I received a request to write about the stars at sea, and funnily enough, even before receiving this request, I had spent the last few days thinking on how exactly I wanted to address my adoration for the night sky. I lack a camera that can capture pictures of stars, so please enjoy one of the sunsets I saw in the Atlantic. As I move through life, I’m always forgetting to look at the ground in front of my feet. I trip over air, run into every possible surface of a boat when sailing, and generally am a bit clumsy. If I’m at the beach, I’m looking out to sea, hoping for a marine mammal spotting, maybe a spectacular wave, or lately, wondering what lies beyond that horizon and how I can chase that line. At night I feel drawn towards the night sky. I will be the first to admit that I’m not all that great at finding constellations, and yet something about gazing up at the blanket of stars is both comforting and mind-bogglingly big (to quote a favorite author). I find a bizarre contentment in my own insignificance on this planet and my love of the stars really leans into that feeling. Something about the realization of just how small we are on this planet really comes into sharp focus when I’m offshore. Your world shrinks to the size of your ship – in the case of the Ron Brown, it feels like I’ve known everyone on board my whole life – and three-hundred-odd feet feels limiting when there isn’t all that much time spent alone. Shockingly, I don’t find it claustrophobic or suffocating, but there is always the realization of just how large the oceans are when your entire home floats and gets knocked around by the forces of the seas. Night after night from the day we left Miami, the volunteers of my oceanography lab group set out on deck in search of beautiful constellations, excited to have left a huge urban area behind us. Instead, we were greeted with thick clouds, patchy clouds, and a few chilly breezes that sent us scurrying back inside the ship in search of sweatshirts and sleep. The first night a celestial body caught my attention was while we were conducting one of our CTDs off the Cape Verde islands. I beat the survey technician I was working with to the deck and was greeted by warm tropical air and darkness along the starboard side of the ship. A cheeky crescent moon grinned down at me from above the sea and I remember holding onto the ship and grinning right back. Most of my late nights on the Ron Brown have been spent by behaving slightly silly, as I am wont to do in situations with little sleep/less sleep than I would like – particularly when it’s a self-imposed lack of sleep. During the course of our CTD survey, I have danced with the stars on deck, sang to them and the sea, and glared menacingly at clouds that had the audacity to block my view of the heavens. On Valentine’s Day, we had our final major operation for this cruise. We replaced a moored buoy and conducted our last CTD cast. To ensure that the installation of a moored buoy is successful, we always do a flyby: checking to see how it’s sitting in the water, making sure that all of the sensors are working – what you would expect from an inspection of a scientific sensor. The operations took us into the evening and as we were making our approach toward the buoy, I stood on deck in the dark and sought out Orion’s Belt – the only constellation I can consistently locate in the night sky. I feel as though I anchor myself in this world in relation to Orion – there’s something so comforting about the consistency of looking up and finding the stars exactly where they should be. Luckily for me, my anchor can be seen from anywhere in the world, since the constellation Orion resides near the Equator. I was unable to locate the Southern Cross during our brief foray into summer and the Southern Hemisphere, but a sky full of stars unmarred by the artificial light of the cities I’ve grown up in has made this trip absolutely unforgettable. Thanks are due to Josh for the reminder to go outside and look at the stars. I spent much of 2020 feeling untethered and lost in this crazy pandemic world, but I had only to spend some time looking up to find my anchor again. Sitting alone on the back deck and staring at the sky has brought about some of the clearest thinking I’ve had all trip. I may not have more to say about the stars themselves, but thank you for helping me find the words to illustrate their significance in my life.
2 Comments
Joshua Roth
2/24/2021 04:02:10 am
So much said in one short essay - sheer poetry. Thanks for sharing your journey with those of us bound to shore.
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Robin Brandes-Gibbs
3/7/2021 06:39:21 pm
Jimmy Buffett’s Jolly Mon was one of your favorite songs growing up - Jolly Mon sings on the sea and finds his way by Orion lucky star. You have loved the sea, stars, and music since you were little. And Josh sent you your first Astronomy book when you were 6 and the funky 1 pound bass guitar when you were 16. May your passion for the sea, stars, music, and good friends take you far!
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AuthorBree Gibbs, here. I'm a recent Master's Grad just trying to share what it's like to be a trash scientist (for those who aren't in the know, I'm a marine biologist). Categories
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