Caribbean Sea | July 28, 2022 | 18°48.948 N, 65°42.605 W
These aren’t the details that populate scientific papers or solicit grant funding, but they’re the ones I hold in my heart.
— Caroline Van Hemert, The Sun is a Compass
The air feels different out here. It’s not just the steady, omnipresent Caribbean breeze or relentless humidity — what feels most palpable is the tingling buzz of anticipation and excitement. Almost everybody on the ship is gathered on the aft deck right now, eagerly awaiting Alvin’s return from its first official science dive since receiving the new 6,500 meter depth rating.
A thick yellow line demarcates the area of operations for launch and recovery of the sub. While the whole science team gathers forward of the line, I stand behind it, adjusting my hard hat and fiddling with my camera strap. I’m hyper aware of everything around me — I want to be close enough to capture the action but not get in the way of crew members as they go through their well-choreographed routine to bring the sub (and its occupants) safely back on board.
Radio comms intermingle with the industrial hum of the A-frame as the 17-ton submersible rises up out of the water. Once Alvin is secured on deck, I watch the movements of today’s launch coordinator, Danik Forsman, closely. After he opens the hatch and inserts the small metal ladder, he signals for me to come up the stairs.
“Just be careful,” he says, pointing to where I should stand on top of Alvin. “You don’t want to fall from up here.”
I nod and lean over the open hatch. Looking directly down into the sub, I can see Rosa León Zayas, a deep sea microbiologist and member of our science team, starting to make her way up the ladder. When she reaches the top, I say, “Welcome back! Stay right there for just a second.” Then I raise my camera and snap a photo.
On any given day, Rosa can light up a room with her effervescent energy. But the expression on her face right now is nothing short of elation. Over the next month, I will capture this moment again and again — the radiant joy of a scientist who has just spent the day exploring the ocean floor.
Rosa Leon Zayas emerges from her first dive in Alvin on July 27th, 2022. Along with Chief Scientist Adam Soule and pilot Bruce Strickrott, Rosa traveled to a depth of 6,015 meters in the Puerto Rico Trench.
07.28.2022
Peering through the thick pane of glass, I point my camera towards the bow. When the shutter clicks, I capture an image similar to hundreds of others I’ve taken over the past few years. The redundancy doesn’t bother me though. No matter what ship I’m on, I always enjoy photographing the views of wide open ocean and massive skies from the bridge.
I press the playback button and peer at the image on my screen.
“Well, it’s not the best sunrise I’ve ever seen, but it’s still cool.”
Marian Tudoran, the chief mate, looks up from the logbook.
“What’s the best sunrise you’ve ever seen?”
Dozens of images flash through my mind — from Lagos, Portugal to Sydney, Australia to Radio Island, North Carolina.
“I don’t know… there are so many.”
I immediately feel dumb.
Marian grins. “I think the best sunrise is whatever one you’re watching,” he says. “If you’re watching the sunrise, it’s the best.”
With that simple statement, I am promptly reminded why I love working with sailors.
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07.30.2022
I could listen to Tim Shank talk all day. As a biologist who has spent decades working at WHOI, Tim has plenty of knowledge to share about the deep ocean. But right now we’re standing on the aft deck, talking about our beloved alma mater, UNC Chapel Hill. The warm twang of Tim’s eastern North Carolina accent sounds like home. He tells me about going to UNC at the same time as Michael Jordan.
“You know, I’ve never met another person from North Carolina at sea,” I say.
“Me neither!” says Tim. “We’re few and far between.”
After the sun dips below the horizon, I sit with Ken Rubin, watching the last light of the day melt into the night sky. Whenever I talk to Ken, it feels like I’m hanging out with an older version of my dear friend, Michael Juberg. We talk about Hawaii, where Ken has lived and worked for the past 30 years. We discuss some of the challenges — living in paradise isn’t always easy. And even after many decades there, Ken is careful to avoid the claim that he is from Hawaii (he originally hails from Southern California).
Our conversation shifts from Hawaii to other lovely places, like California, Oregon, and Washington. I tell Ken about my love of the Cascades, and we spend some time chatting about the volcanism in that region. As we exchange stories from that enchanting (and geologically fascinating) corner of the planet, I’m reminded of a passage Kate Harris wrote in her book, Land of Lost Borders:
After traveling long and far enough every mountain reminds you of another mountain, every river summons another river, and you learn enough landmarks by which to love the whole world.
The gregarious Tim Shank, deep sea biologist and true blue Tar Heel.
The electrifying Ken Rubin, volcanologist and bona fide free spirit.
08.03.2022
While Alvin spends hours on the seafloor, I spend hours at my desk in the main lab, editing photos. I pull an image that I took on the aft deck into Photoshop and begin running through my typical editing routine. But then, just for fun, I change the color settings to make the photo black and white.
“Damn — that’s a great photo.”
Our Bosun, Edward “Catfish” Popowitz, is standing behind me, looking over my shoulder at the image on my laptop. Catfish isn’t one to dish out praise — he is a salty sailor with an abrasive demeanor. I’ve been trying to get on his good side though — I always politely ask him when and where I can stand on the aft deck during operations, and I make it a point to smile at him when he’s scowling.
Right now, however, Catfish is grinning.
“You should print that,” he says, pointing to the photo on my screen. “I want to put that on my wall.”
Karen Romano Young leans over to take a look as well. “It looks like a band photo,” she says.
After some brief discussion, we decide the band would be called Catfish and the Bottom Trawlers. And it would be a bluegrass group, obviously.
From left to right: Cessa, Nuemann, Roscoe, and Catfish — looking cool as hell as they wait for Alvin to be deployed off the aft deck.
08.13.2022
Sharing a desk with Karen has been one of my favorite parts of this expedition. I can’t draw to save my life, but day after day, I watch Karen churn out beautiful, intricate illustrations. For me, working as a full-time freelancer for the better part of five years has come with its fair share of low periods and dips in creativity. But working alongside Karen has had the opposite effect — her creativity and camaraderie fuel me to do better work. Whenever she asks for my opinion on color choices or illustration details, I feel honored and inspired.
The expedition photographer and the artist-at-sea, creating masterpieces of each other.
I also appreciate Karen’s insatiable love of the open ocean — she never misses a sunrise out here. When I’m not taking photos from the bridge or the aft deck, I occasionally join Karen for some early morning coffee and conversation.
This morning we’re sitting together on the bow, talking about all the ships we’ve worked on and different expeditions we’ve joined.
Karen’s warm voice has a soothing cadence that sounds calming and encouraging — it’s easy to tell she’s a good mom. But she is also a badass. She tells me she has been going to sea for 17 years.
“It’s become a second home,” she says. “The feeling of being in the middle of the ocean has a certain familiarity and comfort.”
I love the ease that accompanies these words. It’s like I can see Karen relax into the rhythm of the ocean as she talks about it. I’ve often wondered if or when I might cease to do expedition work at sea. Perhaps one day I will get burnt out? Perhaps I will find some other work I enjoy doing more?
Or perhaps not. Maybe I’ll be like Karen — and continue to go to sea (and love it) for decades to come.
08.17.2022
It’s just after 6am, and I’ve been awake for almost an hour. At this point, the accumulated sleep-deprivation and exhaustion feel normal, and attempting to sleep in would be futile. I like this feeling though — being immersed in my work, juggling dozens of tasks, and producing a lot of content every day. When I get home, my daily pace of life will downshift dramatically. For now, I savor the high-octane energy.
I sit at my desk in the main lab, drinking coffee, editing video footage, and relishing the quiet stillness. Two hours from now, this large space will be full of people bustling about. But for now, it feels like a void. I’m taking another big sip of coffee when the silence is suddenly interrupted by the lab phone ringing. I get up to answer it.
“Main Lab — this is Marley.”
“Hey Marley, it’s Marian. Just wanted to let you know it looks like the sunrise is going to be pretty epic — lots of blues and reds.”
I love when the guys on the bridge call just to tell me the sky looks cool. A few days ago, Captain Derek Bergeron phoned the lab to give me a heads up about heat lightning off the bow.
I close my laptop and grab my camera. “Can I come up to the bridge?”
“Please do.”
When Sam Jacobs smiles I think he looks just like Christopher McCandless.
Chief Mate Marian Tudoran laughing at Sam.
Sixty seconds later, I join Marian and Sam — they are in the middle of a conversation about traveling. Sam is talking about the stresses associated with navigating airports. I smile at the charming nature of his youthful anxieties, then step outside. The fresh morning air envelopes me as I take in the vibrant sky peppered with lines of tiny clouds. For once, my camera lens doesn’t fog up from the humidity, and I shoot one of my favorite photos yet — a vivid reflection in the port side windows.
The past month has included the best weather and calmest conditions I’ve ever experienced at sea. I have worked in the Pacific, the Southern Ocean, and the North Atlantic, but nothing compares to the colors and tranquility of the Caribbean.
When I come back inside, Sam is shaking his head in disbelief. “Right here at the end, we finally get a good sunrise!”
Marian and I roll our eyes. This kid.
I stare out the window, knowing this view is one of the things I will miss the most when we return to land in two days. I think about the thousands of photos I’ve taken over the past few weeks. While I have loved capturing the dramatic skylines out here, my favorite images from this expedition have been of people. The expressions of pure joy as divers climb out of Alvin. The pensive gaze of crew members staring at the horizon. The fascination (and sometimes disbelief) on the faces of Tim, Ken, and other scientists as they examine their samples from the seafloor.
I recall how I felt during my first few days aboard Atlantis, trying to find my way around the ship, trying to make a decent first impression with so many new people, and trying to prove myself worthy of working with this highly skilled and specialized team. It suddenly hits me that I don’t have to try any more. Now I can simply enjoy being with my shipmates and appreciate the unique bond that forms from going to sea together.
As I turn away from the sky to snap a few photos of Marian and Sam, I feel relaxed and happy. I know they are not perturbed by the click of my camera. I know I could spend hours talking with them (and many other people here) and never get bored. I know I want to work on this ship again.
That knowledge fills me with a sense of satisfaction and contentment. Like I am exactly where I should be.
Like home.
Watching sunrise over the ocean is the best. Always.