(Feb 15-25, 2026)
Weather in the South Pacific over our final days at sea tested both our balance and our gastrointestinal fortitude. Days under grey skies and rough seas are mentally taxing. Most of us operated at something approaching half our normal cognitive capacity. Under these conditions, a mediocre scientist like myself cannot be trusted to operate a calculator without supervision. Some of the more marginal Korean fare—spicy octopus and bony fish fillets—became increasingly intolerable. And, as if on cue, they served one final round of fish gut soup.
I ate many bowls of rice and kept a low profile those last few days.
That is not to say the Araon community relinquished its vibrant character entirely. Minimal work obligations created space for sharing. We learned to play Yut Nori—a traditional Korean board game popular during the Lunar New Year—with several Korean scientists. Evie and Tiffany unveiled the culmination of a passion project that had quietly occupied their cabin for weeks. What began as mutual encouragement to stay hydrated evolved into the collection of labels from the Sam Da Soo water bottles we all consumed onboard. By the voyage’s end, 743 labels covered every wall, ceiling, and door of their cabin like a kind of eccentric wallpaper. Whether this was creative expression or a subtle cry for help remains unclear—but these are the sorts of things that happen when you confine smart, creative people at sea long enough.
Then, on February 19, we woke to the sight of land. Real land—with trees and grass and rocks. Not vast expanses of ice masquerading as land. It was warm, and the sun was shining. Spirits lifted as many of us gathered on the bow to watch the choreography of bringing the Araon into harbor. A pilot boarded from a small yellow speedboat and guided us through the channel as tugboats nudged the vessel gently into its berth.
Setting your feet on land after months at sea feels surreal. Even after the motion stops, your brain takes time to accept the memo. I felt unsteady for hours—a sensation perhaps accelerated by an immediate visit to a local brewery conveniently located a few blocks from port. And despite sleeping in a perfectly still Christchurch hotel bed, I woke several nights to the phantom rocking of my Araon bunk.
Unsteady footing on solid ground was not the only divergence awaiting us ashore. All of us were pivoting toward whatever came next. Some anticipated vacations while others faced long journeys home across the globe. We longed for friends and family who had felt impossibly distant for two months. Yet alongside excitement was discomfort. The Araon had become our self-contained bubble. Encountering strangers in bars, restaurants, or even on the sidewalk felt oddly foreign—like a penguin amongst polar bears. Still, I noticed no one rushing back to the ship for dinner that evening.
I balanced socializing and final goodbyes with my own introversion. As WhatsApp chats filled with dinner plans and group activities, I rented a mountain bike from a small shop near my hotel and rode alone into the hills south of Christchurch. The trails—both mapped and improvised—threaded through sheep grazing country. After cresting a ridgeline and descending toward a small coastal town, I realized how confined I had felt aboard the 119-meter Araon in the middle of the Southern Ocean. For the first time in nearly two months, I could choose a direction without constraint. I made plenty of wrong turns, happily carrying the bike over rocky outcrops while sheep watched with mild curiosity.
I returned refreshed, smiling broadly when I met shipmates for dinner that evening. Though I enjoyed reminiscing and wishing everyone well, my introverted social battery remained only partially recharged. Around ten o’clock, I retreated from the ice nerd gathering like a berg calving from the ice shelf. No one noticed as I broke away and drifted back across town to my room. Half my beer remained on the table.
On the walk back, I passed the Distinction Hotel—the same building that had served as my quarantine facility during the COVID pandemic four years earlier. Now it looked entirely ordinary, filled with carefree tourists. My stay there was like an oddly comfortable prison sentence before my first Antarctic voyage in 2022, when New Zealand permitted our entry only as an exception to strict public health policies. One teammate developed COVID en route, becoming one of the country’s first documented Omicron cases. Remembering it all sent a brief chill through an otherwise warm Christchurch evening.
It felt symbolic of the immense costs of these expeditions. The intent of the work is unquestionably good, but reflection on whether the benefits outweigh the costs feels appropriate. That calculation is complex and deeply personal—and ultimately has to balance positively for each participant.
Much of this blog has made lighthearted fun of life at sea, but those inconveniences are only the tip of the iceberg.
We are scientists concerned about carbon emissions and sea-level rise. Yet we flew here from across the globe and burned more than a million pounds of diesel aboard the Araon—roughly equivalent to the annual fuel consumption of three to four hundred American family cars. The additional tons of helicopter jet fuel barely register by comparison.
There are personal costs as well. My fiancée effectively planned a wedding without me. Others left young children and partners managing life alone for months. No one wishes that burden on the people they love.
For me, the benefits feel more complex, and it took another week of introspection to begin putting them in context.
As a mediocre scientist, I will likely publish a few papers read by a small audience of similarly minded data wranglers. Perhaps the findings will help someone else’s research, inspiring further work and a slightly deeper understanding of complex geophysical systems. I also helped collect data for collaborators pursuing questions far beyond my own expertise. I value being part of research that serves many purposes simultaneously.
Professionally, these outputs become metrics—citations, presentations, lines on a CV. They are considered success. Yet I have never found much personal meaning in achievements defined solely by career advancement. I would not choose a life at sea if the only benefit is more publications.
What I want is work that matters beyond myself.
My proudest professional moments—on land or at sea—come when I help someone discover joy outside their comfort zone. As a guide, I hope clients ski terrain that once intimidated them, learn to camp in unfamiliar places, or see a bear up close (though not too close) for the first time.
Two members of my field team boarded the Araon as ambitious but inexperienced researchers. They felt success and frustration, saw things that inspired them, and disembarked wanting something more. I also hope I influenced the experience for several other young researchers in some small and (hopefully) positive ways.
Perhaps they will remain in science; perhaps they will not. Either outcome is fine. What matters is that their worlds grew a little larger over these months. They will be better people doing more important things as a result. I like to think there was value in being a small part of that.
Writing this blog has also pushed me outside my own comfort zone. Vulnerability has never come naturally to me, and I do not generally seek attention. Still, sharing these experiences has been unexpectedly rewarding. I hope it has been at least mildly entertaining for someone out there. Maybe telling these stories makes the science feel more real. Maybe it inspires someone.
Christine has already asked whether I plan to return for another season. For now, I am simply glad to be leaving Christchurch on an airplane rather than the Araon. The most honest answer I have right now is: I don’t know. Life has a way of reshaping what matters. Whatever comes next, the benefits will have to outweigh the costs.
If you’ve made it this far, I’d love to hear from you. Please reach out.
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