OceanDoctor’s blog

A Sea Turtle is Born in Alaska

nobody@vox.com(OceanDoctor) — Fri, 24 Aug 2007 00:35:14 -0400

Esperanza Returns to a Tranquil Unalaska

I awakened at 4am in my bunk to something strange. The ship was still. After enduring two days of pounding seas and gale-force winds, we had at last arrived at the island of Unalaska and were nearing the port of Dutch Harbor. A few hours later, juggling my cameras, I tried in vain to capture the profound tranquility of that early Alaskan morning as dawn's gentle glow painted small swaths of green across the surrounding mountains atop a canvas of deep blues and grays. An incredible journey was nearing its end, and I was reluctant to let go. So was the wildlife. In a moment, the morning silence was replaced by shrieks from the deck below. They were shrieks of joy as once again we were surrounded by whales as a pod of humpbacks divided itself evenly and passed closely along both sides of us, filling the morning air with their spouts and flukes.

Crew, Volunteers, Science & Sub Team (Photo by Todd Warshaw) Aboard Esperanza

I have always found the end of an expedition a bittersweet experience, and this time was no exception. I knew how once we were docked it would be impossible to recapture the uniqueness of this expedition, this crew, this ship. And sure enough, the real world began to waft in, first the pilot who boarded to guide the ship in. Then the officials at the city dock. Then the onlookers, fascinated with the presence of a rainbow-adorned Greenpeace ship nestled among the commercial fishing vessels and freighters.

We had a pizza party on the helideck and were joined by one of the curious onlookers, a local fisherman wearing a shirt adorned with the phrase, "Young Urban Cod Killers (YUCK)." I was relieved to hear that YUCK existed in name only -- no such organization really existed -- just good shock value for a t-shirt. But it was a reminder of the way much of the world looks at fish and fishing…and perhaps conservationists. Later at Dutch Harbor Airport, the back of a fisherman's t-shirt read, "First Come, First Served -- Dutch Harbor, Alaska," bearing a picture of crab with its carapace replaced by a menacing human skull. The slogans convey for the fishing industry the same gold rush mentality and machismo of the Old West. The reality of life on land was returning too quickly.

Sub Pilots, Nuytco Team, ROV Team (Photo by Todd Warshaw)

As our pizza party continued into the chilly evening, I looked around in admiration at the crew I had sailed with and my fellow scientists and sub pilots. I had worked a bit with Greenpeace in Washington, DC but really had no idea what to expect upon a Greenpeace ship. What I experienced was a summer among capable and dedicated professionals who worked hard and supported one another. From the Greenpeace staff, crew and volunteers, I heard incredible stories of dedication, passion, and remarkable tenacity. I heard about Greenpeace's emblematic "actions," the unfurling of banners, chaining of bodies to earth-moving equipment, and other daring, ingenious, and often provocative measures to draw attention to critical issues worldwide. Such actions seem extreme to some, but as Greenpeace ocean specialist and fellow sub pilot, John Hocevar pointed out, many of the issues that it might have once seemed extreme to protest, such as dumpling nuclear waste in the ocean, now appear plainly wrong to just about everyone. Greenpeace has helped lead the way toward change.

Bald Eagle Atop Dome of Church of the Holy Ascension, Unalaska (Esperanza in Background)

I chatted with Penny, the boatswain, as she smiled and reflected on the expedition while she rolled a cigarette. The expedition represented her second tour as boatswain -- her first was in the roiling southern ocean. She's strong and tough as nails, belying her lean frame and goldilocks, and I marveled at the endless range of tasks she mastered and responsibilities she oversaw. Her gentle hand was often at the controls of the winch during launch and recovery of our subs, and her gentle soul always warmed the room. And there was Kate, a volunteer for the entire summer aboard ship, who gave new meaning to "Dirty Jobs." Each day she would disappear for some awful task in the bowels of the ship, evidenced to many of us only at meals by the telltale patches of paint and grease that usually adorned her. There was Clive, a physician based in British Columbia, who takes leave from his practice for months to be aboard Esperanza as ship's doctor and as many other tasks he can tackle.

And there was fellow sub pilot and Greenpeace action unit coordinator in Toronto, Kenneth Lowyck, a man who has retained his toughness and leadership as a keen tactician from his days in the military service, but whose passion for the arts and conservation is truly disarming. Ken told me the incredible story of when he was stationed in the tiny country of Djibouti in East Africa as a diver in the Belgian Marines during the embargo of Iraq leading up to the first Gulf War. At the marketplace he came across an awful sight -- a sea turtle for sale, still alive and helplessly writhing on its back atop the pavement. Ken dug into his wallet and purchased the sea turtle from the vendor, hailed a taxi and asked the driver to head to the beach. The driver excitedly shared his favorite sea turtle recipes with Ken during the journey, unaware that this was a mission of mercy. Ken released the sea turtle into gulf, giving it another chance.

A Sea Turtle is Born in Alaska: Freddie Does His Masterful Work.

Perhaps it was Kenneth's story that ultimately made me do it…I'm not really sure. But something about Esperanza and the very special people aboard her led me to want a very special remembrance, and thankfully second engineer "Freddie" Toia was willing to help. In addition to being a skilled engineer, Freddie is also a talented tattoo artist. And so, aboard Esperanza, a sea turtle was born in Alaska and now lives on my shoulder, my first and only tattoo. She will be with me for the rest of my life, along with my memories of a special ship and its special people.

We spent our remaining days working to engage the community and share what we had learned. The eyes of fishermen and processing plant workers followed our Greenpeace zodiac with scrutiny, anticipation, and perhaps resentment. But I also saw the unmistakable look of respect -- respect for an organization with a rich tradition of fighting without apology for what it believes, standing tough, enduring for decades. An organization that held its first protest nearly 40 years ago in these very waters. Beneath the veneer of Dutch Harbor and Unalaska, beyond "Deadliest Catch," beyond the legions of transient fishermen that pass through this distant outpost, and tucked away from the mountains of crab traps and fishing gear lies a small but cohesive community of houses, schools, and people.

Greenpeace Briefing to Community in Unalaska

We visited with a number of residents in an event led by John Hocevar and Greenpeace oceans campaigner, George Pletnikoff, and we presented the first public showing of the video and images we had collected. The reception was warm and appreciative, and it was moving indeed to watch the faces of these residents marvel at their first glimpse of this never-before-seen part of Alaska, truly part of their home, a part integral to the Bering Sea Ecosystem upon which generations have depended. It was also moving to hear the despair in the room. So many in the community felt helpless against the powerful forces of the large seafood corporations, fishery councils and Washington, DC lobbies. I have heard such despair before, but also know that bottom-up, community-led grassroots efforts represent the best hope for change, and perhaps on that night a seed was planted.

Esperanza at Anchor off of Unalaska Community

Nearly 24 hours late due to Dutch Harbor's legendary fog, our small plane finally rolled down the runway for the 3-hour flight to Anchorage. As we lifted into the gray mist, I leaned forward and peered intently out the window, straining to catch a glimpse of her. And through the clouds, there she was, her painted rainbow the only dash of color in the bleak, gray rain below. I was elated to see Esperanza one last time, still peacefully at anchor in Unalaska Bay. I sat back in my seat and smiled as I felt the warm pain of my new tattoo on my shoulder. After traveling thousands of miles, sea turtles miraculously return to the same beach where they were born to nest. And I know that some day my sea turtle will find her way back home -- to Esperanza -- again.

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Attacked by the Giant Squid's Cousins

nobody@vox.com(OceanDoctor) — Fri, 10 Aug 2007 16:17:01 -0400

It's the fantasy of many a marine biologist and explorer. To catch a glimpse of the giant squid, alive, and in its natural habitat: The deep ocean. Giant squid have been scientifically documented at a size of up to an incredible 43 feet long based on specimens that have washed ashore. I've seen one such specimen at the Los Angeles County Museum of Natural History. Laying there pickled and motionless in its sterile white display case, it was hard to imagine this animal rocketing about the dark depths, living up to its reputation as a formidable predator. During one of his talks when I first met oceanographer Bob Ballard, he compared trying to find the giant squid from a submersible to trying to find an F-15 jet racing by, on a mountain top, at night, in a driving rainstorm, with a flashlight. Yesterday I had second thoughts about looking for the giant squid when one of its cousins, less than 2% of its size, disabled my sub and aborted my dive as I was descending through 1,300 feet.

Squid Attack!

In all the years I've been scuba diving, I've never been attacked by a sea creature. This, of course, excludes two unnerving but harmless remoras that simultaneously hitched a ride on my legs, or countless tiny dusky damsel fish that bit at my chest to defend their territory they felt I was invading, or stinging hydroids I accidentally brushed against. Never have I (knowingly) been mistaken for food while exploring the depths -- until now. On almost all of our sub dives here in the Bering Sea, starting at close to 1,000 feet, we've encountered the "squid layer," concentrations of 6-12" squid, Loligo opalescens, which go by the official common name of "Opalescent inshore squid" but are more commonly known on the west coast as "California market squid." My encounters with these mollusks have given me new respect for what I have come to recognize as sleek and skilled predatory missiles whose prey don't stand a chance.

Squid are truly jet-propelled. They swim faster than any other invertebrate by rapidly shooting water out of their mantle cavity into a jet stream nozzle they can steer, like a jet boat. Some squid have been clocked up to nearly 15 miles per hour. Underwater, that's practically light speed. Our subs clock in at about 3 miles per hour. Their blinding speed, coupled with their armament of two powerful tentacles (in addition to their 8 legs), barbed suckers and razor sharp beak, give them quite an edge over their prey, which include small fish, crustaceans, and mollusks, among others. Many of the squid's prey, like lanternfish, are bioluminescent, creating their own flashes of light. Squid are highly tuned to these bright flashes and are powerfully drawn to any source of light…like the lights of a descending submarine.

A massive triangle of light in the middle of the Sea of Japan is so brilliant it's visible from space. The source of light was a mystery until someone realized that the fleets of industrial fishing boats that pursue squid know well about the squid's lust for light. This triangle marks the position of the Japanese squid fishing fleet. Each vessel may have up to 50 lamps of up to 3,500 watts. The entire fleet may be using 200 megawatts to power these lights. That's nearly 20 percent of the generating capacity of Unit #3 of Southern California's San Onofre Nuclear Generating Station, enough electricity for nearly 250,000 homes.

Squid Attack! Note Squid on Light, Ink

Squid are commercially fished around the world, including in the United States. And squid are also taken from the sea as bycatch, the unintentional catch of one species when fishing for another. This has been a serous problem here in the Bering Sea when fishing boats seeking Alaskan pollock were hauling up far more squid than pollock, necessitating fishing restrictions. The seemingly limitless bounty of squid, as with so many other animals in the sea, has turned out not to be so limitless after all. They are a critical part of the ecosystem, voracious predators themselves, and, in turn, serving as prey for all sorts of fish, porpoises, whales and seals. The fur seals we saw on St. Paul Island are just one of the species that depend on squid.

Fur seals on St. Paul Island

As I descended into Zhemchug Canyon yesterday past 1,300 feet yesterday, I reported to Mike at the navigation station on Esperanza that I had entered the "squid layer." My external lights were on, as were Michelle's in the other sub about 100 feet below me, so that we could maintain visual contact during the dive, a safety precaution at these depths. But to a squid, my lights meant a meal, and they pursued me with intent to consume. Ink was everywhere, they clung to the lights with their tentacles and attacked with their beaks. They torpedoed in all directions around me, leaving black clouds of ink hanging in their paths. So much ink accumulated it appeared that my lights were smoking. On the front of the sub was tied a mesh bag of styrofoam cups. Under pressure, the air in the styrofoam cups compresses, and the cups shrink to a fraction of their original size. The crew had creatively decorated the cups with clever slogans and artwork…a great souvenir. I noticed the squid were especially attracted to the white, reflective cups and grabbed onto the mesh bag, trying to reach the goodies inside.

Squid Attack! Two squid rocket toward starboard light

I noticed something else -- squid parts. Some of the squid ended up as calamari, having taken the unfortunate route to my lights through the sub's thrusters. Suddenly, the thrusters sounded different, more faint. The sub was no longer descending and it began to spin. One of my vertical thrusters was offline. I tried powering the thruster circuit off and on again, reversing direction like you would on an outboard motor to clear debris, but to no avail. The sub did what it was supposed to do…it sacrificed a two dollar fuse to save a $15,000 thruster. I would not make it to the bottom, just another 400 feet below me. The topside team wisely instructed me to terminate my dive and prepare for recovery.

What is it? We believe it's a squid egg case

As I slowly made the ascent back to Esperanza, I realized my image of squid had changed forever. How different was my image of these agile, powerful animals from the my first sight of squid, compressed into a frozen block inside a cardboard box my father had pulled from the general store's freezer in Cape May Point, New Jersey as we were heading off to cast our rods into the Delaware Bay. That image of the giant squid laying at the Los Angeles County Museum suddenly had life and gave me pause about the wisdom of maintaining the fantasy of pursuing such a formidable creature in the dark depths. But a moment later, I came to my senses. I'll still take my chances for a fleeting glimpse of that magnificent animal. Later that day, I smiled when I read what one of the crew had written on one of the styrofoam cups: "No pressure, no diamond."

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Where Condos Fall from the Sky

nobody@vox.com(OceanDoctor) — Sun, 05 Aug 2007 22:14:15 -0400

They look strange, out of place…and they are. Because they're not from around here. The odd-shaped stones and boulders that pepper the flat, dark, silty bottom here at nearly 1,800 feet look like meteorites, each surrounded by a wide, shallow crater. They're not from outer space, but many have traveled a vast distance on Earth -- hundreds, perhaps thousands of miles, over millennia. And now my sub is face to face with one of three I'd encounter on our first dive in Zhemchug Canyon yesterday (Saturday) afternoon.

The sublimely pink deepwater coral, Swiftia pacifica

They're called "drop stones" and it's icebergs that do the dropping. As glaciers move across the land, rocks become incorporated into the glacial ice. Once the glaciers find the coast, they "calve" into ice bergs and travel vast distances floating upon the ocean, melting along the way and eventually, releasing their rocky payload.

One might think of a rock, even a hefty one, falling to the bottom of the vast Bering Sea as one of the more inconsequential events in the universe. But if you're tiny, living in a world that's flat and unprotected from the swift Arctic current ripping by, even a tiny pebble can mean the difference between survival or not. Corals, like the sublimely pink Swiftia pacifica we came across yesterday, appear to be growing right out of the brown silt. But a closer look reveals a small rock or pebble beneath the surface providing a holdfast against the current. If you're a tiny critter like a shrimp, your only option is to get down into a hole, if you can find one. But holes don't last forever -- the current will eventually sweep them away. You can also try to get yourself up against the downstream side of an object -- like a rock -- so you're not swept away with the current. Other than that, there aren't many options across the flat, nearly rockless landscape of the bottom of this neighborhood in Zhemchug Canyon.

Drop-stone covered with shrimp, a basket star, and a rockfish next door

So if one day a huge rock comes a-plummeting out of the sky, it's like a deluxe condominium suddenly appearing, and the shrimp don't waste a moment moving in. They covered the lee side of the drop stones I encountered, wall-to-wall. The penthouse was reserved for critters like basket stars, corals, anemones, sponges or hydroids that could attach themselves firmly, then grab prey as they float by in the current. Fish like rocks, too, especially, well…rockfish. The brightly orange-colored shortraker rockfish lay against one of the drop stones. A prehistoric-looking Giant grenadier, perhaps 4.5 feet long, with its long, eel-like tail gently waving in the current, nestled by another. And I encountered the aptly-named bigmouth sculpin by the third.

The halibut who taught me how to become invisible

During my last dive at Pribilof Canyon, I noted flatfish depressions and the fact that they were full of shrimp. Same here at Zhemchug. I was even treated to a flatfish hole digging demonstration by a small halibut that I "encountered" (translation: terrified). He was quite upset at being awakened by a noisy metal object with bright lights pointed at his face, so he swam a few body lengths, then flapped his flat body furiously and kicked silt up onto the top of his flatness until he was (or at least thought he was) invisible. That process, repeated millions of times, means sanctuary for a critical part of the food chain, including the many shrimp I spied enjoying their stay in a flatfish hole. Not only does the hole allow them to relax and not have to fight the current, but NOAA scientist Bob Stone points out that little eddies forming as the current runs by cause food particles to drop out of the water column. So if you're a shrimp, you can kick back, not lift a claw, and let the food come to you. The current scours shallow craters around the drop stones, so shrimp living there not only get regular food deliveries, but also a high-rise view. I suppose that's the Bering Sea definition of the good life.

A large, happy shrimp, living the good life in a flatfish hole

It's quite remarkable in nature how little things matter, like where a rock falls or where a flatfish rests. And there are big things in this world that threaten those little things, like taking too many fish from the sea, and global warming, which is already believed to be changing the patterns of the ice pack in this region, along with distant glaciers, and the would-be drop stones they encounter. It's important for us to think about what it takes -- even the seemingly little things -- to make an ecosystem work, especially one as wondrous and important as this one. Because if a rock falls in the Bering Sea, and no one is there to hear it, it's still someone's condo.

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Alone in the dark with a pen light

nobody@vox.com(OceanDoctor) — Sat, 04 Aug 2007 02:51:58 -0400

Yesterday (Thursday) morning, Michelle Ridgway and I descended in the twin subs for our expedition's penultimate dive on Pribilof Canyon. Michelle's lights shone as tiny pinpoints in the distant green as the light from above slowly vanished and the cold darkness of Pribilof Canyon enveloped us. I had a rare moment amid the descent's harried series of checks and radio transmissions to reflect on where I was, and Michelle's lights reminded me of how tiny we were, trying to comprehend an enormous, complex tapestry in the darkness armed with only a pen light. But on this dive, some of those complexities began to tell a story.

The welcoming committee of squid was there to greet us en masse, larger squid this time, more abundant, and more aggressive. They rocketed through the water faster than anything I've seen, passing millimeters from the front of the light, causing a startling bright flash against their light bodies, before deploying a cloud of brownish ink, spreading their tentacles to reveal a hungry beak, convinced that the light that had drawn them to the sub meant food was near. Some latched on a appeared to try to take a bite. Others gave a menacing dance, another blast of ink, and rocketed into the darkness. Still others appeared in pieces, casualties of my thrusters. It was squid madness, and it was fascinating, even comical to watch. But it also was a vivid reminder of the predatory prowess of these animals -- a small fish wouldn't stand a chance, but at least the end would come in the blink of an eye.

Trawl scar on bottom, DeepWorker 7 in background

The bottom arrived at 1,052 feet and I landed on what appeared to be some sort of geologic stratification -- unusual layers and grooves of sediment in parallel lines across my path. I then realized I was looking at a trawl "scar," the deep ridges in the bottom made by the wheels of a trawl net dragged across the bottom. A wide swath of bottom appeared as if it had been plowed like a cornfield, overturned sediment neatly piled along the long groove. I remembered that Michelle had told me some of the trawls used in these parts are as wide as a Boeing 737's wingspan.

We began our transect, but shortly thereafter I was told to hold position -- apparently the squid had won the last round against Michelle, causing one of her thrusters to blow a fuse. She surfaced for an early recovery while I continued the dive alone. I was excited to see a number of corals. The bottom was covered with tiny (an inch or two) white sea whips (Halipteris willemoesi), one of the corals we had seen elsewhere in Pribilof Canyon. But the sea whips we had seen elsewhere were much larger, 3 or 4 feet long. I only spied two or three that big in this location.

I moved along in the darkness, saw many snow crabs and flat fish, including the beautiful rex sole and equally dramatic sharp nose skate. I then spied a strange white ridge along the black horizon. As I approached I saw this ridge lay directly in my path, straight as an arrow. A geology professor of mine once gave our class a clue at identifying features in aerial photos by pointing out that straight lines are rare in nature. Sure enough, this was another trawl scar, larger than the first. I radioed to Sasha at the navigation station on the ship and asked that he note this location on his tracking computer. I continued and found many more linear features along my path, more trawling marks, no doubt, perhaps older ones.

Sea whip (Halipteris willemoesi) coral

As I continued ahead, some of the pieces I had been seeing in the tapestry during the week started to merge and suggest a pattern. Most of the tiny sea whips I had seen were roughly the same size, suggesting that they're roughly the same age and most likely regrowth after a major disturbance, such as one that might be caused by dragging a massive object over the bottom...like a trawl. It's gratifying to see an ecosystem demonstrating resiliency -- little sea whips pushing up and trying to make a go of it. But knowing how important corals are to the health of marine ecosystems, it's troubling to see such widespread impacts.

Continuing the transect, I enjoyed seeing the sole, halibut, skates and other flat fish. I've always been fond of these strange looking creatures and never appreciated the role they played in the tapestry until this dive. Shallow flat-fish-sized depressions cratered the soft bottom. But as I passed over these "flat fish holes," the lights from the sub reflected off of hundreds of tiny eye balls looking back at me. These little depressions were teeming with little shrimp and other critters -- colorful micro ecosystems moving in where a flat fish moved out.

Rex sole (Glyptocephalus zachirus)

This was an area of high current -- maneuvering the sub was difficult -- and I saw that these depressions offered the shrimp refuge out of the current on a silty bottom that was virtually devoid of rocks or other relief. I realized my flat fish friends were ecosystem engineers. The simple act of burying themselves in the silt and leaving a depression behind meant habitat for countless other creatures. NOAA scientist Bob Stone, aboard Esperanza for this expedition, smiled when I later mentioned this to him -- he's published a paper on the topic. I've seen a similar pattern in the Gulf of Mexico, where grouper dig enormous swimming pool-sized holes in the soft bottom sediment, exposing hard substrate for corals and sponges to grow and attracting many fish and invertebrates. So it's troubling to me when we think of fish essentially as crops that we can simply harvest from the sea. Such a perspective ignores the critical point that fish themselves are part of the ecosystem and have important, often critical roles, in maintaining the health of the ecosystem. Removing fish from the ecosystem changes the ecosystem.

The call from Sasha came too soon, as it always does, "DeepWorker 6, at this time prepare the cabin for recovery." As I ascended through the darkness, alone this time, I turned my lights off to gaze upon Pribilof Canyon in its true state and pondered how much of our planet's life lives in complete darkness. My tiny sub had illuminated but a few new corners of this vast place. There lies so much more to see and discover, but with each tantalizing glimpse come new insights and a little more of the story the tapestry tells.

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Choose Nausea or Sleepiness. Or Perhaps You'd Like Both?

nobody@vox.com(OceanDoctor) — Wed, 01 Aug 2007 15:38:15 -0400

The Bering Sea with Attitude

Earlier in this blog I've confessed my darkest secret as a marine scientist: I get seasick. So my biggest fear of the Bering Sea is what the Bering Sea is fond of doing often -- getting rough with the boats that dare to ply its waters. Yesterday, things got a bit rough for the Esperanza. A major front pushed through and seas kicked up from nearly flat to a confused sea state -- wind-driven waves 4-5 feet heading one direction, a much larger swell, Penny the boatswain noting swells up to 12 feet, heading at a 45 degree angle. The result made for a rough ride. Awakened at 4am, I dashed up to my hideout, the video editing room, to make sure that our precious data stored inside several hard drives, were secured. I added some bungee to keep things from sliding. I tried to return to sleep, but it was fitful.

Video Editing Room on Esperanza

At breakfast, I ate light and looked forward to a productive day of catch up on this blog, web site, data analysis, etc. since dives of any kind were out of the question. Esperanza headed in to St. George Island to pick up Andy Malavansky, head of the St. George Ecological Office, along with fur seal ecologist, Steve Insley. I felt remarkably well given the rockin' and rollin', but as the day wore on, I felt more and more exhausted, as did my peers. The constant movement of the ship makes simple tasks much more difficult. For me, working on the computer was especially tough, here in my windowless station, and trying to drop files into the right folder with the mouse became an exercise in eye-hand coordination like playing a video game. Ultimately it took its toll, and I started to feel a bit green. I then had a choice: Take a pill and endure the side-effect of sleepiness, or do nothing and probably lose my lunch.

I had added a new medication to my arsenal of Dramamine and Bonine: Stugeron, recommended by many aboard Esperanza. The directions said to take two initially then one every 8 hours. I took one pill. Initially, I felt great and got back to work. A bit later, I couldn't keep my eyes open. Nap number one. I awoke for a few hours, stumbled around a bit, then took nap number two. I was so out of it that Timo had to awaken me when I was 30 minutes late to dinner.

Dive 06 - Coral, Hydroids, Anenome (1,071 feet)

After dinner we gave a brief presentation to the crew of our findings so far -- eyes were riveted on the monitor. Ken Lowyck, Greenpeace Action Unit Coordinator in Toronto and I showed a number of clips from our tandem dive to 1,071 feet the previous day where we landed in a beautiful, rich coral habitat. Afterwards I stumbled back into my cabin, and for the first time on the expedition, was in my bunk before my bunkmate, Ruud, who has the 4am-8pm shift. When I awoke for pre-dive this morning, so much sleep made me euphoric, especially with much calmer seas to greet me.

Still photographer Todd Warshaw and I donned our drysuits, along with Dive Master (and fellow sub pilot) Ken Lowyck to capture the deepworker launch from in the water -- I'd be shooting HD video. The dive went reasonably well, though my weight belt was somewhat uncooperative, so I left it behind and filmed from the surface. I remembered all my zippers and my dive was comfortable, warm and dry!

As I write this, John and Michelle at about 1,000 feet -- I hear the echo of the sonar tracking system from the bridge deck above. I heard John's voice over the in-water comms indicate he's made some good collections. And I'm back in my little video editing hole, feeling good, alert, and hungry. But, more bad weather expected on Friday. Not sure if I'll choose the little white pill again this time...

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