(Dec 27, 2025)
The note on the ship’s whiteboard next to the galley indicated a safety briefing at 1300. I assumed that would indicate departure just afterward. I was reminded, as usual, what happens when you assume. The ship started moving at 10am, shortly after breakfast. I barely had time to make a quick goodbye call to Christine, knowing connectivity will be spotty at best for a while. She was visiting family friends after Christmas, but I did manage to catch her. It still feels a little strange how there’s this parallel life that carries on quite happily without you.
There’s a certain amount of theater involved in a vessel leaving port. Tugboats appear to carefully coax the ship away from the dock. The Araon’s captain doesn’t actually drive the ship out of harbor—that job belongs to a harbor pilot. He steers us down the channel toward open ocean, where a bright yellow speedboat pulls up alongside the Araon’s portside stern (back right, for the land-loving). The pilot hops off our ship and onto the yellow boat… and just like that, we’re on our way. It seems like a pretty appealing job, if you’re headed into the maritime trades: drive big-ass ships in and out of harbor, then go home for dinner.
I remember the “hectors” from my last cruise—tiny dolphins that play alongside the boat while we’re still in protected water. They look and behave just like the dolphins we’re familiar with in the U.S., but I’d guess they’re about half the size. The Kiwis call them hectors. I’m not entirely sure whether that’s their actual name or just local shorthand, but they don’t seem to mind either way.
Most of the scientists watch the spectacle from the bow deck. For many, it’s all brand new—but even those of us who’ve been here before savor these last glimpses of dry land and warm weather. I brought Jason and Jesse up to the balcony on the bridge deck for a while. I always liked the elevated perspective on my last cruise. It brings back memories, and maybe a little misplaced confidence.
Lunch is part of the boat’s unchanging routine: 11am, every day. Like many aspects of life onboard, food is more than nourishment—it’s also an opportunity to gather and build a sense of community with your fellow shipmates. I spend lunch talking with a fellow US based researcher from who was also on my last cruise. I remember him as gregarious and generally friendly, but like a lot of us, he seems to be running his own parallel mental simulator. He asks whether Montana is near Arkansas and if I work on a farm. Reminded me of my niece who was convinced that Florida and California are adjacent on a map. The exchange doesn’t do much to alter my impressions.
By 16:30, we’ve had a safety briefing from the crew, an introduction meeting with all the science passengers, and a long group meeting with our four-person team. I’m thoroughly meeting’d out and let my inner introvert take the wheel. I spend some time alone on the heli deck. The weather is ideal—sunny, partly cloudy, a cool breeze, and calm seas. We’re about 70 miles offshore now, and the only sign of land is the albatross circling in the wake behind the ship. I assume the boat churns up fish for an easy meal. Several of the massive birds skim inches above the water, tracing the waves alongside us. They’re mesmerizing to watch.
I vividly remember the color of the open ocean from last time. Christchurch harbor is a beautiful turquoise, but by now that has given way to a deep midnight blue. It’s one of the things I’ll always carry with me from these journeys—it’s hard to convey just how intensely dark and beautiful the ocean becomes when you’re way out at sea.
The “career path” that got me here – I use that term loosely – has been indirect. I often tell people I’m still trying to figure out what I want to do when I grow up. During my 15 or so years in consulting, we sometimes said (semi-jokingly): “fake it till you make it.” That feels uncomfortably relevant now, as I consider myself a mediocre scientist. Not because I lack ability, but because I don’t share the same enthusiasm I observe in many of my peers for unconstrained hypothesis generation. I’m far too rational for that. They all seem to find inspiration at scientific conferences and relish in reading journal articles. I tend to nod off somewhere between the Abstract and Figure 1. Sometimes I wonder if I’m “faking” too much, or if I’ll really “make” it at all.
One thing I’ve always loved about the outdoors is the reminder of how small and insignificant we are. I find that feeling incredibly freeing. It’s part of why I love the mountains, camping, and being outside in general. Today, the ocean makes me feel especially small. It covers most of our planet, and it’s vast in a way that resists understatement. Yet it’s something so few of us ever truly experience. Tonight the sea is calm, almost glassy, as the sun sets. I hope that lasts (it probably won’t). It’s strange to think this is one of the last sunsets I’ll see for a few months—as we sail south and east, the sunsets will stretch later and later until they disappear altogether.
Leave a Reply