North Atlantic Ocean | May 2021 | 47°N, 15°W
Like the sea, we are always in motion.
— Susan Casey, The Wave
05.03.2021
As the Sarmiento de Gamboa departs Vigo, jubilant energy radiates across the aft deck. Several members of the science team and crew have gathered here in the bright sunshine, pointing as our ship passes the Cíes Islands, taking photos, and relishing the joy of this moment.
Setting sail is always an exhilarating and unique experience — watching the shoreline recede and seeing only open ocean ahead. But today feels particularly euphoric.
This expedition has been a long time in the making, and everyone on board (especially our lead scientists) have overcome challenges to be here. After years of planning, two weeks of quarantine, and four days in port, we are finally heading out to sea to conduct research on essential ocean processes.
In our wide-eyed excitement, we cannot conceive of what the North Atlantic has in store for us over the next three weeks.
The colorful city of Vigo, Spain fades into the distance as we head into the North Atlantic.
Elena Romero, Helena McMonagle, and Cristina Garcia-Fernandez chat on the aft deck as we sail by the Cíes Islands.
05.05.2021
After two days at sea, most of us have adjusted to the constant motion of the ship. In the morning, we receive the official notice that we can stop wearing masks. Yes!
Our two-week quarantine period and multiple rounds of COVID testing (during which everyone received negative results) paid off – we have successfully created a “bubble” of virus-free people.
I love seeing my shipmates without masks. Not only is communication much easier (especially when speaking Spanish) but I am also thrilled to photograph full faces again. As we all know from the past year, a lot of expression and emotion vanish behind a mask.
At breakfast on the third day, I sit with John San Sucie, Justin Ossolinksi, and Helena McMonagle. Our discussion veers into the rewards and sacrifices associated with going to sea.
“Working in the middle of the ocean is a really special experience,” I say. “But you have to give up so many things when you come out here.”
“What do you mean Marley?” John asks. “We have the two most important things in the world right here.” He makes this bold statement earnestly, his young face full of fervor. We all turn to look at him.
“What exactly would those be?” I ask.
“Knowledge and friendship!”
The table erupts in laughter. John flashes a cheeky grin while Justin slow claps. “Outstanding delivery,” he says. “I didn’t see that one coming!”
In the lab that afternoon, I snap photos as everyone finishes setting up their equipment and work spaces. Michelle Cusolito and I work diligently to draft blog posts for the Dive and Discover website. The ship is nearing the study site, but the forecast is calling for the weather to deteriorate over the weekend.
05.08.2021
The tumbling and heaving of a ship in a storm can throw you right out of bed. Back and forth, from one side to the other, your body’s weight goes with the ship. You lose your sense of up; the world becomes a sickening swirl of constant, unpredictable motion. There is no center. The stomach revolts and you begin to retch. Your organs churn as violently as the sea.
—Rachel Slade, Into the Raging Sea
Before we left port, I filmed a pre-expedition interview with co-lead scientist Ken Buesseler. We discussed the research goals and the new technology on board, as well as the immense effort that went into organizing this voyage: coordinating with the crew of the Sarmiento de Gamboa, shipping eight tons of equipment and supplies halfway around the world, arranging international travel, quarantine, and COVID testing for 19 people.
With so many special procedures and protocols put in place to activate an expedition in 2021, bad weather was an afterthought.
“We’re oceanographers,” Ken said. “We can handle weather.”
We are now in the weather, and we are handling it. Our team includes many seasoned sailors, but even those who have been to sea dozens of times remark on the frequency and intensity of the rolls we experience on the Sarmiento de Gamboa.
We shove life jackets and towels into our bunks and wedge our bodies between them. Still, sleep is intermittent at best. At mealtimes our trays slide across the tables—sometimes we catch them, and sometimes we don’t. Ratchet straps, bungee cords, and pelican cases hold delicate scientific equipment in place, but loose items (water bottles, sunglasses, cellphones, work boots) go flying. Hearing crashing sounds in all corners of the ship becomes commonplace.
Despite the exhaustion, everyone on the team remains friendly and positive. I am particularly impressed with Michelle — this is her first time at sea, ever. I assure her that feeling exhausted is normal, napping (or at least trying to nap) is helpful, and staying hydrated is essential. We refill our water bottles continuously, and crawl back into bed periodically throughout the day. At one point, she and I lay down on the floor of our room, simply because it feels like the most stable place to be. We laugh at ourselves — and that helps too.
Two days later, with the waves still raging and the winds still gusting at 30 to 40 knots, Joel sends a message to the science team: “I hope you’re all hanging in there — literally and figuratively. As a heads up, the galley crew are going easy tonight for dinner. Sandwich stuff and leftovers. Hats off to them for doing anything at all in these conditions!”
At dinner, Justin glances across the tables, counting heads. “We’re all here,” he says. “That’s a good sign.”
05.13.2021
After weathering three days of stormy seas, we awake to blissful sunshine and calmer waters.
I look at my phone and see a message from Ken. "Can you fly your drone in weather like this today? Winds are around 12-15 knots now, this may be our best chance…”
I tell Ken I’m down to give it a shot.
Drone flights in the middle of the ocean always makes me a bit nervous. I’ve done it before, and I’m excited to do it again, but there is simply no ignoring the thought this could go badly…
While the drone batteries charge, I chat with Michelle about the best approach for landing the thing. If all goes well, the take-off and flight should be straightforward. But between the winds and all the equipment on the aft deck, getting the drone safely back on board will be a bit tricky.
Fortunately, this isn’t Michelle’s first rodeo – her son loves building and flying drones, and she has assisted him with landings before. Ken suggests we use a net, but I fear netting could ensnare the propellers. After some discussion, Michelle and I agree that catching the drone with a large towel will work best.
On the aft deck, I stare at the sunlight reflecting off the water — after so many gray, stormy days, the effect of the bright, bouncing light is mesmerizing. I put on my sunglasses and go into pilot mode: calmly and methodically running through my short checklist, double-checking the surroundings, and silently praying for the winds to stay low.
After a short test flight, I send the drone up to capture the “money shot”: the R/V Sarmiento de Gamboa, as well as the RRS James Cook, and RRS Discovery — the three ships working together here in the North Atlantic contribute new data and knowledge to the NASA EXPORTS mission.
I bring the drone low over the aft deck and maneuver it above Michelle. When it’s two feet above her head, I kill the motors, and it falls softly into the large towel stretched between her hands. I raise my fist in the air and yell “YES!” Michelle rushes over to high-five me and the science team members who have been watching from the other side of the deck cheer.
It’s a small victory, but after the rough conditions of the past few days, we’ll take all the small victories we can get.
Capturing an epic ocean rendezvous: three ships are better than one.
05.19.2021
There are two things that can easily get me out of bed at 3am: gearing up for an alpine start on a big mountain, and filming in the middle of the ocean.
This morning, of course, it’s the latter.
Bleary-eyed but excited, Michelle and I don our work vests and hard hats to go out on the aft deck at 2:45am. The inky, black of the night sky surrounds us, while the deck lights illuminate the A-frame, which is currently pulling up the enormous metal frame that provides the structure for MOCNESS, or the “Multiple Opening and Closing Net and Environmental Sensing System”.
The MOCNESS is a high tech net system used to study the abundance, vertical distribution, and biodiversity of twilight zone animals. It consists of up to nine, fine-mesh plankton nets that can sample a range of organisms like copepods, krill, fish, jellies, and salps.
As I watch Kayla, Julia, Helena, and Cris approach the frame and begin to haul in the heavy, sodden nets, I think about how photographing the MOCNESS team never gets old — from wrangling the nets to dumping the cod ends to bringing buckets of organisms into the lab, I love capturing every part of the process.
I should state, for the record, that all of the technology and equipment on board is awesome: the tenacity of TZEx is impressive, the process of deploying the MINIONs is fun, and the rate of images from StingRay is mind-blowing.
But as a photographer, it’s hard to beat this.
Helena, Kayla, Julia, and Joel looking cheery and keen to get to work at 3am.
Julia Cox wrangles multiple nets on the aft deck.
Joel holds a bristlemouth fish, famed for being the most numerous vertebrate on Earth. Scientists believe hundreds of trillions (or even quadrillions) of these little fish exist in the Ocean Twilight Zone.
05.21.2021
Not again.
It’s our second to last day at sea, and our science operations have been cut short as the weather deteriorates. As the ship races away from the impending storm, we go through the familiar motions of securing equipment and valuables, and trying to mentally brace ourselves. It’s hard to believe that we’ve been hit by major storm systems not once, not twice, but three times.
You’d think we’d be used to it by now — but this one feels like the worst yet. The crashing waves sound louder and the motion of the ship jerks more violently than ever. It feels like the ocean is trying to make a statement. We get it. You’re in charge.
At 4am, Jess messages the whole group with a screen shot of the storm system — a giant swath of dark reds and purples signifying winds from 40 to almost 50 knots. She includes a caption with the image: “Are we having fun yet??”
After a sleepless night, we go through the next day in a haze. Ken postpones our final gathering. We take naps, and slowly begin packing.
But the evening brings an unexpected treat — a brilliant sunset, unlike any skies we’ve seen in the past three weeks. As we stare at the striations of saturated colors, we forget all the exhaustion and frustration. In this moment, we stand in awe, feeling humbled and lucky.
I think of the hundreds of sunsets I have observed at sea. I already know that this one will remain vivid in my mind — not just because I captured a vibrant image of the saturated sky and churning waves, but because of how I feel right now. Relief and gratitude mixed with a distinctive awareness of just how bizarre it is to work and live in the middle of the ocean.
After looking through all her data, Heidi Sosik determines we weathered more than 200 hours of winds over 20 knots. Michelle Cusolito’s son has been entering our ship’s GPS coordinates on Windy and reports that at one point our location was the windiest place on the entire planet.
Despite the intensity of the weather, our team accomplished a lot. As we begin to say our farewells, the bittersweet sensation that often accompanies the end of an expedition settles over the group. We’re all quite ready to leave the turbulence of the North Atlantic, but parting from shipmates is tough.
After throwing so many storms in our path, the North Atlantic offered up a stunning sunset on the final evening of the expedition.
05.27.2021
I wake up in my own bed in Carrboro, North Carolina — a bed that is notably unmoving. The expedition is over. The filming and editing is done. The journey is complete.
But the mental and emotional processing continues. For the past three nights, I have dreamt of being on the ship — in my dreams, I am gripping the handrails, holding on for dear life.
I pull Susan Casey’s The Wave from my bookshelf, flip to the last page, and read a passage I underlined years ago:
Like the sea, we are always in motion. The waves loom in our dream and in our nightmares through all of time, their rhythms pulsing through us…
Over the next few days and weeks, friends and family ask, “how was the expedition??” At first I respond with quips about how the North Atlantic is rougher than the Southern Ocean. But as the big waves and rough weather fade further into memory, the more important stories emerge. I tell my friends about laughing with Michelle, speaking Spanish with Elena, discussing books with Justin, doing ridiculous workout routines with Kayla, Helena, and Julia, listening to Ken patiently explain the dynamics of carbon transport, and perhaps most of all — smiling at my shipmates as their food trays went flying off the end of the table. Again.
Going to sea always involves adapting to a world of perpetual motion. But it doesn’t always involve weathering rough seas with remarkably resilient humans.
I’m glad this expedition did.