Honolulu Harbor | 21.3094° N, 157.8725° W | May 21, 2022
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 Philbrick
Imagine spending all day every day with your co-workers. Imagine having breakfast, lunch, and dinner with them. Imagine working together at all hours of the night and day, whether it’s 10pm or 4am.
If you can picture yourself doing that, you ought to consider working on a research vessel. At sea, people get to know each other very well very quickly. We see our shipmates when they are happy and excited, as well as stressed, frustrated, or annoyed. We live together in all states of being: sleep deprived, highly caffeinated, completely exhausted, overjoyed.
We spend almost all our time together. And we spend much of that time talking.
When I step aboard E/V Nautilus on May 1st, I’m greeted by several familiar faces. Because I sailed with most of these folks during our expedition last September, many conversations start out with “How’s it going? What have you been up to?”
I tell my shipmates about spending my birthday in Hawaii and attending a science communication conference in Portland, Oregon. They tell me about their recent travels: Megan Lubetkin has been riding a motorcycle across the southwest for the past few months. Dave Robertson, my boss, has been living out of a suitcase since February.
I smile — these are my people.
Because we sit down to eat together three times a day, many conversations revolve around food. One of the first things I learn about Jamie Zaccarria, my roommate, is that she also loves to cook vegan food, and we immediately begin exchanging recipes. Erin Heffron expounds on her favorite, fancy sparkling water. Larry Mayer waxes poetic about how and where to find the best German style pretzels in the world. During dinner one night, Jamie and Sarah Stover spend the entire meal talking about pizza in New Jersey.
We spend a lot of time discussing the ins and outs of the futuristic ocean technology we have on board. Our team includes several engineers so the nerdiest conversations hone in on software, troubleshooting tools, and even math.
But we also make it a point to not talk about work.
Some people banter about their kids or their pets, but I relate most to Megan’s comment on those subjects: “No kids. No pets. All the freedom.”
One of the most common topics aboard a vessel like Nautilus is tales of other adventures. Dave and I exchange stories of driving around the Big Island in Hawaii and taking photos of Denali in Alaska. Sarah tells me about her travels in South Africa and New Zealand. Robin Littlefield gives me some great intel about where to go surfing in Puerto Rico. Jamie and I daydream about venturing to Madagascar.
Dave and I swap photos from Alaska. This shot is from his work with KTVA on the Kahiltna Glacier near Denali Base Camp in May, 2004.
I took this photo during my first visit to Alaska in July, 2019. This image has been the background on my phone for the past three years.
We exchange travel horror stories too, from violent bouts of seasickness to lost luggage to prolonged flight delays (pro tip: don’t get a group of seafarers started on airport mishaps or bad flights — you will never hear the end of it.)
During lunch one day, I overhear a conversation about aging and how the older we get, the more irrelevant specific numbers seem to become. Lui Kawasumi, who is 34, says, “it gets to a point where you can’t remember if you’re the age you are, or the age you’re about to turn.”
On this expedition, we range in age from 24 to 75. When we celebrate Larry’s 70th birthday, I turn to Jamie and say, “I hope I’m still going to sea when I’m 70-years-old… if going to sea is still a thing then.”
Lui Kawasumi throws up a peace sign while chatting with William Pardis aboard the E/V Nautilus | Hawai’i, May 2022
The old guys talk about typical old guy stuff — their grandkids, their cars, and the best places they’ve played golf. Some of the younger folks talk about the uncertainty of the future. At dinner one night, those of us in the mid-30’s crowd chat about how the idea of traditional retirement seems strange and how different our professional experiences and perspectives are from those of other generations.
When it comes to chatting about career stuff, Drew Cole and I have a lot in common. We talk about the different ships we’ve worked on, and the volatile nature of being a full-time contractor in this profession. We discuss upcoming expeditions and scheduling woes. I appreciate that Drew can empathize with the ups and downs, from the frustration of a last-minute expedition cancellation to the joys of traveling the world, making good money, and meeting cool people.
Topics we don’t talk about much? Politics and current events. For one, we don’t have the time, energy, or internet bandwidth to follow the news every day. For another, we’re tired, but more importantly, we’re a team. Talking about sensitive subjects can be exhausting or even explosive. We all need to get along, and stay focused on the many tasks at hand during the time we’re out here.
But we don’t (and can’t) ignore current events completely. On May 14th, Jamie organizes the women on board to remotely participate in the Women’s March. We don’t engage in long discussions or rants about our outrage and disbelief. We make our signs, donate to Planned Parenthood, take a few photos, and then get back to work. But those simple acts provide a comforting sense of solidarity. For a moment we feel a bit more connected to events happening thousands of miles away.
Solidarity at Sea: Being far away from the people and causes we care about is tough. But working on a ship full of people with shared values makes a big difference.
After two weeks of being together all day every day, the inevitable happens: my shipmates enter my dreams. Perhaps because of my chats with Dave, I dream we are working in Alaska, trying to evade enormous grizzly bears. Right after our team manages to escape a particularly large and frightening bear, everyone turns to me and says, “Marley! Did you get a picture of it??”
I share this dream over breakfast, which of course instigates a conversation about the weird, wild world of dreams. A few days later, I have a dream that my shipmates and I are on top of a snowcapped mountain, and I’m trying to convince one of them that snowboarding is way better than skiing.
I don’t put much stock in dream interpretation, but I think one thing is clear from my dreams at sea: I need to make a trip to the mountains soon.
As we near the final days of the expedition, we talk more and more about plans. “What’s the next adventure?” is a common question.
When Bob Ballard poses this question, Larry responds with another question: “professionally or personally?”
I think about that question for myself. My next personal adventure is a camping trip with my partner in the Black Mountains of western North Carolina. The next expedition will be working with the Alvin team in the Caribbean at the end of July. My shipmates all have similar plans — part of what bonds us together is our deep-rooted tendencies to seek out adventure.
When we come into port on May 21st, we don’t talk much. This expedition has been a successful one, and the team is pleased with how all the tech functioned, but we are tired and ready to finish what feels like one long, extended work day.
When the packing and cleaning and data transfers are complete, we watch the sunset over Honolulu Harbor and talk about bigger things. Something about returning to land after being at sea always generates an innate desire to reflect on life, and maybe voice some of those reflections.
As the night grows later, I sit with Jamie and Sarah, immersed in a conversation that doesn’t happen often at home. We talk about how we have no desire to have children, we’re not fussed about getting married, and the idea of buying a house feels like learning a foreign language. We are avid travelers and adventurers, and we will never be stay-at-home mothers or wives. We will never be stay-at-home anything.
“No white picket fence for me,” Sarah says.
“Here’s to that,” I say, raising my drink towards the ocean. “No picket fences!”
A lovely view of Honolulu Harbor at dusk, from the aft deck of E/V Nautilus.