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Sanctuary from the Perfect Storm
February 26, 1998
By Mark Hoover
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I'm back from the Galapagos, and still squeezing the last of
the tropical dispatches from my El Nino-pickled-computer
before I attempt to hit the road one last time—for a
final flight investigating the jet stream.
On the afternoon of February 19, despite the swollen and red
condition of my sleepless eyes, I was the first to spot NOAA's
research ship, the Ka'imimoana. "There she is!" I proclaimed
to my torporous shipmates, none of whom looked particularly
well-rested. I was referring to a tiny speck about four atoms
high occasionally bobbing on the very limit of the horizon,
and I was roundly accused of hallucination. "Drink some water,
deegital man," suggested Fernando. "You are dehydrated. If we
can't get them on the radio, I don't think you can see
them."
We'd had a lot of problems communicating with the Ka'imimoana
over the Orca's radios, which seemed to have caught the same
saltwater sickness my computer contracted three days earlier.
All this business with the compasses and sextants and
navigation maps and frequency bands on the marine radio was
getting a little old, anyway. The Ka'imi was rumored to have
air conditioning, and this alone drove me in my battle with
the sea. So I grabbed the fish bucket and the satphone,
and...called the Ka'imi. Yup, they were about 12 miles away,
right on the horizon. Had the A/C set to 68, too. Fernando was
impressed. "Hey deegital man...think I could use that thing to
call my broker?"
We approached the Ka'imi about an hour later, and they sent a
motor launch over to bring us aboard. About 220 feet long, the
Ka'imi is a recent acquisition of NOAA's, a converted
submarine surveillance ship the Navy built about ten years
ago, and gave up after the breakup of the USSR. It is a
handsome and trim vessel, totally reconfigured to support
deployment and recovery operations for the TOGA/TAO buoy
array, the world's first-line El Niño detection system
and a powerful ocean observation instrument that lets
scientists on shore watch changes in the tropical Pacific as
they happen, across the entire ocean basin from South America
to Australia (see
Advance Warning).
The Ka'imi spends about 250 days a year cruising between the
mooring sites for the buoys in the array, covering tens of
thousands of miles of ocean at a steady ten knot clip. Its
crew of twenty-five or thirty (depending on the number of
scientists on board) spends up to two months without ever
seeing land. Our scientist in residence on this voyage, Mike
McPhaden, has logged many a nautical mile on the Ka'imi, and
as we approached her, he was subtly transformed. It was a
pleasure to watch him board her, walk her decks, greet the
crew. The Ka'imi is Mike's turf. He had come home. This is
where his science happens.
After our film crew loaded its gear, we prepared to observe
buoy recovery and deployment operations scheduled for this
evening and tomorrow. The buoy that was supposed to be on
station here went missing last December, after having moved
(the crew said "walked") about 20 miles from its original
location. Whether it was snagged in a fishing boat's nets, or
swept by a strong ocean current, we'll never know. Its anchor,
with an acoustic cable release and communications device,
responded from the seafloor miles below to a query from the
ship's hydrophone, but the buoy was nowhere to be seen. Mike
says vandalism by fishermen is a problem in the eastern
Pacific, but there's really not much that can be done about
it.
The next day, after a real shower, sleep in an actual bed, and
a couple of very square meals, I realize I...kind of miss the
Orca. As Fernando said, I'm probably dehydrated. Anyway, it
was a very rough night on the sea, and even the Ka'imi was
rolling heavily. I thought a lot about the uncomplaining crew
of the Orca, and the time they must have been having coping
with the waves, a half mile behind the Ka'imi. Although the
Orca is not the first choice for a deep-sea cruiser, it is
actually a good boat for travelling around the Galapagos, and
its crewmembers spend about 90% of their lives aboard her.
There is something vaguely romantic in such a life. I thought
about all of this, and then got out of my chair to turn the
air conditioner up another notch.
It rained and blew all day, but both the ship's crew and the
film crew carried on, oblivious to the elements. The work of
deploying a buoy is physically demanding, and requires heavy
equipment and adherence to safety procedures. First, the
anchor and its acoustic coupler must be readied, and the
mooring line attached. Three miles or more of special nylon
cable must be fastened and played out as the anchor descends,
which takes hours. Then, the metal cable which contains
sensors along the last 1,500 feet must be hand-braided to the
nylon, and over the side it goes. Finally, the buoy itself,
having been prepped and calibrated the day before, is hoisted
into the water, and the cable attached. (You don't want to
"let go of the rope" at this point.) Finally, the buoy's
communications with the overhead satellite is tested, and the
instruments get one last test as well. The whole process,
depending on weather, takes four to eight hours. And then it's
on to the next site, hundreds of miles away.
Late in the day, we made the decision to brave the storm and
leave the Ka'imi, so I'm gathering up my
things—including the dramamine—and I'll be back on
my tiny bunk in the hold of the Orca in about an hour,
sweating and trying to type on a notebook computer with a
keyboard that looks like a prop from
Land of the Giants. We've got a 40-hour cruise back to
the Galapagos, for a visit to Porto Ayoro and the Darwin
Research Station, and then we're outta here, and back to real
life. Wow.
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