(Jan 13-16, 2026)
With gloomy weather forecast for the next several days, we departed our icy harbor amid the massive icebergs that once formed the Thwaites Ice Shelf. Our destination was the polynya of Pine Island Bay, where the physical oceanography team would collect CTD (conductivity, temperature, depth) profiles and deploy moorings— instruments left behind to quietly record the ocean’s mood over time.
For many of us whose land-based work requires aircraft and good weather, we are now literally and figuratively grounded. This marked a period when the pace of work slowed to a crawl.
Research is slow, methodical work: mostly finding faint signals in a vast sea of noise. The whole point of being here is to collect data, at enormous personal and monetary cost. My own team of four will spend nearly two months at sea. We endured twelve days of transit from Christchurch to the Amundsen Sea. When weather and schedules align, we mount extremely expensive instruments to a helicopter. If that helicopter flies for even three or four productive days over Antarctic glacier ice, we consider the season a success.
Surrounding those precious few days is a lot of time for reflection.
Although scientific data is the prize we came for, sometimes the data we covert most is the kind we usually take for granted. We’re all grateful for a (somewhat) functional internet connection, but the challenges are real. The ship’s 30–40 Wi-Fi networks—each requiring repeated login attempts—feel like a Rube Goldberg machine with worse documentation. You learn not to move more than a few steps during a WhatsApp call with loved ones, and even then it will drop out a few times. Streaming is mostly blocked, though some of the more savvy among us (not me) have engineered elaborate workarounds. Social media access is restricted—a blessing or a curse, depending on who you ask. Forget downloading music, apps, or system updates. We all compulsively check our monthly data allotment, hoping some sneaky background process hasn’t quietly devoured a few gigabytes.
Given our special relationship with data, these restrictions could drive a group of bored nerds to mutiny. Instead, the frustration tends to give way to creativity. I’ve watched nearly everyone dig into a hobby—some long-standing, others newly adopted. Remember the early days of the COVID pandemic, when everyone suddenly became very serious about sourdough? It’s a little like that here.
My favorite example is Jason, who has led a small contingent into a mild obsession with ping pong. This has mercifully diverted some of the energy he once devoted to Mt. Takahe, a volcano adjacent to Thwaites Glacier and the subject of his undergraduate honors thesis. Jason can, without encouragement, talk for hours about the eruption history of this seemingly obscure peak.
And, as in any profession, there are those who remain passionately devoted to their work. Jamin and team are a poignant example. He arrived with a prototype helicopter-deployable oceanographic instrument, the product of a journey that began four years ago during my last trip aboard Araon. This platform is his baby—funded through persistence, creativity, and a patchwork of grants. I understand his drive. We all share it on some level, rooted in a hope that the climate data we collect will matter. Perhaps the fact that Jamin has a three-month-old daughter back home adds just a little extra urgency.
But table tennis and volcanoes are only the beginning. There’s a lively crossword puzzle collective (is this frowned upon by purists?). Dan has a real talent for pen-and-ink drawings. I’ve taken up personal writing—a pleasant reprieve from the paper shredder of scientific peer review. Many of us have become amateur Antarctic wildlife enthusiasts. Tiffany and Evie have turned the brand labels from Jeju Island bottled water into wallpaper. Evie also crochets hats—many hats. Brenna does cross-stitch. Jesse runs an Instagram account devoted solely to the view from his cabin scuttle (that’s a window, for you dry-landers). Romane is teaching Jesse to knit, though progress appears… incremental.
Regardless of our motivations, I think these slower times are an opportunity to connect our brains to something engaging to each of us. A chance to find signals in the noise.
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