North Pacific Ocean | 19.748518 N, -156.244609 W | September 15, 2023

“A ship is a total environment—self-contained, isolated from the outside world. The bonds formed within the walls of a ship are as strong, if not stronger, than anything known on land.”

— Nathaniel Philbrook

Well, this expedition is off to an interesting start.

I’m currently standing in a cold, bare-bones conference room in a nondescript building at the Marisco Shipyard in Kapolei, Hawaii. While the temperature outside is well over 80 degrees Fahrenheit, the air conditioning in this room appears to be cranked all the way down. I pull my sweatshirt out of my backpack, pour myself a pitiful cup of instant coffee, and make small talk with my future shipmates — nine scientists from six different countries.

After running through a lengthy Powerpoint presentation detailing safety protocols on the ship we’re about to board, Hannah Grant, the Expedition Lead, walks around the room handing out bright red boiler suits and other personal protective equipment. When I unfold the heavy fabric and start pulling it on over my jeans and sweatshirt, I feel like I’m donning a large gumby suit. The sleeves fall down past my hands. The pant legs gather around my boots.

Jody Webster, the Co-Chief Scientist, takes one look at me and says exactly what I’m thinking.

“Marley! You look like an oompa loompa!”

Perfect. I’m so glad I get to wear this thing every day for the next month.

A few minutes later, I file out of the Marisco building with the rest of the IODP Expedition 389 science team. We stand in the parking lot, feeling a bit ridiculous. We’re all fully decked out in protective gear: boiler suits, steel toed boots, hard hats, and safety goggles. The Hawaiian sun beats down relentlessly and we immediately start sweating.

A large white van pulls up to transport us across the high-security port. As we load into the van, I hear lots of excited chatter and nervous laughter. The anticipation is palpable — our long-awaited expedition is finally about to begin.

Nancy Prouty, a research oceanographer with the USGS Pacific Coastal and Marine Science Center, sits down next to me. She smiles broadly as she looks around the van at all of us in our matching suits and says, “it’s like we’re astronauts!”

The van lurches forward and we all sway in our seats. Through the windshield, we can just make out the superstructure of the MMA Valour — home sweet home for the next eight weeks.

A few minutes later we arrive at the ship, unload from the van, and once again stand on the hot pavement, waiting. I wipe the sweat from my forehead, and adjust the strap on my hard hat. Over the next month, this rigid piece of plastic will wage a constant battle against my thick, frizzy hair.

In addition to donning full PPE, we have to receive explicit permission before we can officially walk onto the ship. The MMA Valour is a Malaysian supply vessel and we will soon learn it has very particular protocols for boarding, disembarking, and daily movements around the ship. After we board, we spend the next few hours navigating narrow hallways, walking up and down several flights of stairs, and listening to a long list of rules and protocols.

We are not permitted to go anywhere on deck without donning full PPE — but we are also not allowed to wear boiler suits or steel toed boots inside the superstructure of the ship. This means we have to change inside a cramped locker room multiple times a day. We will all be working 12-hour shifts, and we are not allowed to return to our rooms during that time. There is only one restroom we are allowed to use during shift — and it’s currently out of order.

Little things make a big difference on a ship, especially “little” things like plumbing. In addition to the out-of-order head on the main deck, there is no sink in the mess. I’ve worked on eight different ships in the past five years, and I’ve never seen a mess that didn’t include a sink. Where do people wash their hands? I wonder. Where do I rinse out my coffee mug?

We note other peculiarities, like the bins for “non-contaminated waste” — or the recycling of water bottles. The ship does not contain a desalinator system, which means the entire expedition (58 people at sea for over 60 days) must rely on bottled water. I find this incredibly frustrating.

Living and working at sea is all about adaptability, and it usually doesn’t take me long to adjust to a new ship – but many things about this ship are awkward, uncomfortable, or just plain bizarre. I’m about to learn that life aboard a Malaysian supply vessel is very different from an American or European research vessel.

**Bizarre ship with a breathtaking view.** Marisa Rydzy smiles at the horizon as we leave port from Kapolei and make our way towards the Big Island.

There are 58 people on this ship from over a dozen different countries. I am one of just a handful of Americans on board, and it’s refreshing to hear so many different languages and accents, and to be exposed to a variety of cultures. But it quickly becomes clear that this ship is not designed to host a team of scientists.

We sit together in the mess at meals, but outside of those times, we congregate in odd spaces – a corner of the bridge, or a small rectangle of shade beneath the rescue boat on deck. There are no benches or chairs. There is exactly one picnic table on board, but it’s the designated smoking spot for the crew.

I find the lack of proper “social space” irksome. I’m accustomed to working in common spaces at sea, like the Main Lab on Atlantis or the social deck on Nautilus. But on this ship, there is no gathering space. Our workspaces are segmented into individual shipping containers – each lab and office is housed a different container.

In order to interact with my colleagues, I open a heavy container door, poke my head in, and quickly deduce whether or not I should enter the small space. Sometimes two people are having a private conversation. Sometimes four or five people are already crammed inside. Sometimes the container is completely empty.

But every once in a while, I get lucky. When I open the door to the Multi-Sensor Core Logger (MSCL) lab, I’m greeted with the bright smile of Marisa Rydzy. I ask if I can come in and take a few photos and she warmly replies, “of course!”

On the 12pm — 12am shift, our daily meetings occur at 11:30pm. With my camera in hand, I watch the science team members emerge from their individual containers and congregate on the starboard side of the deck.

“It feels like we’re in a science fiction movie,” Nancy says. “Where we all live in these pods.”

“It’s container culture!” Jody says.

Once we’re all gathered together, we stand in a tight circle on deck. Hannah provides updates from the past 12 hours and plans for the next day. When the meeting concludes, I head back into the IT container where I have a small desk space. I plug in my camera batteries to charge overnight, pack up my laptop, and head to the superstructure of the ship. In the cramped locker room, I pull off my boilersuit, helmet, and boots, toss them in a locker, and finally return to my room for the first time since this morning.

The days are long, and many of the ship’s protocols and restrictions make my job cumbersome. But I love learning about the science. By collecting samples of ancient coral reefs, our team is increasing our understanding of global sea level change and past ocean conditions.

While Kenna Rubin and I work on opposite shifts, we eat lunch together almost every day. We sailed together on the Alvin 6500 expedition last summer and it’s delightful to work with her again. I am routinely blown away by her level of knowledge and expertise. As we spread Indian peanut butter on stale crackers, she tells me all about the intricacies of Hawaiian volcanism and what we can learn from “drowned” reefs.

I spend many coffee breaks chatting with Jody. Over and over again, he patiently explains coral growth rates, sea level change, and microbialite sediments. Jody’s knowledge of deep sea ecosystems coupled with his delightful Australian accent and quick wit make for many excellent chats.

These conversations fuel the features I write for our expedition blog. As usual, I enjoy the challenge of translating scientific jargon into short, narrative stories. But I especially love showcasing the personality traits of the people on our team, and I do my best to illustrate the ways in which they infuse joy into our long days.

In a blog post titled The Magic of the First Look, I write about Jody’s contagious enthusiasm:

I smile at the pure, unadulterated joy on the Co-Chief Scientist’s face – it’s always special to see a scientist light up in this way. Webster is positively beaming as he begins telling me about the most recently acquired sample.

“We got our first really good look at the interior structure of these fossil reefs,” he says emphatically. “It’s exactly what we’ve been hoping to see!”

When I sit down to interview Luzie Schnieders, I immediately recognize a kindred spirit. Luzie tells me that she was drawn to ocean expedition work as soon as she discovered it in college. And she has maintained that drive and adventurous spirit for almost two decades. We talk about the rewards and challenges that accompany this kind of career path, including societal expectations about getting married and having children — or not doing those things.

“People want to put you in a box,” Luzie says. “If you pop out of one box, they want to stuff you into another one. But when you are too boxed in, it can be hard to create the reality you want for your life.”

I nod my head in agreement. When I edit together the feature a few days later, I title it Outside the Box.

“Pursue your curiosity and trust your gut. If you have the urge to do something, try it out. You may find out later that you don’t want to do it anymore, and that’s okay. You can do something different. But don’t be afraid to try. Empower yourself.

Because there is nothing better than to come home from a trip, sit down with your mom, and say, “well, two days ago I was at the North Pole.”

I find other kindred spirits on board as well. Marisa Rydzy is one of my roommates, and because we’re on the same shift, we spend a lot of time together. Her bubbly, positive demeanor is like a breath of fresh air. She is always keen to chat — about books, podcasts, and our peripatetic lifestyles.

We talk about the conversations we have at sea, versus the conversations we have at home.

“Everyone at home is having babies and talking about their mortgages. I’m the ‘crazy’ Aunt Marisa who works offshore and lives a ‘wild’ life. But then I come out here, and I’m suddenly the most boring person in the room. I’m not so special. Sure, I climbed that volcano, but Marley you’ve climbed 10 volcanoes! I’ve been to Kazakhstan, but Chloé has worked in Afghanistan and Iraq.”

While I laugh and write down every word she’s saying, Marisa sighs.

“The things we talk about here are so much better than talking about preschool and poop.”

I couldn’t agree more.

Some days feel longer than others — especially when we’re waiting for the core samples to arrive on deck. During these times, I find refuge in books, including The Covenant of Water by Abraham Verghese.

In Chapter 13, titled “Magnification”, the protagonist is a British doctor working in an Indian hospital for the first time.

“It’s the same operation as you did in Scotland, just that the pathology is magnified.”

That word captures Digby’s first impression of India. It’s a term he’ll use often when a familiar disease takes on grotesque proportions in the tropics: “magnified.”

When I share this passage with Nancy (who is also reading the book), she nods her head in agreement.

“At home, you have some separation from the people in your orbit. Your spouse goes to work. Your children go to school. You see colleagues during the week and you see friends on the weekends,” she says. “But our lives out here all move together — like one giant organism. Your presence is definitely magnified.”

We talk about our shipmates and the makeup of our team. Unsurprisingly, over two thirds of the people on board are men. But the science team has a female majority – including many tough women. Marisa has worked on oil rigs. Hannah did her graduate work in the Canadian Arctic. Nancy and I have both worked in Antarctica.

And then there is Chloé, our medic, who tells us some of the most remarkable stories I have ever heard. She has worked in hot war zones and refugee camps around the world.

Leaning into the strong breeze (and each other) on the back deck of MMA *Valour* as we transit from the Big Island back to Kapolei, Hawai’i.

“If you’re the only woman in a group, it’s easy to shut down,” Chloé says. She looks around at Marisa, Nancy, and myself. “Having you all out here has really kept me going. Just that good feminine energy – you don’t even need to say anything – simply being in your presence helps me reset.”

While Nancy and I bemoan the inconveniences of the ship, and enumerate the things we miss from home, Marisa expresses a completely different perspective.

“I think I feel more sane on board — I actually love being out here. I’m a very social person, and I love being surrounded by people all the time.”

She tosses a few pieces of popcorn into her mouth then casually says, “I think I would do really well in prison.”

At that, I start to laugh and can’t stop. As I wipe happy tears off my cheeks, I feel infinitely grateful that I’ve been able to spend several weeks living with this delightful person.

The next day, I haul my bags down a steep gangplank and throw them into the back of a pickup truck. It always feels odd to suddenly stand on land after weeks and weeks at sea, but it feels particularly weird now. I’m leaving the ship, but just about everyone else on the science team is remaining onboard for another four weeks.

Meanwhile, I’m heading to a different port in Honolulu. Less than 24 hours after I disembark from the MMA Valour, I board the E/V Nautilus — a ship that is extremely familiar and notably more comfortable.

When I describe daily life on the Valour to my Nautilus shipmates, they cringe.

“We are spoiled on ships like this one,” I say. “The Valour was loud, crowded, and uncomfortable. The toilets were unreliable. The mattresses were shit. There wasn’t a single quiet spot to sit down and relax for a minute.”

“How were the people?” Mike asks.

I smile, thinking about my shipmates and how much I miss them already. Chatting with Chloé about navigating your own path. Discussing books, movies, podcasts, feminism, and international adventures with Marisa and Nancy. Learning all about Hawiian volcanism from Kenna. Listening to Alex and Luzie speak German during our card games. Laughing with Jody.

“The ship was rough, but the people were amazing.”

A look behind the scenes

Container Culture