New friends on Palmerston Island

Just as the sun broke the horizon after a night of tumultuous seas, the cheerful call of "Land Ho!" could be heard throughout the boat. We had reached the island of Palmerston, home of the Marsters family, notorious across the Pacific for their kindness and hospitality. In Rarotonga, we had picked up one of the residents of the island, Edward Marsters, who had been looking for a boat that could take him back to his home for months. He filled the journey to Palmerston with good company and beautiful guitar and ukulele playing. As we proceeded towards the atoll, four boats approached our boat, the islanders expertly guiding us through the coral reef until we could safely anchor. They then loaded our crew and all of Edward's belongings into their small metal boats, ferrying us to their home.

We were welcomed with smiles and handfuls of candies called Minties which we'd be given by the bucket throughout our time on the island. With a total population of 43, the arrival of the Robert C Seamans had suddenly doubled the island's population. Everyone had gathered in the Palmerston Opera House, a structure with a palm frond roof built on the sandy beach filled with homemade hammocks and plastic chairs for an opening ceremony. The voices accompanying these new smiling faces melded together as they greeted us with traditional hymns. Each song had such complexity, yet each voice blended in perfectly to create a sound like nothing I've ever heard before. The mayor then explained that everyone in the crew was invited to stay with families on the island.

An especially smiley girl named Carlie introduced herself to us, inviting myself and three other students (Zack, Nate and Casey) to stay in her house. We grabbed our bags and followed her down one of the sandy roads. After showing us our beds, Carlie introduced us to her mom, Mary, siblings, Maeva and Ray Charles and her nephews, Dion, Robert, James and Aloysius. 

At first the kids were a little shy, but they quickly became less timid as they showed us their pet blue-footed boobies. They explained that they took the eggs from nests once a year and then each hatched, raised and trained one bird. James looked so proud as he introduced us to his bird, Cool James. The birds would leave once a day to go fish but seemed to come back every time. We were caught off guard as Robert let one of the juveniles bite his arm, prompting us to pet its white down fluff, promising he's used to getting bitten.

We were called away from the birds by Mary who told us it was time for church, handing myself and Casey fancy church hats. We removed our shoes at the entrance of the church, a mere 100-meter walk from our house, and were divided by gender into the pews. The pastor led a lovely, incredibly welcoming service, full of more passionate singing. Afterwards, they organized an opening ceremony for a rainwater treatment center funded by the German government. This was followed by a feast of barracuda, parrot fish, rice, breadfruit, coconuts and cakes that could feed hundreds. We spent the next days in paradise, playing soccer and cards with our host siblings, eating each meal with our warmhearted host families, finding endless hermit crabs, snorkeling on beautiful patch reefs with such high biodiversity including white-tip reef sharks and parrot fish, circumnavigating the island as the sun set, sleeping in beds that don't even move, laying on the beach at night, marveling at a sky full of more stars than I thought was possible.

I feel so grateful for the wonderful Marsters family for opening their hearts and homes to the entire Robert C Seamans crew. It was difficult to leave such a spectacular place with such special people, but I know we're all excited for the next seven days on the open ocean as we head towards Tonga and will hopefully one day have the opportunity to return to our new friends.

Chloe Peterson-Nafziger

Arrival at Palmerston

We have arrived at Palmerston in the Cook Islands. We have been tested by the seas after some forty knot winds and large swells. The students at and staff are enjoying the incredible hospitality of the Palmerston hosts with all students ashore on land for two days. We are surveying the beautiful reefs and learning about the area from our local hosts,

who are amazingly gracious and helpful. Our computer system has a few issues so please be patient on our shipboard blogs!

-Barbara

A Sea of Paradoxes

In this microcosmal world, life is both busy and simple at the same time.

There are lines to memorize, sails to haul, mouths to feed, and projects to finish, but there is still the simplicity and peace that accompanies the realization that this is your world, at least for the moment. What we have, and who we have, is all we have. There is a phrase on the ship that has circled around: "ship, shipmates, self." Before you take care of yourself, you must look out for the ship and those around you, which in turn keeps all of us safe. Living on this floating island has given me a new perspective on the urgency of conservation: just replace "ship" for "earth." The care that goes into this ship is intentional and rigorous; every day we mop the soles [floors], clean the heads [toilets], sheet our sails properly to protect them, maintenance machines, clean dishes, and scan for danger on the horizon. These chores come from a collective understanding that without the ship, we would all be in danger very quickly. I am reminded of this feeling of dependence on the ship and my shipmates every time I climb aloft and look down at the concentration of life on deck, and the vastness of the ocean that surrounds us. The islands that we have visited seem to have a similar mindset.

Image credit: Alejandro Dobles

However, with the earth, it is not as easy as climbing aloft to understand that this is all we have. It is more difficult to see how connected we are, that each piece of plastic we produce could end up in the stomach of an albatross, or that each Amazon package we have shipped contributes to the warming of our oceans. When Sylvia Earle came to visit our class in Monterey, she talked about the importance of the image "Earth Rising," a picture of our planet taken on an Apollo mission circling the moon. She talked about how looking down at our finite and precious planet, and the expansive galaxy that surrounds us, inspired many people to better protect it.

This trip has been full of paradoxes, and at the same time that this ship feels limited and precious, the voyage has reminded me of the immenseness of the ocean and the mysteries it holds. We hold small petri dishes full of glowing life and look up at an expansive sky twinkling with stars. I feel so close already to the thirty-nine other people aboard, despite only being together for less than two weeks. Within a day, or even a watch, I feel frustrated, overjoyed with a cool discovery, hysterical with laughter, or sad at the sight of plastic adrift so far from land. Perhaps this trip will be a process of grappling with these problems of immense (how will we save this planet?) and microscopic (can I count these plankton without getting seasick?) scale.

By being placed on a vessel in the South Pacific, thousands of nautical miles from my comfort zone, I have become acutely aware of my own shortcomings and how much more I have to learn about sailing, the ocean, and myself. However, I could not be more grateful for the endless sense of wonder and growth that this adventure has brought me so far, and the newfound connection I feel to my shipmates and the watery world that surrounds us.

-Audrey Bennett

P.S. For a better glimpse into our life on board, I've included a list of some of the most memorable sights, smells, sounds and feelings that I've encountered:

• The hot air of the engine room
• The sound of a guitar, ukulele, and someone singing
• The sky just before dawn
• Huge swells and thick, sweet cinnamon rolls
• Laughing and eating oranges until my stomach hurt with Thom and Alema
• Seasickness and my desperate attempts to curb it: ginger and saltines
• The drop in my stomach when the ship falls into the trough of a wave
• The sense that every place and person has an important role 
• Looking out the port holes and seeing water
• The tug of a squid on my line
• The way that everyone seems connected by the same forces that bring us to stand in awe: a whale, a sunset, a good meal, the sight of land
• The inevitable hysteria that comes with standing watch from 0100 - 0700
• The thoughts of home and family that punctuate my day
• The sounds of waves hitting the hull as I go to sleep
• The cool breeze in my bunk from one small blessed fan
• The sound of the wind in our sails
• The cold, quick water and our shouts of joy when Daniel, Alex, Chloe, Thom and I arrived at a beautiful waterfall
• Singing sea chanties at the helm with Snark [our second mate] in the middle of the night
• The confusing feeling of waking up and wandering into the main salon for a meal, having no idea what meal it is
• Learning about tuna anatomy and physiology from Barb as she reaches into a freshly caught yellowfin to find the heart
• How difficult it is to close heavy doors in a big swell
• My sense of time, which has been defined by the 18-hour watch schedule
• The sight of several minke whales that swam alongside our ship, and the feeling that we are all at the mercy of the same winds, seas, and forces
• The simplicity of the greatest joys on the ship: a delicious meal, a good laugh, full sails, sleep, natural beauty, a shower

Iles Maria

The familiar hum of the motor suddenly dropped in pitch quite audibly. As my brain started to turn on, I noticed the familiar "chirp" from below my bunk pinging off more rapidly than usual. Upon opening my eyes, the light shining through the porthole confirmed my suspicions. We'd arrived at Isle Maria.

I'd finished my evening watch at 1 am that very morning and spent the next hour or so triple checking that all my batteries were charged, and I hadn't forgotten any important gear. My project, using drones to map coral reefs in 3D to monitor vital health parameters, requires that I collect data at the right time, at the right place, with the right weather, and the right waves.

Isle Maria, the first stop on our 5-week voyage, is the only uninhabited island on the itinerary, making it a critical opportunity to map reefs that have the luxury of being relatively untouched by humans. It took us 5 days to sail here from Tahiti, but I'd been dreaming of the place for a few years at least. As I write this, I'm overlooking the four small islands that make up the isolated atoll. Fenced away from the South Pacific Ocean by a protective barrier reef, Maria is slowly sinking into the ocean while the corals struggle to keep up by growing towards to. In between the islands, a shallow lagoon harbors gentle, shallow inner reefs of the most turquoise water you can imagine. Looking over the port side, I can see the bottom over 100 feet below.

It was 0700 and my boat was scheduled to leave at 0900 hours. Even though I'd slept only 5 hours, there was no chance I could go back to sleep. I was too excited. I spent the next hour nervously sipping my coffee while we sailed around the island looking for a channel to get into the lagoon.

Captain Chris was at the helm, something that only happens when something special is going on.

At 0900, we started hauling our gear over the side of the Seamans into our two inflatable rescue boats to start shuttling everyone with island projects into the lagoon. Looking at the size of the waves splashing over the side of the boat reassured me about my purchase of a waterproof backpack.

We started motoring out to a possible channel through the barrier reef.

Large frigate birds, probably having never seen humans before, glided feet above our heads, peering down at the strange visitors to their island.

Chris, who had left the helm to lead us through the break, slowed down the rescue boat and we started to do laps around a seemingly calm spot. Barb, our professor said what we were all thinking.

"Right here looks perfect! A zig and a zag and we're inside."

But Chris said nothing. I could see the calculations in his head. We're only anchored at Maria for 2 days, but the winds were blowing in the opposite direction than normal, and so the waves were breaking over the entrance suggested on our charts.

"Robert C Seamans, Robert C Seamans, this is Defender 1"

"Defender 1, this is Robert C Seamans, go ahead."

"We're gonna come back and try the other side."

All the scientists in the boat, me included, sighed with disappointment. But I was grateful that our captain prioritized our safety over our data. It's always our first reaction to put the science first, so I'm glad there's someone else to prioritize my safety.

We spent the next 4 hours drooling over the starboard side, less than a hundred meters from the most beautiful island I've ever seen. We managed to spend the afternoon snorkeling on the forereef, just outside the lagoon.

However, snorkeling on a fore-reef is like smelling a barbecue you can't have.

I was able to collect some great data for my project as well as some fun images of the team snorkeling. Nearly 100% coral cover provided excellent food for the schools of parrotfish that would circle you with curiosity if you dove to the bottom.

We ended the day by projecting a movie about sailing onto a sail, after which we found spots to sleep on the deck of the Seamans so we could share the cool night air with Maria.

J.P. Spaventa

Steering by the Stars

Beige sand sifts through my feet as I look up to see the many mounds of an expansive desert. Behind me, a pillar of burnt orange sandstone rises out of the dry air and dominates the horizon… “Julien, hey, Julien.” Confused I turn to hear, “it’s um 12:30 on the 13th and you have dawn watch in like 30 minutes. The skies are clear and the air has cooled off, but like don’t wear a jacket, cool?”

My dream of a lurid orange desert under the heat of the midday sun fades into the gentle rocking of my rack in the middle of the night. I roll out of my bunk, grab a headlamp, and run to the head (or bathroom) to brush my teeth. While I had taken seasickness medication the day before, the constant motion of the boat disoriented my senses. Walking down the hallway, the world around me rocks in synchrony as if the curtains, pots, walls, and books all got the memo, but I had missed the email (probably because T-Mobile doesn’t cover 17˚ 38.201’ S, 150˚ 09.459’ W under its international plan). I stumble against the wall (and maybe the floor…) a couple times and scramble up the latter onto the deck.

The cool breeze of the sea feels refreshing as I enter a new world. The Robert C. Seamans, our vessel for the next five weeks, is on the open ocean traveling from Moorea to Îles Maria in French Polynesia, the first leg of our journey. When I fell asleep, the last rays of the sun had just set over the ancient volcanos of Moorea, casting shadows across the sea. Now, Moorea appears as a sliver of orange light on the horizon sixty nautical miles away.

“To the forstays’l, we are on a port tack and need to jibe within the hour,” the first mate shouts. Not yet fluent in sailor, I follow and grab the line last held by our first mate. I tug to no avail, but behind me I feel the slack disappear and hear the shadows shout, “two six heave! Two six heave!” So I too shout, “two six heave, two six heave,” and watch the sail rise into the moonlight. The cool breeze I felt when I first walked on deck struck the sail and sent a ripple down to its line. I look overboard to see our wake grow and its bubbles fade faster into the distance. Turning to my shipmates tired yet beaming faces, I smile as well. As a team, we had hoisted a sail in the middle of the night in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and harnessed the power of the wind to push our ship onward.

“Julien, muster to the quarter deck to take the helm,” the first mate shouts. While he could not see my eyes widen in surprise, I walk to the back of the ship. In front of me, a large compass encased in a glass dome filled with water reads 170 under the red light. The first mate instructs, “the wheel controls the rudder. The wind pushes our sails to the starboard side, so compensate by turning the rudder to the left. Lastly, you can align the mast with a star in the sky instead of staring at the compass. Relieve the person at the helm.”

“I relieve you from the helm,” I state.

“Julien, I have been steering a course of one seven zero and have the rudder turned ten degrees to the left,” she responds.

I grab the weathered wood of the steering wheel and feel the resistance of the water pass through the rudder. As the boat rocks and the compass sways with it, it took time to steady my hands and stay within ten degrees of the ordered course. To this day, I still learn, but over the course of the first night my eyes leave the light of the compass and turn towards the stars. Sirius, Beetlejuice, and Spica sit among a mass of stars as numerous as desert sand. What I first glossed over as a gray cloud reveals itself as a great arm of the Milky Way. Under the most beautiful sky of my life, I steer by the stars and laugh in excitement. While exhausted on watch at 3:30 in the morning, I could not believe the opportunity I had been given at Stanford at Sea and steer onward– excited for the many adventures to come.

-Julien Ueda

For all those that helped me along the way...

For all those that helped me along the way, and to all those to whom I will return the favor...

At meals, I often take the chance to glance up at the galley port holes and ever so briefly see the sea rippling beyond the glass, catching a silent glimpse of life below the tumultuous blue that surrounds us. Yet to just call it blue would be a disservice to its playful and shifty nature. I've never seen a blue like the blue I am utterly immersed in when we pass over these ocean depths. Not only that, it can be a royal purple, a shimmering silver, a pale purplish pink. Or more often than not, it's a carefully crafted combination of an innumerable array of brilliant shades that dance freely across this moving canvas.

Just as an endless energy flows around this vessel, I too find myself dizzyingly surrounded by endless opportunity. For example, the opportunity to experience the rare and mysterious facets of the remote South Pacific, to explore the ins and outs of life on the open ocean, to contribute to a greater cause or answer a pressing question, and - most amazingly so - to be able to do so surrounded by a safety net of support and seasoned guidance from our wonderful staff and crew. Where else can I learn how to navigate a ship using nothing but the sky? Where else can I see sea dragons, pelagic white tips, and other incredible marine fauna on an everyday basis? Where else can I experience the joys and pains of living in a floating co-op (1) with an actually effective cleaning system? We're only ten days into this voyage and I can already feel that this will certainly be quite the experience of a lifetime.

But despite the excitement each new day brings, there are times where I can forget that.

There are times where I'm standing watch at 0300 after a long morning of bruised knees from cleaning soles(2) and a long afternoon of hauling my hands raw to be hove-to(3). These are times when I forget where I am, who I am, and how I got there.  I think nothing of the amazing discoveries I casually partake in, nor do I internalize the amazing skills I accumulate on a day to day basis. In that hazy mindset, I've become numb to the gifts I've been given and blind to the doors that are wide open for me.

As if at the snap of a finger, I eventually have the sense to awaken from this forgetful haze and when I do, I feel ashamed. I feel ashamed and must constantly remind myself to remember.

Remember what specifically?

Well, to remember to be acutely aware of the privilege of being where I am, of being who I am, and of even having the simple opportunity to have gotten there in the first place. After all, my life is the product of a convergence of lines upon lines of socioeconomic advantage, abundance of opportunity, and a number of other seemingly miraculous strokes of good luck and favor.

These lines created a foundation that was just enough to ensure that almost nothing but my own decisions could ever hold me back from achieving whatever I set out to do.

Knowing this, when I take a moment to pause, zoom out, and actually process the inequity that exists in this world, to think about that repulsively uneven distribution of opportunity and resources that stifles so many brilliant minds and incredible people, I feel sick.  My stomach turns, anger fills my head and clasps tightly around my heart, and I feel hot tears threatening to form in response to the bitter fact that billions bear this injustice and its back-breaking burdens.

But those are tears I hold back and set aside, and this is a flame that I try my best to keep carefully controlled, never fully doused but rather one that is compressed - coolly burning as I shake myself from this ungrateful haze of complacency and spoiled dissatisfaction. After all, what good are hot tears for tackling our immense inhumanity to one another? Without a mission or a worthy outlet, anger is also deeply toxic to those that hold

it- a silent poison that creeps into our very bones, and makes weary an already heavy, hurting heart.

And so, every day I've stared deeply into this endless ocean, seeing in its tossing waves and brilliant colors more than just a beautiful depth or a once in the lifetime experience. Here in these waters I silently regain a sense of duty and obligation to my family, my friends, and the strangers that I so painfully love and care for.

Though, I must admit that I worry I am being too serious about this. Perhaps I am just restless in my youth and too quick to anger in my relatively narrow experiences of the world and its people. Perhaps I am just a fool burdening myself with these societal illnesses larger than my individual self could ever effectively do anything about. But then again, perhaps that is just my nature. Perhaps I am simply a creature that craves justice.

Perhaps I am the type that simply cannot rest in a world that insists on doing what's wrong because doing what's right seems utterly impossible and uncertain.

We're only ten days into this voyage and we've only got a little over twenty days to go. I'm bursting with excitement and humbled with appreciation for the chance to be here with waves beneath my feet, lines clasped tightly in my hands, and the steady winds pushing all of us ever forward to our next thrilling destination.

(1) A cooperative living situation wherein people who are not family attempt to live like one. Includes the parsing out of duties such as cooking, cleaning, etc to its residents

(2) Floors

(3) A position in which the sails and ship rudder oppose each other, forcing the ship in a stable position for scientific deployments and other such activities

- Kiara Louise Bacasen
Photo credits to: JP Spaventa

End of Dawn Watch

Dawn watch is delightful delirium. It is less quiet than I expected, punctuated by the slap of the swell on the iron hull and calls of “Lance on deck! Mica below!” from the quarterdeck. But these sounds fail to deny the night its tranquility. A waxing half-moon shattered on the azure sea. The dynamic geometry of fragmented lightness and darkness that resulted could have entertained me for the entire night. The moon set, though, at 3:30, and its exit prepared the stage overhead for the night’s headliner – the stars. As the Milky Way emerged, it struck me that it appeared quite similar to the soupy bucket of plankton the previous watch had left our watch to process after their night tow. The intricate blue copepods and the stars blazing from a distant branch of the galaxy harmonized. There are few places on the planet that this subtle symphony between the microscopic and macroscopic is audible, but I think dawn watch on the Robert C Seamans might be among these few. The galaxy was strung taut from the bow of the Seamans to the stern.

My responsibility toward the end of our six-hour watch was to stand at the bow and look out over the air and water ahead of the ship. By then, the eastern sky was excitedly anticipating dawn. I waited for the sunrise by doing box step-ups and calf raises – great on-ship exercises. As I finished, the cumulus clouds ahead of the bow blushed pink, and the cirrus behind us caught fire. The sails, shrouds, and lines of the Seamans were black silhouettes, an angular negative space in the dawn’s watercolor wash. Kiara came out from below deck, and we watched, quiet. The start of our third day of Stanford at Sea, though days themselves now feel irrelevant given our watch schedule of six hours on watch, twelve hours off.

After my watch passed instructions to the next and Jordan relieved me at the bow, we consummated the transfer of authority with a hearty cry of “chief mate has the con!” and cheered our success. Inexplicably invigorated – or perhaps just more delirious after a night awake – I was in the shrouds minutes later, climbing aloft to the second yard on the foremast. I was the weight on a giant metronome, dangling over the port side and a moment later, starboard. Blue is the only color in open South Pacific, but there are more shades and tints of blue out here than even stars. The ocean and sky merged into a royal blue fabric, and I realized that, the sun on the back of my neck, the wind in my hair, the sky and ocean wrapped me in this fabric. There was nowhere I’d rather be. And below, the Seamans was full of life, an island amidst the blue. From above, it seemed even more delicate.

Back on deck, Jules and I gazed toward the horizon. “Wait what’s that?” he asked, pointing. Maybe a whale, he wondered. It resurfaced, paleness disturbing the blue. “Whale ho!” Barb shouted from the quarterdeck. Others ran eagerly to the port rail, hoping for another sighting. But the whale, resupplied with oxygen, had embarked on its half-hour expedition to the mesopelagic.

The jingle of a triangle shook me awake for lunch and class after a morning slumber. Tiredness had finally chased me down. But my afternoon stupor evaporated when our class gathering concluded with Barb’s announcement: “swim call!” The deck erupted with energy. We plunged into 4000 meters of water, bobbing on the tall swell from the northeast. In the water, we became even more finite, shrunk by the illusion of oceanic infinity. If I were at the highest point in my home state of Idaho, the bottom I was swimming over would be sea level. How can we possibly understand the ocean when it is so vast, opaque, unforgiving, humbling, secretive, blue?

This is the great challenge of oceanography. Simultaneously, it is the ocean’s great allure, drawing me from inland to study this region of the planet that so defiantly resists human comprehension. As I transitioned to my night watch station in the lab, I learned a fragment of the answer. Helen, our science officer, taught Daniel and me three deployment procedures: the hydrocast, meter net, and neuston net. The hydrocast descended to 600 meters, collecting a stream of continuous data and twelve bottle samples. We threw the meter net over the rail and lowered it to 150 meters, where it filled with plankton. And we dragged the neuston net along the surface, gathering another biological sample. It takes immersion in the ocean to better understand it. And that’s why we are out here in the South Pacific, dreaming, climbing, swimming, and doing good science. All in a day’s time.

-Nate Marshall

Science Begins and Iles Maria Lies Ahead

Spirits are high aboard the S/V Robert C Seamans as our Stanford@SEA students are now experienced sailors with over 4 days and nights at sea.  We are very close to Iles Maria, the first stop on our cruise track in the outer islands of French Polynesia. The weather has been super calm and warm with very light winds.  We've had a few whales grace our cruise track, leading to a loud call of "Whale ho!" and  we have identified short finned pilot whales, beaked and humpback whales.

Nathan deploys a plankton net

Our students are now in their watches (A, B and C) and rotate on 6-hour shifts into "Science" and "Deck" watches. Our daily science deployments consist of two CTDs to sample the oceanography below the ship, 2 neuston tows to sample the plankton for student projects, evening squid jigging and late night meter net tows.

The South Pacific Gyre water is relatively low in productivity as promised- crystal blue. We have sampled the mesopelagic with our nets, and caught a small wahoo in the epipelagic that we released by the boat.

Everyone is now in the swing of things- and preparations for the first reef stop are being made by students and staff. We had a wonderful discussion in Conservation class on What is a pristine place?We realize now that very few people have ever been to the remote island we have in front of us on our chart.  Iles Maria is protected naturally.

Swim call in the South Pacific

Pictures provide glimpses of ship life including Nathan deploying the plankton net, the entire class taking a swim on a hot day in the South Pacific Gyre, and Adele and JP planning for the reef projects.  Our students are writing blog,s so starting tomorrow there should be regular student entries to look forward to.

From the South Pacific-

Project planning with Adele and JP

Chief Scientist Barbara Block

Happy Sailors

I am happy to report all Stanford@SEA students have emerged as happy sailors and we're two days in on our trip. We're in the South Pacific Gyre south of Tahiti, headed towards Iles Maria. We're halfway there and the Gyre water is warm. 

Sightings of Cuvier beaked whales and large numbers of Tahitian petrels and red-footed boobies have lit up the deck team sighting birds. We're introducing students to the instrumentation on board and of course they are learning their sail handling and watch routines.

Everyone is in great spirits and when we have more capacity we'll send a few photos of the ship and company.

Best regards to All- 

Chief Scientist, Barb Block

Training and Getting Under Way

We left the dock at Papete Tahiti on a brilliant sunny afternoon. Our passage to Moorea was met with a wonderful pod of short fun pilot whales literally welcoming us to sea simultaneously with a rainbow from a passing shower. 

The first passage was gentle to a picturesque bay with steep volcanic peaks in Moorea, where we were gently tested with a long period six foot swell. 

The afternoon was filled with classes and drills focused on learning about the ship and safety training. 

Learning to work aloft

After an overnight in Moorea, we plan to be under sail this afternoon for the official start of our passage. Students at anchor are learning how to operate the Hydro winch and climb up the mast and onto the rigging. 

Training on the hydro wire

All students have done well very enthusiastic and smiles abound. Several students practiced project science and began getting equipment ready.

-Dr. Barbara Block

2019 Voyage Under Way!

Our Stanford at Sea class of 2019 has completed the Hopkins portion of our course and are now all headed to Tahiti to board the Robert Seamans. 

You can follow along here as students share their experiences through blogs from the ship, and as we trace their voyage in the map below.