We have been navigating for almost half hour off the coast of Key Largo, Florida Keys. In the distance a yellow platform is rocking with the waves surrounded by a series of black and yellow buoys. There is a 20 feet tall tower in the middle of the platform bearing antennas, radar like device, a red marker light and an anemometer that is spinning like crazy. On a side of the tower three letters: LSB. LSB or Live Support Buoy is a heavy metal structure that marks the surface position of the America’s inner space station: Aquarius.
The world’s only undersea laboratory, as proudly is named by its owner, the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), is deployed at 60 feet beneath the surface in an underwater canyon next to moderated deep coral reefs. Managed and maintained by the University of North Carolina at Wilmington (UNCW), Aquarius has been characterized as the inner space counterpart of the International Space Station that orbits earth and therefore aquanauts are those human creatures that explore, and study the watery environment around the “vessel”.
After a detailed briefing on the surface about our tasks, scenarios and emergency procedures, we, the aquanaut candidates, awkwardly get in the water. There is a set of two heavy aluminum tanks in my back (45 pounds each), a huge buoyancy control device with straps around my chest, a pressure and depth gauge on my left side clipped in one the metal rings, an emergency second stage regulator attached to a bungee cord around my neck, a buoyancy control device inflator hose at some place on the left side, a filling hose sticking out under my right arm and the main regulator in my mouth with a six feet long hose also around my neck. It is impossible to walk around with all that, or do a giant stride in the water or not even roll back. So we have to necessarily and awkwardly get in the water pushed by the captain and at the same time slapping your face in the surface.
Today we are practicing looking for a lost excursion line underwater. Excursion lines are a network of ropes signaling the right direction to the Aquarius. Bright oranges arrows are placed every 20 feet and these lines are life saving for the aquanauts outside the underwater laboratory. The technique is swimming in circles aid by a thin line attached to a salient in the reef. Fair enough I said but this skill must be performed at 45 feet beneath the surface and the most exciting part: mask off. Salt water in your eyes is not a major problem even for those that wear contact lenses. But, salt water for a long time in your eyes could be irritating and even painful. Mask off, I start swimming with all my gear on top, line in hand and eyes open like a dead fish on deck. I can’t see anything, my eyes are burning, I push air out from my nose, salt water enters trough my nostrils and reaches my sinuses, irritating the interior of my head. The substrate passes below me and the images are recorded in my brain magnified, blurry, bright, far, close and out of focus. Dizziness attacks me and more water is coming in. So far, I have not seen the stupid orange arrow that marks the rope. My dive buddy is next to me and she is also with the mask off, I am in the leader but I have no clue where I am going. Suddenly, I spot a blurry orange….thing…. in the water column. I swim eagerly to the point and success I have found one of the depth limit lines that takes you to the excursion lines. These lines are marked with orange ribbons and delineated a 45 feet depth that aquanauts must remain below that threshold.
Besides all the pain and irritation the drill was a success for all the aquanauts. Hopefully during the mission we are not going to lose our mask or the lines but we need to take in considerations every single possible scenario. Back in the surface we called the day and another day of training is over.
It's hard to get a big smile out of Ken Lowyck, Greenpeace's capable Action Unit Coordinator (and sub pilot) based in Toronto. I snapped the photo to the right and captured Ken's pre-dive excitement last summer on August 1, just minutes before he was launched on the dive to 700 feet in Pribilof Canyon in the Bering Sea that resulted in one of the expedition's most important discoveries. I imagine the modest smile that appeared on his face has returned today as Greenpeace has announced that the tiny, unassuming white sponge he retrieved on that dive was never before documented by Homo sapiens, and may well herald future announcements of other new species from the expedition. The sponge was named Aaptos kanuux, the word
"kanuux" being the Aleut word for "heart," in honor of the
Bering Sea's canyons, considered to be the heart of the Bering Sea by the region's natives who depend on their font of life to sustain their way of life. It was also the
first time the genus Aaptos has ever been documented in the Bering Sea. The painstaking work of analyzing hours and hours of video and hundreds of retrieved samples continues and will likely continue for years, as science soldiers on. I'm certain we can expect more dramatic news as the effort continues.
I was reunited with one of my fellow sub pilots last week when I shared breakfast with John Hocevar, Greenpeace Senior Ocean Specialist. Though the restaurant wasn't pitching and rolling like Esperanza, it felt as though the expedition was very much still underway as we talked, that our collective voyage of discovery was far from its conclusion, and the latest news from John confirmed it. He told me that half of the 14 deep sea
corals documented during the expedition were never before seen in the Bering
Sea. Nor were two thirds of the 20 or so sponge species documented. And the
expedition provided the first record of black coral of any kind and the
first record of stony coral (also known as Scleractinians -- see the photo below right) in the Bering Sea. NOAA biologist Robert Stone
participated in the expedition and co-authored a recent paper with Greenpeace
scientist John Hocevar presented the new findings at the Alaska Marine Science
Symposium. You can see a copy of the report online.
The expedition was undertaken to collect information needed to inform conservation policies by the North Pacific Fisheries Council. The expedition team documented numerous examples of extensive damage to corals by fishing trawlers, which essentially clearcut the bottom with their nets. It's hard to express the scale of what we observed,
which, even in Hi-Def video, can't begin to convey the scale of destruction. It's almost comical to listen to the audio of the tape of one of my dives, where I excitedly radioed to the surface that I've landed at 1,000 feet in some sort of geological relief, a conclusion I drew when I saw what appeared to be a long ridge in front of me. After ascending a few feet to get a better perspective, the horror of what I was looking at set in -- I had landed squarely in the middle of a miles-long trawling scar, a scar that left virtually nothing living on the bottom and that left a swath nearly half the size of a New York city block of uplifted sediment...my so-called "ridge."
John also shared with me the challenge he's had in presenting these data at North Pacific Fishery Management Council. In late 2006, they claimed that they didn't have enough data to justify any special designation for the Bering Sea Canyons, areas they prioritized for research at the same meeting. This inspired the 2007 expedition undertaken by Greenpeace, but returning with compelling data, photos and video in hand has done little so far to advance any change in mindset by the Council. Failure to take action to protect natural resource on the basis of too little information is so 20th Century. Surely the best policies err on the side of conserving valuable resources when information about their status is scarce. I'm confident that the compelling results of this expedition will speak loudly on their own and science will guide humanity's hand accordingly.
So for now, I revel in the joy of discovery, and like Ken, I smile with the satisfaction of helping to advance humanity's knowledge about a mysterious and fantastic world below, and with the anticipation of the voyages ahead...
Read any authority's advice about blogs and you'll see at the top of the list: "Blog regularly." Even for someone who enjoys writing as much as I do, I don't believe in writing for writing's sake -- I like to share original experiences and ideas, not just rehash stale news. Still, I've experienced quite a few blog-worthy adventures in the four months since my last post shortly after the Bering Sea Expedition, but haven't written a single word.
My apologies for the absence. I had a family emergency that demanded my full attention -- fortunately, all is well now. It's also been a very intense end of the year, with virtually no time to spare...
But as I hear myself "say" that, I realize that being busy is no excuse...those hectic moments are the very moments that are most interesting, and starting with the new year, I'll do my best to fill you in on some of those moments. Like the meeting in Cancún between Cuba and the U.S. to expand our nations' collaboration in marine conservation and research. Or like my September visit to Cuba, where I was lucky enough to revisit one of the most beautiful places on the planet, Guanahacabibes Biosphere Reserve at Cuba's far western tip. Or like the ongoing "quest" to find out where those mysterious pinnacles are really located in the Bering Sea. Or like my joy in watching my good friends Adam Ravetch and Sarah Robertson receive the recognition they so deserve for their wonderful film, Arctic Tale. I might even blog about why I stole the pile newspapers from my local Starbucks last week.
Meanwhile, best wishes for a wonderful New Year. Feliz Año Nuevo!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
©2007 David E. Guggenheim
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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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 S