South Toe, North Carolina | 35.8141° N, 82.1931° W | November 18, 2021
“Don’t fall in love with the plan. Be open to a changing world and let go of the plan when necessary so that you can make a new plan.” — Laurence Gonzales
I open my email and let out a long sigh. At the top of my inbox is a message titled “Alvin SVE postponed.”
This is not good.
Our chief scientist has just sent a long, detailed message to our whole expedition team. In it, he explains what has gone wrong with the submersible:
“…a problem was encountered with the sub that has resulted in an all-stop of activities… Obviously it is imperative to sort this out before any dive activities resume, and it is not clear at this point how long that process will take, although it is more likely to be months than days.”
We are scheduled to fly down to Puerto Rico four days from now. After months and months of planning, our history-making expedition to take HOV Alvin deeper than ever before is now postponed indefinitely. At this point, no one can say when (or if) the expedition will happen.
I look away from my laptop, glancing at the open duffle bag on my floor, empty except for my steel toed boots, first-aid kit, and some GoPro accessories. I was going to start packing today.
My thoughts circulate to the members of our science team – the graduate students who were planning to use data from this expedition for their PhD work, the pilots of Alvin, and of course our kind, patient chief scientist Adam Soule who has worked tirelessly to make this historic expedition a reality. I’m bummed out — but I can’t imagine the level of disappointment the other members of our team must feel right now.
This is the second expedition I’ve had cancelled this year, and the seventh I’ve had cancelled or postponed since I began my full-time freelance career at the beginning of 2018. Calling off an expedition due to technical problems (or a global pandemic) is not abnormal in this line of work. Still, a full-stop coming in just four days before we’re set to sail is rough.
The next day, I read the official press release from WHOI and NSF. I also read a blog post written by my boss at WHOI, Ken Kostel. Ken is a great guy to work for, and it turns out he’s also a great writer.
“The ocean does not give up its secrets easily,” he writes. “It’s a challenge — a solvable one, but a monumental challenge nonetheless.”
—
Later that afternoon I have a phone date with my dear friend Betsy. After I explain the abrupt and disheartening change of plans, we talk about resiliency. “You know I was thinking about you the other day, after I read your blog post about working in rough seas,” she says. “You have to be so resilient! You have to be prepared for all kinds of things to happen during your expeditions. I guess the whole thing getting called off is just another thing you have to be prepared for…”
Betsy knows a lot more about resiliency than I do. After losing her father to cancer, she is now parenting two young boys with her partner. She’s also a full-time student, trying to juggle parenthood and school and the rest of life. She is incredible, and thinking about the challenges she gracefully faces on a daily basis offers much-needed perspective.
Betsy is right, too. For all the planning that goes into every expedition, there is always great potential for change and volatility. From schedule modifications to bad weather to technical issues – not to mention the ramifications of a global pandemic – variables and unknowns abound.
—
When I share the news with Ryan, the first thing he says is, “Shit babe. I’m so sorry.”
He then sits back and listens to me talk for a few minutes — about all the hard work of our scientists and engineers, about the collective disappointment, about all the questions and the lack of answers.
He gets it. Whenever I receive offers to join expeditions (even when they take me far away for months at a time) Ryan is always excited for me. Likewise, when an expedition gets called off, he shares in my disappointment. Whether I’m at home or at sea, he is always my biggest source of love and support.
When I finish rambling, he asks, “do you want to go to the mountains?”
I love with this man so much.
Exactly 48 hours later, Ryan and I arrive in beautiful South Toe. The mountain air feels cool and crisp as we step out of the car and walk into Albert’s Lodge. Debbie greets us with her infectious, effervescent energy, and I immediately feel my bummed-out mood begin to dissipate.
The next day, Ryan and I are driving to the Woody Ridge trailhead when I receive a notification on my phone. It’s time to check in for your flight to San Juan! I delete the message, and turn my phone off.
We start up the steep trail, alternating between snippets of conversation and comfortable silence. I breathe deeply, enjoying the sounds of dead leaves crunching under my boots. During long days at sea, I often think about (and long for) being in the mountains. Now, as I clamber up my favorite trail, I contemplate all the factors that go into making ocean expeditions a reality.
For all the volatility of expedition work, one thing remains certain: deep ocean exploration will continue. I have worked for enough organizations to know that challenges do not stop us. We don’t quit trying to do science in the deep sea because something didn’t function correctly. We find a way.
The engineers at WHOI will work the problem. The scientists on our team will complete their PhD work. The Alvin pilots will dive in the sub again. Hopefully, in the not-too-distant future, we will all come together again and finish what we started working on many months ago.
We will let go of all the preparation and plans we made this year. We will make new ones.
Optimism is everything. A last-minute expedition cancellation is tough to process, and my schedule for the next few months remains totally up in the air. Yet in this moment — at the top of my favorite mountain with my favorite human — I feel happy, healthy, and lucky.