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August 23rd, 2009 – Gjoa Haven, Nunavut
by Zeta Strickland

Gjoa Haven, Nunavut  (August 23): Today’s Crew Log comes from onboard educator Zeta Strickland, who’s discovered more about ice than she ever thought she would as Ocean Watch continues its way through the Northwest Passage:

Ice.

I expected I would learn a lot when I joined the Ocean Watch crew. As predicted, I’ve learned a fair bit of sailing terminology (I can now tell port from starboard), and I can now locate on a chart and correctly pronounce the names of many arctic villages and hamlets from Tuktoyaktuk to Gjoa (“Joe-ah”). But what I didn’t realize was how much I would learn about ice, and what I didn’t appreciate was how much there even was to know about ice.

Ice is the main item that determines how a trip in the Arctic will proceed. The ice dictates when you move and how far you go. This can be quite challenging because ice is also moving and changing, some days with astonishing speed. More than one would-be explorer of days gone by, who watched their boat be crushed by the ice, discovered it the hard way: Ice is serious stuff.

As Ocean Watch enters the next critical point of ice blockage along our route, just to the north in a body of water called Larsen Sound, all on board are watching the daily ice charts with increasing interest. As we’re not the sort to keep all the fun to ourselves, we’d like to invite you to take a look at the ice charts along with us, and play along at home in a little game we like to call: “Should We Go Yet?”

To begin, click on the attached ice chart from the Canadian Ice Service. These charts are put together each day from satellite data. So, do you see the chart? The white areas are land, or water outside the view of the satellite. The colored areas represent different concentrations of ice. On Sunday, we were positioned in Gjoa Haven, on the southeast side of King William Island,  a round-ish island situated between 95W and 100W Longitude, and just below 70N Latitude. (Longitude lines are those vertical lines running north and south on the chart, latitude lines run horizontally, from east to west.) See the island? Great. The Boothia Peninsula is that large column of land to the east of our island, pretty much in the middle of the page. The water to the west of Boothia is called Larsen Sound.

Now that we have the geography, let’s look at all the colors. Each color represents a concentration of sea ice, and the key at the bottom of the page explains what each color means. Blue water is covered by less than 1/10 ice (10%), green areas are covered by 1/10-3/10. Yellow areas are covered by 4/10-6/10; orange and red are covered by 7-8/10 and 9-10/10 respectively. But there is more to this story than just the colors. Notice each color region on the map has letters; additional information can be learned about each region of ice by looking at the corresponding oval, or “egg,” at the bottom of the page – each letter on the map corresponds to an egg at the bottom.

Find the yellow region labeled on the map with the letter “F,” and the egg below labeled F. On the egg, each row and each column explains characteristics of that section of ice. The top number in the egg gives a more precise value for the percentage of ice than the color code. For example, the letter F section is yellow, meaning it is 4/10-6/10 of ice. Looking at the F egg below we see the actual percentage of ice in that area is 6, meaning 6/10 ice; that area is covered by 6/10 (60%) ice.
The second row of the egg describes how much of the ice in that area is of each type; our egg lettered F in the second row shows a 1 and 5, meaning that area is 1/10 one ice type and 5/10 of a different ice type. (Notice that 1+5 = 6, the number at the top of the egg.) This doesn’t actually tell us what types are present, so rows 3 and 4 further explain the type and floe size of ice present, and the numbers match up in columns.

Confused? I know, but stay with me a moment: in this area, 1/10 (row 2) of the ice is type 7 (row 3) and size 4 (row 4). (See how that stayed in the columns?) Move to the next column – in this yellow section 5/10 of the ice is type “4″ and size 4. To figure out what type 7 and 4 represent, as well as what size 4 actually means, you have to look to descriptive keys online that explain it all.

This can get complicated, but generally speaking, the bigger the number, the thicker (or wider) the ice. Numbers followed by dots are even thicker. So a 7 is thicker ice than a 3, but a “4.” is thicker than a 7 (without the period). Thickness, generally speaking, correlates with the age of ice: Ice formed this year tends to be thinner than ice that is several years old. In our case, letter F, the 7 means that ice is 30-70 cm thick, and the “4.” means that ice is more than 120 cm thick – the 4’s in the bottom row mean the ice is composed of medium-sized floes, 100m -500m across.

That explains the whole egg, but honestly, we generally are most interested in the top number, which is percentage of ice is that area. Simply put, Ocean Watch and her crew will carefully proceed through green areas, cautiously go through short stretches of yellow when necessary, and do everything we can to stay clear of the orange and red. And we always keep an eye out for old ice and icebergs. Icebergs we haven’t seen yet, but we will once we get closer to Greenland.  Icebergs and old ice (ice more than two years old) are mainly made of pure water – there is very little salt present – which means the ice is hard! (We don’t want to hit that!)

We also look at the other symbols that may be present on the chart. At the north edge of both ice regions (72N), there is a south-pointing arrow with a 5 and a 6; these tell us that the north edge of that ice is moving south about 5 or 6 nautical miles a day. (A nautical mile is just a bit longer than a land mile.) The curly lines that look like a sideways “S” means there could be strips and patches of ice in areas that otherwise are fairly clear. Without a doubt, however, our absolute favorite symbol is three little horizontal lines on top of each other: This denotes ice-free water. Yes, we like that one quite a bit.

So now you know the basics of reading an ice chart. For the next several days as we head north you can download the most recent ice chart and follow along. Go here. When the map loads, select Western Arctic. Scroll down to the “Daily Concentration Maps” (in color), and select “Queen Maud Gulf” (either the pdf or gif). That’s our area. Take a look, and follow along at home.  Should we stay near the west coast of the Boothia Peninsula, or go farther west? What’s our best path, and what kind of ice do you think we’ll go through? Teachers, there is a lesson all about the ice charts and these ice eggs here (PDF), and many more lessons about sea ice here.

And if you get any inside information on sea ice conditions, let us know. With fair winds and a little luck, we’ll see you in a few days on the north side.

- Zeta Strickland

This crew log submitted by Iridium OpenPort and Stratos

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August 6th, 2009 – Booth Island, Canada
by Mark Schrader and Zeta Strickland

(August 6): Today’s special crew log is a two-part collaboration from Ocean Watch skipper Mark Schrader and our on-board educator, Zeta Strickland of the Pacific Science Center. Though a stiff northwesterly wind filled in overnight, Ocean Watch is resting comfortably at anchor in the protected confines of Booth Island, and for the moment the crew has chosen discretion over valor and decided to take a lay day while the weather blows through. While we’re waiting, here are two reports, one by the captain on the current status of the voyage, and the other from Zeta in the third installment of her Teacher’s Log.

Apologies to Booth Island by Captain Mark Schrader

Three very large Bearded Seals swam out to greet us.

From the moment we stepped ashore yesterday, I suspected that my first-impression assessment and description of our current anchorage here on Booth Island (in a word, desolate) was wrong. (I’d made it from the boat, admittedly a weak excuse.) Shortly after submitting yesterday’s log, David Thoreson, Zeta and I launched the dinghy and headed to shore. On the way in, three well-camouflaged (dark brown on a dark brown beach) but very large Bearded Seals watched us from their comfortable sand spit, then ooched themselves into the water and swam out to greet us. This was almost as good as the hand-delivered Canadian Coast Guard ice report we’d received shortly after anchoring.

With the dinghy safely beached, we hiked along the sloping shore, up a gentle hill and onto a higher plateau – all

Two Sand Hill cranes watched us for a while and then flew away.

the while seeing beautiful little tundra grasses and flowers happily growing and blooming amongst the rocks and boulders. Freshwater ponds filled the low spots on the plateau. A flock of Canadian Geese took exception to our presence and hurried away, eventually getting airborne. Two Cranes – we think the Sand Hill variety – strutted along a ridge, watched us for a while and then flew away. Beautiful orange and green lichen-covered rocks were everywhere – a truly beautiful landscape.

According to the Arctic Sailing Directions, this bay has been used as winter shelter for ships of all sizes and description for many years. Others have hiked the hills, as evidenced by several rock cairns we found constructed on the higher ledges. A few curious rock-cleared areas hinted that someone sometime had set up camps overlooking the passage – maybe waiting for rescue, maybe just enjoying the island.

The perfect place for a picnic.

David and Zeta returned to the boat while I stayed ashore and enjoyed the quiet solitude of the place. I was soon gathering dry firewood from the beach and finding just the right rocks for a good-sized fire pit. A plan was hatched. This was a perfect place for an afternoon/evening picnic. The caribou meat, a gift from Craig George in Barrow, grilled over our fire seemed like the right main course. The whole crew came ashore, went for a hike and on return helped gather more wood.  The event was a welcome and relaxing change from our boat routine.  We ended the evening by adding the remaining wood to the fire. When it eventually turned to glowing embers it was time to return to Ocean Watch.

The wind has now veered to the north and is blowing at about 18-knots.  Visibility comes and goes with the fog; sometimes we can’t see the shore, a mere hundred yards away. Our plan is to eventually leave this harbor and sail 60 miles further east to another sheltered anchorage just east of the ice blockage – and wait. If/when the fog lifts we’ll weigh anchor, hoist some sail and see if Pearce Point Harbor is as interesting and beautiful as Booth Island.
Hard Thoughts on Permafrost by Zeta Strickland
The sign was neatly lettered, complete with a map of the area. It was also worthy of a double take: “The natural

On Herschel Island, large chunks of cliffs, no longer anchored by permafrost, are slumping into the sea.

action of south-facing hillsides melting and slumping exposes solid objects buried in the soil. This is normal if a little startling when the object buried is a casket.” We encountered this rather troubling message a few days ago, during Ocean Watch’s visit to Herschel Island. As the crew wandered the tundra that afternoon, exploring the low hillside just beyond the settlement, we did see plenty of tilting headstones, but (thankfully) not a single casket. The experience, however, did get me thinking about the ground in this Arctic area. After all, any terrain that might unbury caskets on a regular basis seems worthy of a little extra thought.

A little context may be helpful for my upcoming confession: I have a background in geology, collect rocks like mad, think beaches are for sand collecting instead of sunbathing, and once watched an entire hour-long TV show waiting eagerly for the characters to attend a “rock show,” only to realize at the end that they were going to a music concert. So I’m possibly a little more fascinated with rocks and the ground than most.

Permafrost can raise coffins from the tundra like a scene from a zombie film.

Yet I must admit – and here goes the confession – that prior to last week I hadn’t given permafrost much thought. It’s frozen ground, right? I mean, how much thought does boring, frozen, immobile ground deserve?

As it turns out, permafrost deserves quite a bit of consideration, and not only because it can raise coffins from the tundra like a scene from a zombie film.

Yes, permafrost is indeed frozen ground – ground that never thaws, stays frozen year round and covers over half of Canada and most of Alaska. Far north, this permafrost can be hundreds of meters thick. Farther south, it can be quite thin. Below the permafrost is unfrozen ground, warmed by the heat from the earth’s interior. And above the permafrost, the layer between the permafrost and the surface is known as the “active layer.”

The name is quite appropriate, because this layer is truly active; it melts each summer and refreezes each winter. Author E.C. Pielou, in A Naturalist’s Guide to the Arctic, explains it best: “(The active layer is) a lifeless ground cover of clay, silt, sand, pebbles, and boulders that’s not inert: energy from the sun activates it. When the sun shines, rocks are heated and ice is melted; when the sun disappears…rocks cool and water freezes. These repeated changes cause continual small movements, which accumulate to produce some extraordinary patterns.”

The resulting landscape is truly extraordinary, and can include tundra polygons (large tracks of polygon shaped

Under normal conditions, permafrost will stay frozen and only the active layer will melt and refreeze with the seasons.

rises), palsas (small mounds with a core of frozen peat), tundra hummocks (small mounds in the high arctic that can have solid ice cores), frost boils (boils of clay that have oozed to the surface), and pingos. (We saw many pingos in the Tuktoyaktuk area – they are mini mountains, up to a hundred meters tall, with a core of solid ice and an overcoat of tundra.) This melting and refreezing of the active layer can cause objects in the ground, like rocks (and caskets!) to steadily shift and rise to the surface. (Those familiar with Midwest farmland, where fields must be cleared of rocks each planting season, will understand the process.) The summer thawing can also produce landscapes on its own; thawed ground can slump down hills like silly putty, forming something called “solifluction lobes.”

Under normal conditions, the permafrost will stay frozen, and only the active layer will melt and refreeze with the seasons. People living in the Arctic have adapted to such frozen-ground conditions and figured ways to use them to their advantage. Buildings we’ve seen in Barrow and Tuktoyaktuk are constructed on stilts several feet above the ground that are anchored to the permafrost; their elevated stature allows the permafrost beneath the building to stay frozen, which translates to a stable house that’s firmly attached to the permafrost. (If the structure was built directly on the ground, its heat would be steadily transferred and the permafrost would melt.)

The community ice house in Tuktoyaktuk is an great example of a permafrost freezer.

Additionally, people all over the Arctic employ the continuously frozen ground as a natural freezer by digging a hole into the permafrost, storing the food needed for the year, and re-covering it with a “lid” of tundra. The community icehouse we visited in Tuktoyaktuk was a beautiful example of a permafrost freezer; the sand-and-ice layers in the carved walls presented a unique window into the make-up of permafrost.

However, as we have discovered in many ways on this journey, the Arctic is changing. As summers become warmer and last longer, the active layer is becoming thicker, and the permafrost layer is delving deeper. The result? Buildings once firmly anchored to the permafrost are now in the melting zone, and becoming unstable. Areas around Fairbanks are forming sinkholes as underground ice melts and the water drains away, leaving hollow pockets that collapse. Ornithologist George Divoky, whom we visited on our first day out of Barrow, has been conducting bird research on Cooper Island for 33 summers. For decades he would take a few perishable food items with him at the start of the summer and dig a “freezer” about a foot deep into the permafrost for yogurt, milk and cheese. Recently, however, he dug and dug and then hit…water. The days of his permafrost freezer on Cooper appear to be over.

Thawing permafrost has broader implications than simply food storage and building stability. In fact, the very land is being impacted. Previously frozen shorelines were resistant to erosion from the sea. But many shorelines are no longer frozen, and the softening coastal edges are eroding into the sea with each winter storm. Herschel Island, an area with a rich history of settlements and whaling, is rapidly losing several archeological sites as they erode into the sea. Large chunks of cliffs, no longer anchored by permafrost, are slumping into the ocean as well. Tuktoyaktuk has placed massive piles of boulders along its shores as a wave break to slow the erosion, but the spit and harbor there are still being impacted.

Ironically, as permafrost melts, it’s contributing to it’s own demise. When frozen, permafrost contains massive

Once firmly anchored in the permafrost, buildings like these in Barrow, are now in the melting zone and becoming unstable.

amounts of dead plants that froze before they could start to decompose. This deceased material contains carbon that becomes locked in the frozen ground. Once the ground warms, however, these plants will start to decompose, releasing into the air carbon dioxide and methane. Both are greenhouse gasses, and both can result in more warming. The cycle becomes self-perpetuating: more warming leads to more melting which translates to more carbon dioxide and methane, and that creates more warming. If it weren’t so horrifying, the order and tidiness would be quite admirable. (To learn more about the impacts of permafrost melting, see The Big Thaw by Ed Struzik.)

So, now that I’m stuck on permafrost, I can’t stop thinking about the community freezer we saw at Tuktoyaktuk, or all the houses on stilts in Tuk and Barrow, or the historical sites on Herschel Island. How long with those structures and places be stable? How much deeper must community iceboxes be dug? Will George ever enjoy another cup of yogurt on Cooper Island?

It seems this frozen ground may deserve more thought from us all. I just hope it’s still around for us to think about for many more years.

- Mark Schrader and Zeta Strickland with photographs by David Thoreson

This crew log submitted by Iridium OpenPort and Stratos

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July 27th, 2009 – At Sea, 70 50N 150 11W
by Zeta Strickland

(July 27): Today’s Log comes from Zeta Strickland of the Pacific Science Center, the first onboard educator to become a member of the crew aboard Ocean Watch on its voyage into the Northwest Passage and beyond. After leaving Barrow early Monday, Ocean Watc called at Cooper Island for a visit with its sole resident, scientist George Divoky, who has spent summers there studying black guillemots for the last three decades. We’ll recap our fascinating time on Cooper in tomorrow’s Crew Log.

In the meantime, Ocean Watch continues to pound upwind in stiff easterlies and short, choppy seas, the prevailing conditions and mode of travel since leaving Barrow. The full-time onboard crew is rather displeased that the weather hasn’t allowed us to introduce Zeta to the glorious joys of sailing – frankly, the current leg thus far has been a miserable, forced march – but it’s all part of the experience. To her everlasting credit, Zeta’s been a trooper, and we’d tip our collective hats to her if it were pleasant enough to take them off. In this second edition of her informal Teacher’s Log, Zeta talks about her inaugural impressions of life onboard.

A Sea of New Words
I’ve now spent my first two weeks on Ocean Watch, which vastly exceeds any of my previous time spent on a sailboat. And today we are actually sailing! (In reality we are motoring and not sailing, but movement is movement, and I have no complaints.) The past two weeks anchored outside of Barrow have allowed me some precious time to learn my way around the boat. Before we get too far out to sea, come onboard and I’ll show you what I’ve learned.  For you sailors in the crowd, this will all be review; but for the folks new to sailing, like me, let’s go explore.

Let’s start up topside, on the deck. (Don’t trip over any of the ropes by your feet.) Some of those ropes (or “lines” to sailors – hardly any rope is actually called rope on a sailboat) lead to the mast, or the sails, or…well, I don’t really know yet. Once we start sailing I’ll be learning those, but for now, let’s move into the pilothouse:  This is where we steer the boat. But for me this past week, this is the sunroom, the RV, the upper cabin, the porch and my napping spot. The clear plastic curtains that surround the pilothouse allow the sunlight (and warmth) in and block the wind. The result is a rather comfortable extension of the living area – we’ve had dinner here, read up here and it’s a great place to watch the world.

Okay, let’s head below now, be sure to duck and don’t hit your…whoops! Well, if it’s any consolation pretty much everyone who comes on board hits his or her head right there on the small overhang. (There’s even a sign: “All are welcome to hit head here!”) All right, let’s try again: through the door and down the stairs. (They’re not called stairs though; the entrance and staircase is known as the “companionway.” I don’t know why.)

As you go down the stairs (okay, companionway!) around the corner to the left (okay, port!) is the workshop. All our tools are here, as well a big deep freezer, and access to the engine, too. It’s a fairly warm space, so let’s hang up your wet gear here. Just forward of the shop is a desk: see it? This is the navigation and science station. We have laptops, our satellite phone and a pair of radios. Make sure the VHF-radio is set to channel 16; that’s the safety and distress channel for all boats, and everyone has their radio turned to it as a default. If we want to talk to another boat we’ll first make contact first on channel 16, then switch to a different channel to talk.

That clock? Oh, don’t worry, it looks like it’s running fast but it’s actually set to Universal Time – also known as GMT, though sailors call it “zulu” – because that’s how we record all our science observations. See? It’s 9:30 a.m. in Seattle, 8:30 a.m. in Barrow, and 6:30 p.m. in Greenwich, England, the baseline for Universal Time.

See that table to the right (okay, starboard!), beneath the bookshelf? The one with the couch all around it? That does double duty as the main worktable and dining room table. And that couch? That’s called the “settee” and it also serves dual roles: There isn’t a lot of room on the boat, so we have to get creative to store all the gear and food needed for six people for a couple of months.

Go ahead: Pull up one of those couch (okay, settee!) cushions and you will see pasta, jam, crackers, canned

The author discovers food beneath setee cushions.

veggies…the list goes on and on. Food is stored in 17 different places on board, so finding anything in particular is tricky. We have a good inventory list that tells us how much of something we have, and more importantly, where to find it.  (Flavoring/mustard/yellow? Three jars are under couch cushion #5! I’m told this process and system was mayhem until port coordinator Bryan Reeves came on board and sorted it all out.)

See those big orange bags in the rack over the settee? (I’m learning.) Those are the survival suits, one for each person. In an emergency (a big emergency) we’d put those on before we would have to…(is it bad luck to even say it?) abandon ship. The suit is hard to put on, and you look like a giant orange Gumby doll, but it will keep you warm and afloat in icy waters.

In an emergency a survival suit keeps you warm and afloat in icy waters.

To the right of the stairs (starboard of the companionway!) you’ll go past the galley (also known as the kitchen). It has everything we need: sink, oven, stove, refrigerator, freezer and even a five-foot long spice rack. Everyone takes turns cooking (and we have some good cooks on board). Those who don’t cook clean (doing the dishes has been my main contribution so far.) Go past the galley and now you are in the very back of the boat, also known as the stern. This is the cabin for a couple of crewmembers, and yes, more storage space.

Let’s return to the companionway; there is a little hallway straight ahead. Yes, it is really narrow, but this is good. When we are really bumping around it can be hard to walk. The narrow hallway means you just sort of bump back and forth like a pinball, instead of getting thrown a long ways from side to side. Also each door, cabinet and drawer on board has a latch to keep it open, or a latch to keep it closed. Even in a little motion, unlatched doors will flap around with a frightful noise. It only took a couple days of not being able to open or close doors before I was automatically reaching for door hooks.

That little room to the left; yep, that’s my room. I’ve squished my mattress down to the foot of my bunk, and in the little gap left at the head of my bed is room for a book, my journal, and my iPod. It’s not a lot of storage space, so I also use that little cubbyhole up near the ceiling. That green cloth next to my bunk? That’s a lee cloth. In bad conditions we can tie that up; it makes a 4^th wall to completely enclose your bunk and keeps you from being thrown out when the boat hits a big wave. I haven’t used it yet, but I’m sure I will!

Across the hall is the bathroom, also called the head. (Okay, it has to be said: I really don’t know why sailors can’t just call things as they are. A bathroom is a bathroom in an apartment, a house, a mansion, an apartment and a hotel… everywhere except a boat!) Anyway, Ocean Watch is quite well appointed compared to other boats; we have a shower, sink, and toilet, even a washer and dryer. (I don’t even have a washer/dryer in my apartment in Seattle!). We also have a good library on board, and half the books are in the head.

The final room is in the very front of the boat (also called the bow). This has more bunks for the rest of the crew, and storage space for much of the science equipment, as well as closet space for clothes (that’s my shelf: second from the top). Yes, it’s pretty dark in the closet; this is why there are flashlights everywhere, and why most of us have headlamps, too.

Well, that’s about it: 64-feet of storage, confusing names, and tiny dark spaces. But somehow it all works together to be this sailboat – currently, a motor-sailing sailboat – which for now is my new home. I’ll give you another tour of the sailing side of things once I learn it. You know, when we actually start sailing.

- Zeta Strickland with photographs by David Thoreson

This crew log submitted by Iridium OpenPort and Stratos

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Open the below pictures in a full-screen slideshow by Flickr

July 14th, 2009 – Pt. Barrow, Alaska
by Zeta Strickland

(July 14): Zeta Strickland has joined the crew of Ocean Watch and will be an important member of the team as the boat sails into the Northwest Passage and on to Boston. Here’s her first dispatch from the boat, written from the Top of the World hotel just before coming aboard:

After sailing the past month from Seattle, Ocean Watch has recently arrived in Barrow, Alaska. I feel a little like I cheated: as the first on-board educator, I simply flew to Barrow. While I wait to learn where exactly they are, and how I will get to the boat, I can’t help but think about what my next three months will be like. As this is my last day before joining the boat it seems like an opportune time to answer some of the more common questions people have been asking me this past month.

What’s my background? Why am I joining Ocean Watch?
I have been a teacher for several years at Pacific Science Center in Seattle, one of the partner organizations in this project. With the center, for many years, I taught science in communities across Washington, traveling in a brightly covered van. It seems like a logical extension to teach in communities around the Americas, traveling in a brightly colored boat. Additionally, with my background in earth science, and a personal interest in exploration and the Earth’s polar regions, this seems like a perfect opportunity to see and learn about a part of the world that is changing rapidly. The chance to also teach on this expedition feels like the perfect way to spend a summer!

What will I be doing on Ocean Watch?
While we are underway, I will be crew. I will be cooking, standing watches, navigating, assisting with the science experiments on board, and helping with all the things that need to be done when you are on a sail boat. Once we are in port, however, I will also be a teacher. I will lead activities on the dock and on the boat, teaching visitors of all ages about the expedition, the science experiments on board, ocean science and the issues around ocean health. Each port call will be a little different, and so my role will be fluid, adapting to the community we visit.

Am I nervous?
Yes. Don’t get me wrong, I feel incredibly fortunate for the opportunity to join the crew, and to be part of this expedition that so far, I have simply read about on this website. But yes, I am a little nervous. I think the reason for a bit of nervousness is quite simple: I’ve never done this before. I have never sailed for anywhere near this long, going to places I’ve only read about, and entering into weather, sea, and ice conditions that can be ever-changing and unpredictable.

Do I get seasick?
Tough to answer: I don’t know. Can you know this before you actually sail? I do know that I am OK in cars, and I like to fly. And I’ve never had a problem on the water before- but I’ve never been on the open ocean before either. So my guess is yes- I will get seasick. Ask me this one again later.

How do I feel about being the only woman on board?
That’s another good question to ask me again in a few days/weeks/months. Right now, I am actually quite unconcerned about this. (And no, I don’t have a lot of brothers, or any brothers for that matter.) I did, however, due to quirk in the housing arrangements at my university, live a full year in a fraternity house. I don’t know this crew well enough to know if college fraternity living will be good training for the next months, but it may be. Truly though, I think the reason I’m not too concerned is that I feel like there are many bigger issues than the gender ratio on board- there is ice to track and watch for. There is weather to adjust to and sail through. And we are researching and learning about massive changes to our Earth’s oceans- being the only woman on a boat seems like a small concern in comparison to everything else.

All that being said and even with my excitement for the boats’ arrival, I am quite enjoying my time in Barrow. It is proving to be a very friendly town and so I think it’s time to go for a walk while I can: before my walking world reduces to 64 feet.

- Zeta Strickland

This crew log submitted by Iridium OpenPort and Stratos

To add a comment to this story click on the comment link below the post title. Please direct your messages for the crew to crew@aroundtheamericas.org instead of submitting them here. Thanks for following the Around the Americas Expedition.