On the Way to Mangareva

Ahoy, mateys! Marine Maya here with another blog update. We’ve been quite busy on the ship during this long leg south to Mangareva and have unfortunately been neglecting the blog…hopefully this update will satisfy your curiosity about how life on the Bobby C has been as of late.

We set sail from Nuku Hiva in the Marquesas on the morning of the 21st, and since then have been heading steadily southeast towards Mangareva in the Gambier Islands. Our 36 hours or so in the Marquesas were truly a dream. Early morning boat shuttles captained by our mate and trusty engineer (thanks, Vuk and JP!) took us to the island, and we split into a few large groups to go explore.

We wandered along the main street up from the humble harbor and marveled at the lush, almost overwhelming greenness of the forests of Nuku Hiva. After about 5 days in transit on the open sea, all this greenery was a welcome sight. Some of us split off to do some birding, others ventured to the plateau on the other side of the island (home, apparently, to cattle ranches reminiscent of Northern Germany), and still others walked the road in search of a nearby hiking trail. Of course, we had to stop at a local convenience store for some 0900 ice cream bars (ice cream procurement was one of our central goals during this port stop).

A group of about 5 of us (myself included) took a trail up a hill, through a neighborhood, and down a steep incline to a rocky, volcanic beach. The surf was intense, but after our hour- and-a-half-long hike in stifling heat and humidity, we were dripping with sweat and desperate to dip our toes. The water in French Polynesia is extremely inviting—there’s no “getting used to” its perfectly refreshing temperature. It’s clear as crystal, and warm, and burns with salt. As we waded in, we screamed and laughed with joy mixed with a tiny bit of fear of the heaving swell.

These days on land—we’ve had a total of about 4 port stop days in Rangiroa and Nuku Hiva combined—are indescribably heavenly. We work hard on the daily (as some of the previous blog posts have elucidated), and port stop days off feel like the best possible combination of a weekend, holiday, and summer vacation. Frolicking in the tropics with close friends, wandering freely without the watchful eyes of mates and professors, and standing on solid ground!? What a life.

Even during port stops, those of us on dawn watch still stand anchor watch intermittently between normal watch hours (0100-0700 – the graveyard shift), but only for about 1.5 hours at a time rather than the full 6. At the Nuku Hiva port stop, I begrudgingly awoke for my 0230-0400 shift and stumbled to the quarter deck, trying desperately to remain as unconscious as I could while maintaining all necessary motor skills so I could seamlessly drop into bed at 0401.

What I did not expect to find on the quarter deck, among the silent, blinking harbor lights and looming mountain shadows, was an illuminated pool of light shining off the starboard side. Someone had hung a floodlight off the deck, and an undulating school of pink plankton fluttered around it like moths. Curiously—and as far as I know, still unexplained by scientists—a vast diversity of ocean critters is attracted to bright light at night. Fish, plankton, squid, worms, and various other slimy/boneless/toothy creatures dance around it like a disco ball. And with this aggregation of the bottom of the food chain, of course, comes its predators.

Suddenly, a white blob appeared a few meters below the surface. It looked massive and mysterious, like the shadow of a cloud. Slowly, it came into sharp relief. Wings. A long, thin tail. A dark gray back mottled with white streaks. A glorious, six-foot-across manta ray. As she reached the surface, she bucked and flipped, looping and scooping the massive zooplankton cloud beneath her large gill flaps. The perfect midnight snack, and an absolutely breathtaking marine acrobatics show for a humble audience of 3—me, Matt (our watch officer), and Josh.

In my early morning stupor, this visitation literally felt like seeing God. I’d seen mantas before, but not like this--at the witching hour, about a million miles from home. I’ll admit that I was holding back tears. This was a sight that will stick with me for a long time.

There have been several moments like this throughout the trip. At sea, emotions of all kinds run high, and are constantly bubbling near the surface. Nick, another one of our deck mates, I think said it best: “Simply existing on the boat is exhausting.” It’s difficult to comprehend how true this statement is until you’ve lived it yourself. From the moment you wake up every morning to the second your head hits the pillow (and even, debatably, while you’re sleeping), your mind and body must cope with a moving world.

Some wise member of the ship’s company taught me that the reason seasickness happens is because your body is so disoriented it thinks it’s been poisoned. Even weeks after boarding the ship, we all occasionally find ourselves being thrown against a wall, or a deck box, or the starboard generator when the boat crests a particularly gnarly wave. We trip and stumble around, heavy with tiredness or dehydration or queasiness. Never have I so often prayed to my own mind: “Please, please, please just get me through this.”

And so far, it has. But that doesn’t mean I’m immune to sobbing at the sight of a breathtaking sunset or feeling particularly frustrated with a maddeningly simple lab task. However, I feel far from alone in this--we’ve all been open with each other about the bodily challenge of living on a ship, and our mates (bless them) have been unceasingly kind and empathetic to our grumbles.

Between the hours of hard work and sleep, we still make plenty of time for fun on the boat. We call the evenings after afternoon watches our “Local Apparent Fridays” (because of the “normal” sleep we’ll get that night before waking up at 0600 for morning watch) and spend them playing games or jamming on guitars. As a proud member of B Watch, I must say that our “LAFs” have been some of the best. I asked Elisabeth (another Bwatcher) for a quote about her highlight of the trip, which encapsulates this quite well:    

“It’s been really wonderful how creative this trip has been. One of my favorite moments was when Matt [our watch officer] was playing guitar and our whole watch was singing whatever songs he had the tabs for as we sat in a circle on the deck under a bright Milky Way. It just made me feel like this is exactly where I’m supposed to be right now.”

There’s no other word for these times than “sacred.” Like the sunrises and sunsets, and the spotting of a frigatebird off the quarter deck, and the first sighting of land, and the tang of a raspberry-cream-mint smoothie, and the laughs shared at twilight. These moments are the ones I’ll remember long after I depart the Robert C. Seamans.

Saltily yours,

Maya