Balancing Life at Sea and Life at Home
Life aboard the R/V Marcus G. Langseth runs on a schedule as steady as the waves beneath us, when we are lucky, of course. The ship operates around the clock, and the science team is split into three shifts to keep everything moving. My group works from 6 a.m. to 2 p.m., which means my mornings begin early; 5 a.m., to be exact. I wake up in my narrow two-by-five-foot berth, a space so compact that my small apartment back in Goleta, California, suddenly feels like a sprawling mansion. Within half an hour, I’ve grabbed some breakfast to go and made my way down to the lab to relieve the night shift. That handoff, brief as it is, has become one of my favorite rituals of the day. It’s when we trade stories, jokes, and updates before they head off to sleep and we take over. As an added bonus, I usually catch the last 30 minutes of whatever movie, or lately an F1 race (thank you, Christian), they have put on to help stay awake.
During our shift, the ship feels like a hive of activity. At an ocean bottom seismometer (OBS) site, one of us works in the dry lab pinging the OBS to locate its exact position on the seafloor, while the other two are out on deck handling tag lines or helping to prepare the next instrument for deployment. A chief scientist keeps everything coordinated from the main lab, making sure we’re on target. When deployments aren’t happening, our focus shifts: cleaning up multibeam data, catching up on individual research, or, in my case, diving into a lot of literature review and learning new coding skills. As a first-year PhD student transitioning into a new research focus, this time feels like an investment; laying the groundwork for when this very dataset, a year from now, becomes the centerpiece of my dissertation on spreading centers and triple junction dynamics.
By 2 p.m. our group wraps up, and the next shift takes over. The transition into “free time” at sea is unlike any free time on land. Some afternoons I sit out on deck with a book, lately a few of us have been diving into Circe, a great read when the ocean stretches endlessly in every direction, or I work quietly in the ship’s library. Other times I chat with the next group coming on shift to make sure everything is in order. More often than not, this is when I reach out to home. The internet is patchy, social media is blocked entirely (which is in many ways a great relief and wonderful for my productivity), but even a quick update goes a long way. My family and loved ones eagerly wait for any message, a little nervous but overwhelmingly proud. My partner has also been juggling the logistics of our recent move while I am away, which makes me extra grateful for the support that keeps things steady on land. Altogether, that network of encouragement feels like an anchor, keeping me steady while I am surrounded by water and far from shore.
The lack of constant online noise has also been a blessing in disguise. Without scrolling or notifications, I’ve noticed my mind is calmer. Productivity comes more easily, and conversations last longer without the pull of outside distractions. I expected to feel isolated, but instead I often feel grounded. Professors back home let us Zoom into lectures when the internet allows, and co-TAs have kindly covered sections of classes I miss. I can’t help but wonder how much harder this would have been without the remote-learning tools developed during the pandemic. It’s strange to think that the same technology that kept classrooms afloat during COVID-19 is now helping us learn from the middle of the ocean.
As the day winds down, the ship shifts into a new rhythm. Dinner at 5 p.m. brings everyone together: crew, scientists, and shifts overlapping just long enough to share a meal. What follows are the rituals that make life here feel more like home. A group crossword puzzle has become a nightly tradition, with everyone pitching in answers between bites of shared dessert. A rich culture has formed from the group’s love of splitting baked goods and making chocolate milk each night. Conversations spill across the mess hall tables, filled with laughter, inside jokes, and stories about how each of us ended up here. It’s remarkable how quickly we’ve formed bonds; just two weeks ago most of us were strangers. Movies, games, and small competitions fill the evenings, carving out joy in a place where the horizon never changes.
One of the unexpected gifts of this cruise has been the community. With twelve scientists and many more crew members, the ship is filled with people whose paths into science and seafaring are as diverse as they are inspiring. Some come from years of field experience, others from different disciplines entirely. As someone at the very beginning of my PhD journey, it’s both humbling and comforting to hear the twists and turns that brought others aboard. It’s a reminder that there isn’t a single straight path into science, and that uncertainty in your own journey is not just normal, but shared.
Balancing ship life and home life is not always easy. There are moments when the distance feels heavy, when I wish I could be there in person to help with my recent move from North Carolina, where I have lived my entire life, to California. My partner has been managing much of that transition while I am at sea, I am deeply grateful for his support and patience. I imagine many other members of the crew and science party are handling the delicate balance of home life and sea-bound science with the help of an amazing support system, and share a similar gratitude. There are tangible sacrifices we all make to be a part of discovery, and they don’t go unnoticed. The excitement of contributing to something bigger than myself, of being part of a team uncovering pieces of how the Earth works. And there is comfort in knowing that while I am out here, my loved ones are rooting for me and holding things down on shore.
The longer I’m at sea, the more I realize that balance doesn’t mean giving equal time to both worlds at once. Instead, it’s about letting them enrich each other. The patience and adaptability I’ve learned on board will make me a better student and scientist on land. The love and support I receive from home enable me to work long days at sea. And the friendships formed on this ship will last long after we return to port.
Being surrounded by nothing but water offers a perspective that’s hard to find on land. It strips life down to essentials; routine, work, community, and connection. In that simplicity, I’ve found something unexpectedly grounding. I came aboard expecting a challenge, and while it has been one, it has also been deeply rewarding. If this is what a future in marine geoscience looks like, I hope this is just the first of many cruises to come.
Jessica Saunders
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