Like all good sea stories, this one starts with a storm. There I was, 40 foot seas, listening to the crash of the loose filing cabinet as it slid drunkenly toward the bridge wing. I dodged the drawers, pulled up the wastebasket and puked up my crackers and soda as I thought, “What the hell am I doing here?”.
From a very young age, I was sure that I was going to be a veterinarian, caring for horses and dogs, bandaging their wounds and listening to their hearts with the stethoscope that I imagined I would casually toss around my neck. But as I began the very long road to veterinary school, I discovered a very real truth about myself. I hated chemistry, and biology was a close second on the “I am not good at this” list; both topics of which are integral to that profession.
So, casting about for an easy “A” while I figured out how to tell my parents that I was going to drop out of college, I stumbled upon a physical geography class. I’ve always enjoyed landscapes, rocks and maps that point the way to the next mountain. This one-time class turned into a few more, which turned into a piece of paper proving I had cartography and surveying skills. I found myself behind a drafting desk, hand drawing maps of flood hazards and 100 year storm boundaries with a mechanical pencil that I would double click to get the lead the perfect length, learning to not smear the fine lines demarking the deep zones across land. I was quickly bored beyond belief and growing pale and lethargic under the fluorescent hum. I wanted to move across the landscape, not draw it from a chair, swiveling from side to side.
I decided that I would follow in the family tradition and join the Navy, serve my country in khaki and dark shades of blue. As I talked to my Dad about my desire to “do something” - as he, my brother, and my cousin did - my father, as only a father who really loves his daughter can do, turned me away from the family vocation. “There isn’t anything for you to do in the Navy. You’re too smart for the Navy. Do you want to fetch some Admiral’s coffee?”
“But”, he continued, “I worked once with some guys in the NOAA Corps. Scientists in uniform, but they work on ships.”
Fast forward a year and I was a character in my own sea story: a brand new Ensign on a research ship north of Dutch Harbor, dodging loose filing cabinets and hoping to not get caught throwing up again; mocked by the ABs, the other Ensigns, and my family’s heritage. I managed to make it through that stormy watch and woke up the next day to a steady horizon and the sound of what must surely be the devil trying to scrape his way into the hull. The daybreak had found us in the northern Bering Sea, insulated from the Soviet gale by a thick layer of sea ice, cracking, moving, jeering at our attempts to go further north. I dreaded the return south, the transit through open waters in a fetch larger than the 10 meter openings we had been following. But we headed south, then north again, and over the next several years, we boxed the compass across the world.
As we motored through storms and fishing fleets, I learned to cope with sea sickness while my head was in the radar hood, trying to determine the course change around a contact using a grease pencil which refused to stay sharp, leaving smears and clumps across the screen. So it was with a slow recognition, blocked by frustration and fatigue that I discovered a surprising truth about myself: I loved being at sea. I loved working on a ship. I loved the lifestyle of working so many hours during the day that you would return to your rack exhausted, falling asleep with your book on your chest, and wonder whether it was am or pm when your alarm went off 6 hours later. I loved working 7 days a week for months at a time, then celebrating the land and green trees and meridian strips and shipmates with shots of horrible whiskey and heartfelt salutes.
But my real love, despite our tumultuous love / hate rom-com beginnings, became the ocean. Out here, I love looking up and finding new stars, comparing the view to the book in my hands, and feeling like Magellan. I love being on the mid-watch, looking down and glimpsing the glow-in-the-dark torpedoes as they make their way to the bow, catching a free ride to wherever we happen to be going. I love watching the wave tops turn white and blow downwind. And most of all, I love following the track that I draw with my double-clicked lead, careful not to smear the fine lines demarking the deep zones as I move across the water.