by Caught in the fray of a full-blown identity crisis– the stage of which had been set by sweltering California heat and unbearable amounts of G.E. summer classes’ busywork– I had very few expectations as I hopped on an early-morning flight after yet another sleepless night spent packing bags at the very last minute.
When I arrived in Anchorage, the cool breeze wisped over the bridge of my nose, my tired eyes flitted around vigilantly and anxiously. I was filled with uncertainty– but before I knew it, I was gnawing on a delicious slice of pizza, surrounded by people– laughing, fraternizing, mixing. I felt a lightness in my chest.
I had been overextended and uncertain of where I was headed, operating in pure survival-mode for so long that I didn’t have much time to really contemplate what I wanted to get out of this opportunity. I applied on a whim, not expecting my application to be given a second thought, and receiving the congratulatory email didn’t feel real to me.
I’ve always loved science and art. Having spent my entire life fully intent on pursuing a career in art, and having recently undergone a complete one-eighty in regard to my career aspirations; I was riding the tumultuous undertow of a dream slowly crumbling before my eyes.
In some respects, I saw my acceptance into STEMSEAS as a confirmation– a sort of “nail in the coffin”– for the part of me that ached to be an art student again. There was excitement and a kind of solace in this feeling, but there was terror as well.
These emotions felt so heavy; so grandiose and unmanageable.
I trailed along, socializing– hesitantly, at first– allowing myself to be immersed in the science talk of others, noticing the intricacies of others’ niche fascinations, and feeling great appreciation for those who spoke passionately without fear of judgment.
The rocks I’ve always thought of as the mere substrate upon which I walk, were spoken of with such reverence by Professor Callan Bentley that I couldn’t help but become enthralled when we ventured out into Resurrection Bay, looking at a vast array of rock formations; little time capsules that could tell so much about the history of our planet itself.
It was on this boat trip that I felt it; a sensation of a greater magnitude than any doubt my brain could steep itself in. I gazed at the giant mountains, the conifer forests burgeoning from raw stone. I listened to the quiet murmur of the splashing water, the roar of the boat engine. The excited gasps of my peers, and the distant calls of seabirds. The cold wind, so strong and crisp, my lungs would hurt from inhaling too deeply. This planet is bewitchingly complex. It was a childlike, primal enchantment. An awe so intense that my brain fired senselessly, feelings of intellectual and creative enrichment overwhelmed me. This ocean and these mountains, they effortlessly eliminated all fear or intimidation I had been feeling in the weeks leading up to the trip.
We departed Seward on board the R/V Sikuliaq, a beautiful, powerful machine of scientific capability. I was lucky enough to have Dr. Joseph Montoya’s guidance throughout the trip as this transit’s Chief Scientist. Transparently, I clung to him pretty relentlessly throughout the trip, as the interests of our studies overlapped almost perfectly. He entertained my interest in the smaller features of the ship’s equipment and sampling methods. I helped as much as I could, absorbing as much knowledge as possible and jotting notes in my journals. Before I knew it, we were doing net tows in the midnight hours, taking CTD samples, preparing slides for microscopy, and identifying creatures.
The thing I appreciate the most about the time I’ve spent with Joe so far is that he has a tangible, genuine interest in the intricate processes of field science, as well as a long career of experience, equipping him with endless (fully relevant) anecdotes that I could listen to for hours. It felt freeing to just learn from somebody.
Despite the challenges I know I will continue to face as I kick-start my career, I am leaving this expedition with notebooks full of drabbles, sketches, new knowledge, and reinforced older concepts. New friendships that I think will last a long, long time. Potential future colleagues, potential future mentors.
I will always look back on my time on board the Sikuliaq with fondness. Someday, I truly hope that I will return to her as a fully-fledged scientist. I feel ready to move forward with this newfound vigor. Like Sikuliaq, which smashes her way through sea ice, with a focused and intentional fierceness.
— Jules
