced into an intimate connection by the confines of a 200-foot research vessel, work together towards a common goal. Winches pay out lengths of cable and equipment sent over the back disappears into the abyss. When it returns to the deck, the site of successfully procured samples radiates pulses of excitement through all those standing by and breaks the tension that has built since. An organized frenzy ensues as scientists secure their precious cargo while the deck crew immediately prepares for their next deployment. All those on board know that the ocean seldom plays nice for long.
Then the looming black skies sweep in. Seas build and the ocean swells, throwing objects from counter tops and destabilizing the foundation beneath your feet. Surface water dulls to grey and cresting waves meet cold metal, bringing sudden jolts to attempts at regaining equilibrium. The bow plunges downward into the faces of oncoming waves, and ceilings of cold seawater descend down upon the deck. Every step must be carefully placed; a perfectly timed blow can threaten to send you over the five-foot railings that line the sides of the vessel if proper attention isn't paid. Driving winds propel pellets of sleet, impacting cheeks like tiny gunshots and obscuring vision. The pitch and roll of the vessel sends some running for Gravol, while those who missed the opportunity hurl half-digested fish chum over the side. Clothes soaked through and skin chilled, work continues.
Failure in some respects is all but certain on days like these. Repetition serves as the only course forward with no guarantees of success. Flawless organization turns to uncoordinated movement, clumsy bodies clash together, and machinery clanks and crashes as operations dredge onward. Stress, anxiety and confusion rise to the surface, appearing as a symptom of collective psychosis in perfect reflection of the chaos that has manifested beneath the ship’s hull. Graceful cooperation turns to a sort of frantic energy. Worries of defeat weigh in the minds of scientists and ship’s crew alike, but none are paid voice. When the heaving seas build to a point that makes standing a formidable challenge, the only recourse is to steam towards shelter. The ocean can effortlessly dispose of years of preparation if it so choses.
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It might be fair to assume, based on the aspects that I have shared publicly, that a research expedition like this is marked solely by excitement and adventure. My reality over the past week has been substantially less glamourous. I have been awake for the better part of the last 72 hours, propelled forward by caffeine, nicotine, and persistent fears of failure. I have spent most of that time working in a five-by-five stand-up refrigerator, attempting to coerce samples plucked from their natural habitats at a thousand metres depth to conform to the standards of science at the surface while relentless seas toss me from wall to wall. Struggling against fatigue, dehydration, hunger, and unforeseen challenges has brought me near the edges of my sanity. At times, it feels as though my future is on the line with every small decision, and I’ve swiftly learned that the ocean doesn’t give a shit about a thesis.
The words here occupy the last few sheets of a 200-page lab note book filled with anger, frustration, self-doubt, and elation. Yet I have found a moment to breathe this morning as dawn breaks, sitting on the aft-deck in a light drizzle, clutching a pen with hands shaking and fingers rubbed raw from endless hours of twisting tube-connections and gas fittings. Now I stare out at waters that mold to the coastline of Barkely Sound, chased from the sea by yet another storm that has brought pause to our ambitions. The heads of harbour seals puncture the surface as they begin their daily tasks, and the shrill voices of black-backed seagulls sound like music today. Suddenly I am reminded of how I found love in the ocean. Simultaneously, I have come to the realization that it cannot reciprocate in turn. I am not sure that I would want it to.
I take one last sip of the coffee in my hand that has now gone cold, savouring a few more deep breaths and contemplating my return to the cold-room as the morning deck crew take over their duties. Jimmy emerges from the lab doors onto the deck and stretches, wiping last night’s sleep from his eyes.
“How are you doing Brett?”
“First class, Jimmy, first class”
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