Woods Hole

The RV Knorr

My adventure starts in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, a small beach town on Cape Cod. It is also the home port of the RV Knorr, a research vessel. I'll be living on board and traversing the seas around Northern Canada and Greenland for 2 1/2 months to take atmospheric measurements.

Beautiful Woods Hole 

The instrument I'd be using had spent its summer sampling pine tree emissions in the Great Smokey Mountains. I had three very short weeks in August to prepare. The day it was wheeled back into lab, I threw myself into another gear. I'd arrive almost every day as the sun came up and stay past sundown.

I'd been waiting for this moment for three years and part of me was thrilled to start my adventure. The other part was highly stressed, over caffeinated and barking at customer service representatives, "I need it by September or it will literally miss the boat!"

The instrument (left) in the "lab", which is
 actually just a fancy shipping container.

Everything ended up getting completed but I still felt hurried and rushed. As shipment day approached and the stress mounted, I would imagine the truck driver that would drive my equipment to the East Coast being a narcoleptic, meth addict. On particularly bad days, I would imagine a sinkhole opening up across the I-80 swallowing the truck whole. The driver always had enough time to make his cowardly escape.

When shipment day arrived, I was relieved to crate up my instrument along with four 200 lb watertight plastic crates and a dozen cardboard boxes. This collection of pumps, tools and electronics would wait for me at Woods Hole until I arrived to load them on the ship.

With my instrument gone, I finally had time to think about getting myself ready to live at sea. I made several euphoric trips to REI to fill out my Southern California wardrobe for the Arctic in November. I stuffed a gallon-size Ziploc full of Dramamine, Bonine, ginger candies and acupuncture bands. I ordered a few paperbacks about adventure and character-building struggle. I downloaded scores of scientific articles that I imagined myself poring through on the ship as I drank hot cups of tea and stared thoughtfully out at the horizon. I started to calm down. I even started to feel excited.

The lab being set down ever so gently.

Early one morning, I had bleary eyed greeting with Matt, a postdoc from our lab, at the airport. After a short flight to Phoenix, then Logan and two hours in an economy sub-compact, we arrived in Falmouth late that night. We checked into our respective rooms at the slightly mildewy Mariner's Motel and tried to get some rest. It was time to get down to business.

Neither of us had ever done research on a ship before, so we'd given ourselves a week to create a sea-worthy laboratory from the boxes I'd shipped. The laboratory itself is actually just a shipping container with power outlets and fire extinguishers. We had it on loan from the University of Delaware and it was waiting for us in the shipyard along with my boxes.

After a few days of unpacking, I watched with a clenched jaw as the container was forklifted and then craned several stories in the air before it was set gently onto the ship's deck in front. There, it was bolted  into the ship's frame so it would survive the heavy seas we'd be sure to see.

Did I mention I'm terrified of heights?

Next, we installed a long set of tubes up the length of the mast of the ship. We'd use these to sample clean Arctic air and avoid sampling the ship's own diesel exhaust.

My inlet is a bit complicated, so before I knew it a hardhat was plunked on my head and I was scooted up the mast in a cherry picker. Now I was dangling from the same crane that was carrying our lab not too long ago. Hands shaking, I installed my inlet to the mast and reminded myself to bring back the crane operator a tasteful gift from Greenland.

With my feet back on the ground, the rest of the week became a blur. For one night, we took a pause to try some delicious English ales at the British Brewing Company. A college friend joined us to toast the untimely coincidence of my 30th birthday just three days before my departure.

All week Matt battled with important but mundane, soul-sucking tasks so I could focus on slightly more interesting scientific problems. Slowly together, we brought the instrument up to working condition.

The night before we left, I moved all my belongings on to the ship. I decided to spend my last night on shore in the Mariner's. I lay in my bed trying to imprint into my body what solid ground felt like. I didn't sleep a wink.

Who needs sleep when you have sunshine?

The next morning, I was greeted with beautiful blue skies, puffy clouds and optimistic sunshine that mocked my sleepless worry.

From the 02 deck, I caught a glimpse of a few of the crew arriving at ship yard driven by their friends and loved ones. Everyone was soaking in the last few moments together. I tried to do the same and started texting my family and friends.

At 9:30 AM, Matt and I said our own farewells. I thanked him for all his help. We posed gamely for photos in front of the ship, and he scampered off to enjoy the twelve hours he had left on Cape Cod before he'd fly back to San Diego.

An hour later, the ship's engines rumbled on. I dropped my tools and went to the deck to see the shore retreating. I leaned into the railing and waved goodbye to no one in particular. We were off.

Sunset, on the first day