Monday August 9, 2004 22:35:33
GMT, 3:35pm shiptime
Welker Seamount, 54N 140W
Just got the news from Peter - I am scheduled
for an Alvin dive on Wednesday, something
I've dreamed about since I first came
out on the Atlantis two years ago. It
will be the last dive here at Welker,
and should be shallow which usually means
maximum biology. Wow. Can't quite believe
it's happening. It's going to be kind
of hard to concentrate on anything else
until that happens, but there is a lot
to be done. This morning, from 3am til
6am, I did my first sea-beam watch. (If
you haven't seen my previous logs, sea-beam
is nocturnal mapping of the seafloor using
sound waves). It's important to sea-beam
at a new seamount, to give us information
to plan the Alvin dive.
So I struggled awake at 2:30am, dressed
as quietly as possible so as not to disturb
my roommate, and headed downstairs. Fortified
with coffee, I joined Jason in the computer
lab. Jason is an amiable marine geologist
who has the great good fortune to originate
from my home town...Brisbane! And while
it is not uncommon to come across Australians
in my travels, it is rare to find a Brisbanite.
The duties of the sea-beam watch are not
that onerous, basically just noting the
start time, heading, and coordinates of
each of the pre-arranged waypoints. So
Jason and I had plenty of time to reminisce
about Brisbane (chiefly our student drinking
haunts), and sift through the ship's MP3
collection, looking for Australian music.
I did get a demonstration of "ping
editing", which is removing the anomalous
data points from the sea-beam data. Jason
does this at lightning speed, the mouse
hovering over errant points and flagging
them red. Bad data points arise from,
among other things, bad weather, and the
wind and waves here at Welker have given
us some pretty bad data.
There was a really peaceful feeling around
the ship at that time in the morning.
I went out on main deck by the day room
for a few minutes. After my eyes got used
to the dark, I could make out the white
foam of the wake, and turned my face up
to the gentle rain. A thin band of light
above the horizon where the sun was trying
to make a sunrise. Ghostly shape of the
CTD lit up by light from the rock lab.
Gentle rocking of the ship, and cold seeping
through where my elbows were propped up
on the metal of the ship. Soon afterwards
the ship started to wake up. People drifted
in with coffee in hand, and there was
a general hum around the place.
It was a nasty Alvin recovery yesterday.
Some really big waves, the sea anchor
all wrapped around the basket, swimmers
having a really hard time hanging on to
the sub. They got a round of applause
when the A-frame finally locked on. Then
the sun came out and there was that wonderful
combination of sunlit water and dark dark
skies. We are hoping for an easier recovery
today.
This afternoon was Crab Fiesta. The "elevator"
(a metal platform with two crab traps
attached, baited with cat food) had been
lowered the night before, and triggered
to rise to the surface today. It was hauled
out of the water with heaps of spindly
spider crabs, their skinny orange legs
seeming too feeble to support their bodies.
Somebody asked about the fearsome-looking
spiky horns on top of the crab's front
end, and John told us that they were called
(I think) the rostrum, and were used by
the crabs as part of their mating behaviour.
He used the word "nuzzling",
which seems a kind of unlikely verb for
such mean-looking appendages.
The copious crab haul today, compared
to a lone crab victim from an elevator
a couple of days back, may be due to the
change in bait from catfish to tuna. I
can empathize with the crabs; given the
choice, I would go for the tuna too, rather
than muddy old catfish.
Sub will be up in half an hour, so I'll
sign off now.
Best wishes to all,
Naomi
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