Southern Pacific Ocean | - 176.16°W, - 1.04°S | August 30, 2019

The seafloor is earth’s final frontier, a lawless and enigmatic domain of vast mineral wealth and undiscovered biological diversity. Arguably the least policed realm on the planet, the sea bottom is also a world over which scientists, conservationists, industry, and governments routinely tussle for access and control. And yet we have mapped more of the night sky than we have charted the ocean’s depths.

— Ian Urbina, The Outlaw Ocean

When my alarm goes off, I immediately silence it in hopes of not waking my roommate. I dress quickly and quietly in the dark, pulling on the Carharrt pants I’ve worn every day for the past week, along with a long-sleeve shirt, and a vest with the E/V Nautilus emblem.

I grab my water bottle and coffee mug, open the door, and gently close it behind me. In the hallway, I glance down at my phone — it’s 3:25am.

Starting the workday at this outrageously early hour doesn’t bother me. In fact, my 3am alarm generates an energy similar to what I’ve come to associate with alpine starts. Waking up in the dead of night in a remote place (whether it’s a glaciated volcano or the middle of the Pacific Ocean) fills me with resolve and excitement. A small inner voice says let’s go do something epic.

This time around, the epic thing is filming life on the ocean floor.

In the control van: As a video engineer, my job includes adjusting the exposure, focus, and zoom on the cameras attached to our remotely operated vehicles. [Photo by Ed McNichol]

Alexis Weinnig, our watch lead (and co-lead scientist for the entire expedition) and Holly Richards, our resident Science Enthusiast share a laugh at the end of watch. — **Alexis Weinnig**, our watch lead (and co-lead scientist for the entire expedition) and **Holly Richards**, our resident Science Enthusiast share a laugh at the end of watch.

The United States has approximately 60% of its exclusive economic zone (EEZ) in the Pacific, and characterizing these Pacific benthic habitats is important to (a) fundamentally understand and effectively manage US submerged resources, (b) enable novel insights into Pacific benthic ecosystems, and (c) to establish baselines of these habitats to better understand their vulnerability and resilience to change. [excerpted from NA114 cruise plan]

In the cool, dark confines of the control van, members of our team comment on the other-worldly landscape of the ocean floor. “The conditions for life down here are so fundamentally different from what we expect, and from what we experience in our terrestrial lives,” Holly says. Her voice resonates through our headsets, and out to the livestream.

“It also shows just how close-minded we’ve been as humans to find life somewhere else,” Brandon adds. “The idea that it’s going to be something that looks like us — it’s sort of an egocentric argument.”

“One planet!” Megan says, and we all laugh.

Our watch team includes eight people, each with a specific job: Ben Grassian, our navigator, communicates with the bridge to ensure the ship moves in tandem with the ROVs. Jess Sandoval and Gregg Diffendale control all the movements of the ROVs. I sit to the left of the pilots, managing the cameras on both the ROVs and on board the Nautilus. Brandon Rodriguez, our Science Communication Fellow, moderates comments and questions from viewers watching the dives live online.

The science team includes Alexis Weinnig (our watch lead, and the co-lead scientist on this expedition), Holly Richards, an outreach specialist from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (Pacific Region), and Megan Lubetkin, our data manager.

Out of the eight people on our team, three of us are brand new to Nautilus (Holly, Brandon and myself). We quickly learn a variety of new vocabulary: names of deep sea corals like Crysogorgia and Bathypathes and Iridigorgia.

But our whole team develops a certain fondness for the term Botryoidal.

Botryoidal (adj.):

(chiefly of minerals) having a shape reminiscent of a cluster of grapes.

It’s a fun word to say, but it’s also important for characterizing the geology of this area.

We know the seafloor here (within the boundaries of the Pacific Marine National Monument) formed during the Cretaceous period, 145 to 66 million years ago. Howland and Baker Islands were formed approximately 70 to 74 million years ago and the Johnston Atoll Unit, which lies at the northwest end of the Line Islands, is approximately 70 million years old.

Because terrestrial imagery dominates many visualizations of the geologic time scale, seeing evidence of geologic time on the ocean floor provides a fresh perspective. Megan, an underwater volcanologist, patiently answers all our questions about how, when, and why these formations came to be.

As the ROVs fly up and around the seamounts, I keep thinking about the volcanoes I’ve hiked. When I mention this to Megan, she says, “I actually have the opposite experience. Whenever I hike terrestrial volcanos, I’m reminded of the deep ocean.”

The hours in the van pass quickly when we are immersed in conversation. Most of the time we stay on topic, discussing the intricate balance of life at these depths, how and why we collect samples, how our technology—from the ROVs to the cameras to the livestream—operates.

But sometimes we talk about completely unrelated things: Coffee. Ice cream. Time travel. Outer space.

During transit days (when we’re not on our watch schedule) I’m usually on the aft deck with my camera, trying to capture images of sunrise and sunset. No matter how many days I spend at sea, I will never tire of photographing the light change over the water.

I’m not the only one. Emil Petruncio (our co-lead scientist who has spent much of his professional career at sea) often brings his camera out during dawn and dusk. We compare shots and talk for a long time. A retired captain in the U.S. Navy, Emil has decades of research experience in oceanography, meteorology and remote sensing. But he is also a lover of travel and new experiences. Our conversations range from travels around Europe and the southwest to music festivals to dynamic forces in the ocean to outer space.

This evening we’re talking about satellites. I think back to something Alexis said during our watch:

We are used to seeing some really great models from NASA satellites but all of that is surface information. Satellites cant penetrate water to any significant depth.

“How much information can satellites really give us when it comes to studying the ocean?”

“They give us a rough idea of where things are,” Emil says.

We discuss how a geostationary satellite makes live-streaming our dives possible. “Ben told me the satellite we’re using is 22,000 miles up — that’s not right, is it?”

Emil nods. “That sounds about right.”

He explains that most satellites (roughly 60 percent) operate in earth’s low orbit. But communications satellites are often much higher. He patiently answers my questions about the number of satellites in space, their lifespan, and the amount of space debris currently orbiting the earth.

When you work on a research vessel, you don’t just learn about deep sea organisms. We have quite a few intelligent people on this ship, and many of them are keen to share their knowledge and stories.

Brandon delivers a brief but fascinating presentation on his work at JPL, including animations of rovers on Mars and what we know (so far) about other oceans in our solar system. Parallels abound between deep sea and deep space exploration.

We learn from Holly that the Pacific Remote Islands Marine National Monument spans an area of 490,343 square miles. She also provides a special hands-on experience: dissecting an albatross bolus — the regurgitated material the bird was unable to digest. Holly explains how examining the contents (from a plastic spoon to dozens of squid beaks) provide indicators about the health of the ocean within certain areas.

Emil gives a presentation on waves, and how their journey across the surface of the ocean. He cites the late (and widely celebrated oceanographer) Walter Munk, who conducted a study of the propagation across the Pacific Ocean in 1963. Emil explains how Munk predicted that waves would decrease in energy as they traveled over thousands of miles. In fact, the opposite turned out to be true.

One morning after breakfast, Ed catches me reading. Again. Transit days allow for hours of unencumbered reading time.

“I’ve got a book for you,” he says.

“Oh yeah?”

“You’re going to love it – the title is It’s What I Do”

“Lynsey Addario’s memoir?” I say, immediately picturing the hardcover copy that sits on my bookshelf at home. “Yeah, I read that two years ago. It’s one of my favorites.”

“Ah man, you’ve already read it?” I can see the disappointment in Ed’s face. I know he delights in introducing people to awesome new experiences, whether it’s an expedition aboard the Nautilus or a really good book.

It turns out we are a boat full of bibliophiles — conversations about books occur almost daily. After his presentation, I tell Emil he has to read The Wave by Susan Casey. Holly and I both failed to read the entirety of Red Mars, but we loved Shantaram. Kelly, Holly and I fiercely debate our favorite books from the Harry Potter series. When it comes to the classics, Brandon and I briefly discuss Russian versus American authors.

But the book that spurs the most conversation on the ship is the massive hardcover Greg has brought: The Outlaw Ocean by Ian Urbina. Flipping through the first few pages, my eyes are pulled to this passage:

At a time when we know exponentially more about the world around us, with so much at our fingertips and but a swipe or a tap away, we know shockingly little about the sea. Fully half of the worlds peoples now live within 100 miles of the ocean, and merchant ships haul about 90 percent of the world’s goods. Over 56 million people globally work at sea on fishing boats and another 1.6 million on freighters, tankers and other types of merchant vessels.

And yet journalism about this realm is a rarity, save for the occasional story about Somali pirates or massive oil spills. For most of us, the sea is simply a place we fly over, a broad canvas of darker and lighter blues…

Gregg and I lean against the rail on starboard side of the social deck, watching the final light of the day fade. The last remnants of sunset are behind us, but we stare at the clouds off glowing pink. Gregg glances at my camera. “You know, it doesn’t matter how many photos you take, or how many stories you tell, or how many years you do this,” he says. “The only people that will understand the experience of being at sea are the ones who have actually done it.”

I nod. “Yeah, I know.”

Gregg has been doing this for 10 years, and he is absolutely right. I’ve already experienced the sense of frustration that accompanies trying to respond to a question like, “so how was your boat ride?”

But I have been a storyteller and lover of the ocean my entire life. While Gregg may think it’s an exercise in futility, I know I will keep taking photos, and writing things down, and attempting to communicate this experience as best I can. As evidenced by the priority that the Ocean Exploration Trust places on video and streaming, one of the most important facets of this work is sharing it.

To learn more about the Nautilus and the Ocean Exploration Trust, follow Nautilus Live.

A look behind the scenes

Benthic Beckoning