I've been home alone today; Z went climbing with some friends. I've been sick for close to three weeks so don't really mind the forced solitude and inaction. It's been hot here today - hot and windy. It feels like the first day of summer and I spent some time sitting out in the sun in a tank top and skirt. Luxury! I've opened the front and back doors, creating a wind tunnel through the house in an effort to warm up the freezing interior. I love brick homes in summer when they stay cool, but in winter they are just so cold.
Needing some sound to occupy the emptiness, I put on the CD we bought from the Abayudaya who we visited while we were in Uganda. It takes me back to the Friday night services we attended in the tiny synagogue on the hill. The music - oh the music! Effortless African harmonies envelopping us as the sun set. I think about the lives of the people we visited and can't help but feel like all of my problems are those of a spoiled, white, middle class, westerner. This music puts it all in perspective. If I listen closely, in the background I can hear the buzz of cicada and the occasional goat bleating. It reminds me of heat and dust and green lushness; of matooke and beans and long bus rides; of long days and short sunsets and tremendous storms; of bright sarongs and spending a whole day sitting under a tree talking with the Rabbi who had just burried a child.
It also leaves me itching to do something. This is the feeling I encounter most often these days: an eagerness to be doing something. And no, analysing PhD data doesn't count. We caught up with an old friend of Z's yesterday and his Australian wife. She asked me over lunch what I wanted to do when I'd finished my PhD. In responding, I realized how much my answer has changed in the last few months. I used to say, with little hesitation: research. It's true, I love learning things and exploring the natural world. But that, right now, doesn't feel like enough for me. It feel too, well, academic: obscure, removed. I want to do something with this life. At least I can try to right some of the wrongs - it's the least I can do.
I've been especially inspired lately by Lumpkin who's spending this month in Colorado volunteering for the Obama campaign. He's turned words into action. I want to do the same and yet feel so stuck in PhD-land. It's so full-on that I rarely have energy for much else. I guess I'm just ready to be done. Really ready. I'm ready for the next stage, the next thing. I did the maths yesterday and realized that I'm one month short of half way, assuming it takes me the full 3.5 years, which seems a realistic assumption. Sometimes these past 20 months feel like they've flown by, but more often it seems to have been an eternity. Can I hold out for another eternity? When I think about the reward, the answer is an unhesitating YES. When I think about the reality of all that I have to do, some part of me shrivels.
I guess I'll get back to that data entry.
October 12, 2008
October 04, 2008
Reboot
Well hello. I haven't seen you in a while. I thought I'd drop by for a quick visit. Maybe we can share a cup of tea while I tell you about my day. It's been a nice sunny Saturday here in Melbourne, a perfect day to garden. In fact, after a few hours of back breaking bending, the garden's in: zucchini, capsicum, tomatoes, spinach, spring onions, jalapenos, snap peas, green beans, basil, oregano, dill, lettuce, mint, thyme, parsley, coriander, and a lone strawberry plant that held on from last year. It's not nearly as big as K&K's garden, but then again I'm not as insane as them and I don't like cucumber quite as much. It's incredibly satisfying to grow food. For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to try being self sufficient for a while - to entirely survive on things that I can grow and make. It's not feasible now - and may never be, so I have to find satisfaction in my urban vege patch.
I've been thinking a lot about the state of world lately (it's hard not to with a financial meltdown, a global weather melt-up, and a looming election), and have come to the conclusion that I am deeply concerned. Deeply truly worried. I think it tinges everything I do, creating a base mood of No Good. I feel like we need a massive massive massive system overhaul: we need to change the way we do everything. Z and I were talking about this last night. He painted an inspiring picture of a city without cars, where all the black tops have been reclaimed and turned into wildlife corridors, grazing pastures and vege patches. As I was driving (ahem) to the nursery today, I tried to picture the streets without bitumen. I saw sheep grazing and trees full of birds and lots of big vege gardens. There would still be arterial roads and bike lanes and pedestrian walkways. But it would be quiet and green. Can you picture it?
So: a cultural, societal, governmental reboot. I think that we need to become truly local again. It's globalisation that's doing us in: the sheer expenditure of resources to make, for example, a cell phone chip in China using coltane ripped from the jungles of central Africa for resale in Melbourne is boggling. Tied into this is the imbalance of power, in which corporations have all the control. They don't care about you or me, just making money. Can we overhaul corporations? Maybe. Would it be easier to tear them all down and start again with a different structure? Maybe not.
But enough talk, enough thought. What about action? How do we make such massive changes? How can we start living locally? What can I do? I certainly think about almost everything I buy and use; I try to only buy produce that's grown/raised in Australia; I ride my bike whenever I can; I am registered to vote in two countries; I'm getting a PhD in ecology. But it doesn't feel like enough. Or rather, these actions feel like the equivalent of playing the viola on the deck of the Titanic as she sinks: inadequate to say the least. Z and I talked about the need for Homo sapiens sapiens to turn a corner. The problem is, see, that we're in this huge ship and it's going to take years and years to start around the bend. And I'm not a patient person. I want to know that things are going to be OK -and if they're not, I want to be doing things - big things - to make sure they are.
So, in summary, it's been a lovely sunny Saturday here in Melbourne to think about the state of the world while planting what I hope will be a productive and delicious garden. I hope we get to catch up again soon - it had been too long.
I've been thinking a lot about the state of world lately (it's hard not to with a financial meltdown, a global weather melt-up, and a looming election), and have come to the conclusion that I am deeply concerned. Deeply truly worried. I think it tinges everything I do, creating a base mood of No Good. I feel like we need a massive massive massive system overhaul: we need to change the way we do everything. Z and I were talking about this last night. He painted an inspiring picture of a city without cars, where all the black tops have been reclaimed and turned into wildlife corridors, grazing pastures and vege patches. As I was driving (ahem) to the nursery today, I tried to picture the streets without bitumen. I saw sheep grazing and trees full of birds and lots of big vege gardens. There would still be arterial roads and bike lanes and pedestrian walkways. But it would be quiet and green. Can you picture it?
So: a cultural, societal, governmental reboot. I think that we need to become truly local again. It's globalisation that's doing us in: the sheer expenditure of resources to make, for example, a cell phone chip in China using coltane ripped from the jungles of central Africa for resale in Melbourne is boggling. Tied into this is the imbalance of power, in which corporations have all the control. They don't care about you or me, just making money. Can we overhaul corporations? Maybe. Would it be easier to tear them all down and start again with a different structure? Maybe not.
But enough talk, enough thought. What about action? How do we make such massive changes? How can we start living locally? What can I do? I certainly think about almost everything I buy and use; I try to only buy produce that's grown/raised in Australia; I ride my bike whenever I can; I am registered to vote in two countries; I'm getting a PhD in ecology. But it doesn't feel like enough. Or rather, these actions feel like the equivalent of playing the viola on the deck of the Titanic as she sinks: inadequate to say the least. Z and I talked about the need for Homo sapiens sapiens to turn a corner. The problem is, see, that we're in this huge ship and it's going to take years and years to start around the bend. And I'm not a patient person. I want to know that things are going to be OK -and if they're not, I want to be doing things - big things - to make sure they are.
So, in summary, it's been a lovely sunny Saturday here in Melbourne to think about the state of the world while planting what I hope will be a productive and delicious garden. I hope we get to catch up again soon - it had been too long.
July 03, 2008
The greeness of the grass
Z got into a discussion last night about whether or not we should adopt a dog when we return from the States. I should probably have described this as a "discussion" as it was rather heated. We do not have permission to have a dog in our current rental which is a source of some anxiety, especially considering that the vacancy rate in this town hovers around 1%. However, the likelihood of getting caught is small and there's a chance we could bluff our way out of a situation by claiming the dog is really mum's. Or we could ask the agency that manages our rental for permission to get a dog. But if we are told no and get a dog anyway, wouldn't it be worse?
It took me a while to figure out the subtext of our "discussion". Neither of us is particularly happy here right now. I am wondering why the hell I started this PhD in the first place and whether I want to finish it. Z finds his work tedious on a good day, and we both feel a lack of deep social satisfaction. So what are we doing? What am I doing?
Earlier this year, my fieldwork monopolised my time and energy. During my trips, I was busy and surrounded by interesting people. And yet, towards the end of the field season, all I wanted was a predictable schedule that had me spending most of my time in a warm, dry, stable office. And now that I have that, I'm bored out of my skull. The grass always seems greener.
I fear that this adage can be equally applied to our situation in Australia. I've been toying with various improbable scenarios lately. For example: we (used in a global sense) run out of fuel. There's a last flight back to the States. Do we (used in a local sense) board that plane? Or: One of us is diagnosed with a serious something. Do we stay or go? It was this latter thought experiment that made me aware of some of the complications. In the States, we would have no health insurance. In fact, if one of us got sick and we were living in the States, it would make a whole lot of sense to return to Australia. As much as I miss my friends and the general population of the Bay Area, there are serious downsides to living in the U.S. of A. Health insurance, for example. Higher costs of living and smaller pay checks. A pitiful two weeks off per year. Life lived at a hectic, full-throttle pace. Traffic. Over crowding. Crap coffee.
But how much do these things matter? What actually matters? To me? To us? What are the most important things? And if I'm so damn unhappy, why aren't I doing something to fix the situation?
I suppose I am. I have a holiday coming up. Perhaps the vacation and distance will enable me to look forward to being back here for another couple of years. Or maybe, being back in SF will seem like a too short taste of something delicious.
So, do we get a dog? No really, this is all related. So much of my life at the moment feels like something to tolerate or survive or get through in order to get to the good stuff. That's no way to live: waiting for something better. Putting off getting a dog until we own a house or have stable jobs or know which continent we want to live on seems like one more way to delay pleasure. Not only that, but dogs have this innate ability to find joy in the most mundane things (half a tennis ball, for example). Having a dog would add an immediacy and purpose to our day-to-day existence here in Melbourne. Is that too much to ask of a furry bundle? Perhaps. Would the dog make any difference? Perhaps.
What will make a difference is a vacation. 12 days, 21 hours, 40 minutes and counting...
It took me a while to figure out the subtext of our "discussion". Neither of us is particularly happy here right now. I am wondering why the hell I started this PhD in the first place and whether I want to finish it. Z finds his work tedious on a good day, and we both feel a lack of deep social satisfaction. So what are we doing? What am I doing?
Earlier this year, my fieldwork monopolised my time and energy. During my trips, I was busy and surrounded by interesting people. And yet, towards the end of the field season, all I wanted was a predictable schedule that had me spending most of my time in a warm, dry, stable office. And now that I have that, I'm bored out of my skull. The grass always seems greener.
I fear that this adage can be equally applied to our situation in Australia. I've been toying with various improbable scenarios lately. For example: we (used in a global sense) run out of fuel. There's a last flight back to the States. Do we (used in a local sense) board that plane? Or: One of us is diagnosed with a serious something. Do we stay or go? It was this latter thought experiment that made me aware of some of the complications. In the States, we would have no health insurance. In fact, if one of us got sick and we were living in the States, it would make a whole lot of sense to return to Australia. As much as I miss my friends and the general population of the Bay Area, there are serious downsides to living in the U.S. of A. Health insurance, for example. Higher costs of living and smaller pay checks. A pitiful two weeks off per year. Life lived at a hectic, full-throttle pace. Traffic. Over crowding. Crap coffee.
But how much do these things matter? What actually matters? To me? To us? What are the most important things? And if I'm so damn unhappy, why aren't I doing something to fix the situation?
I suppose I am. I have a holiday coming up. Perhaps the vacation and distance will enable me to look forward to being back here for another couple of years. Or maybe, being back in SF will seem like a too short taste of something delicious.
So, do we get a dog? No really, this is all related. So much of my life at the moment feels like something to tolerate or survive or get through in order to get to the good stuff. That's no way to live: waiting for something better. Putting off getting a dog until we own a house or have stable jobs or know which continent we want to live on seems like one more way to delay pleasure. Not only that, but dogs have this innate ability to find joy in the most mundane things (half a tennis ball, for example). Having a dog would add an immediacy and purpose to our day-to-day existence here in Melbourne. Is that too much to ask of a furry bundle? Perhaps. Would the dog make any difference? Perhaps.
What will make a difference is a vacation. 12 days, 21 hours, 40 minutes and counting...
June 30, 2008
Logorrhea
The challenge du jour is to incorporate the following into daily conversation:
1. Erinaceous: Like a hedgehogFrom here.
2. Lamprophony: Loudness and clarity of voice
3. Depone: To testify under oath
4. Finnimbrun: A trinket or knick-knack
5. Floccinaucinihilipilification: Estimation that something is valueless.
6. Inaniloquent: Pertaining to idle talk
7. Limerance: An attempt at a scientific study into the nature of romantic love.
8. Mesonoxian: Pertaining to midnight
9. Mungo: A dumpster diver - one who extracts valuable things from trash
10. Nihilarian: A person who deals with things lacking importance (pronounce the ‘h’ like a ‘k’).
11. Nudiustertian: The day before yesterday
12. Phenakism: Deception or trickery
13. Pronk: A weak or foolish person
14. Pulveratricious: Covered with dust
15. Rastaquouere: A social climber
16. Scopperloit: Rude or rough play
17. Selcouth: Unfamiliar, rare, strange, marvelous, wonderful.
18. Tyrotoxism: To be poisoned by cheese
19. Widdiful: Someone who deserves to be hanged
20. Zabernism: The abuse of military power or authority.
June 19, 2008
Grrr
It has been two weeks of rampant grumpiness. I am equal parts I-hate-everything and I-want-to-curl-up-into-a-ball-and-cry. When vigorously mixed, you get a lovely dose of not-much-fun. Please take a moment to send Z your thoughts on the most sympathetic channel you can find.
I need a vacation.
I need a vacation.
June 15, 2008
June 10, 2008
Please hold
A couple of weeks ago, my external hard drive died. As it was within warranty and only served to back up all my data, it wasn't such a big deal. The replacement unit arrived over the weekend and today I'm transferring all 100+ of my fish videos from DVD onto the hard drive. You know that window you see when you're copying a file between locations on your computer, the one that tells you the "Time remaining"? It's usually terribly inaccurate, right? Well, I was just informed that it would take 37551 days and 22 hours to complete a transfer. That's about 103 years. And the count is going up. I think this is what is referred to as a lost cause.
June 09, 2008
A first
On Saturday evening, Z and I met up with just about all of our Melbourne friends to celebrate Mr. Z's birthday. There was drinking involved (it is Australia after all): lots of wine and a couple of beers. We got home around 1:00 and crawled into bed. Z fell asleep immediately. How could I tell? The incredibly loud snoring was a hint. I'm sure all the neighbours could tell just as easily. I tried the usual tactics to counter over-active nasal passages: the nudge, the elbow, the kick. No go. I had to resort to sleeping on the futon in the office. I felt bad about leaving the bed, not so bad once I realized I could still hear him through the solid brick wall between the rooms. This is the first time we have slept in separate beds under the same roof. Next time, however (and I presume there will be a next time) he's the one getting the boot.
June 07, 2008
This is hell
Two weeks ago I went to hell on a boat near Melbourne. It happened like this:
Day one: The high for the day is 16C, much less if one takes into account the very chilly southern wind. The water is 14C. There is no sunshine. It is very, very choppy in a very, very unpredictable way. This makes getting in for dives difficult as we are constantly (and literally) being thrown all over the boat. It also makes us all (even CJ who has never felt queasy on a boat) feel at least mildly sea sick. Despite the fact that I am in a dry suit, I am very cold after my first dive. As I get into the water for dive two, I slip and snap the back plate on my BCD (the vest that holds the tank and provides buoyancy). I have a spare BCD on board but it will take me a while to get it set up, so I send in another diver and sit out dive two. It is cold. I have a choice: duck out of the wind into the semi-enclosed space in the bow and get terribly sea sick or sit out in the open and get hypothermic. I choose the latter and get sea sick anyway. While I throw up I realize that this is my version of hell: the boat won't stop moving; the wind won't stop blowing; my body won't stop violently shaking - and I am about to go diving. I keep falling asleep though it is less like napping and more like passing out. The guys surface from dive two and I get ready for dive three. I am attempting to add a weight to a weight-belt when I realize that I am no longer functioning; I look down and discover that I have mis-threaded the weight, a task as easy as looping a belt through a buckle. I mention that maybe I shouldn't dive. The guys look at me and tell me that I look like hell: shockingly white with blood shot eyes and the violent shakes. The verdict: no diving for me. I get out of my dry suit and into gortex while the guys do another dive. The violent shakes calm to uncontrollable shivers. I sit on the boat thinking about quitting; no data is worth this much pain. After their dive and on the way home, we go to pull in the camera and discover it is stuck, wedged into the reef. Despite the cold and the sick, I jump in for a dive to free it. Then we go back to the house in which we're staying.
Day two: We get up before dawn to do it all again. On our way up the estuary at low tide we run aground. I jump in to push us off the sand bank. At the time, it seems like no big thing. Later, I realize it was a sign from on high to TURN AROUND; GO HOME; GIVE UP. Being blind to such omens, we continue on.
Out on the open water, there is weak sunshine and less chop. I am wearing more layers but still get unbearably cold while in the water. I don't know what's happened to me; Monterey is far colder and I used to dive that in a wet suit. Is this what happens when you get old? In between dives, we all discuss the appeal of terrestrial research. Dive two takes place in about 3m of water under crashing waves. It is not fun to be thrown repeatedly into rocks while trying to take measurements. In fact, it is so not-fun that it earns a prize: The Worst Dive of the Entire Six Month Field Season. Because I don't have my BCD with its integrated weights, I am using a weight belt. This causes my back to contort into an incredibly painful position which the cold cements into place.
At the end of the day, we go to pick up the baited camera that I dropped in at the beginning of the day. Because my wrists and back are all screwy, CJ pulls up the frame. He gets it to the side of the boat and says, "That's not good." I rush over to look over the side and see the frame minus lid and minus camera. Which is to say, minus $3000 camera. We all swear. I immediately start getting into my gear and jump into the water. I get to about 3m and realize I can't equalize - my left ear won't clear. I surface, leaving John on the bottom completely unaware of what's going on. CJ gears up as quickly as possible and jumps in. They spend about twenty minutes searching. As they surface, I see they are holding something colourful - the camera! I think. But no, it's just the lid for the frame. Perhaps the camera is positively buoyant? We search the surface for it, zig-zagging our way towards the beach, following the waves and wind. We decide that a couple of us should swim in to shore and search the beach while the other two drive the boat around to the launch ramp, get in the car, and come to pick up the searchers. I volunteer to go in along with John. We pull on fins, masks, snorkels, and throw some food and phones into a dry bag. We have a surf zone to get through before the beach. This is made all the more difficult by the fact that we extremely buoyant in our dry suits; diving under breaking waves or any kind of swimming is impossible. Instead, we are tumbled into shore like flotsam - or is it jetsam? We get there eventually and start to walk. I hear my phone ring; it is CJ calling from the boat to ask where the car keys are. "Could you please tell me that they are not in the dry bag in your hand?" he begs. We all let out a collective "D'Oh!" but with more expletives. CJ suggests that one of us hitch a ride to the boat ramp while the other continues to search. I agree, hang up and relay this message to John. There's a pause. We look at eachother: dripping wet and covered in sand. No-one will pick us up. So I call CJ back to tell him that I will drop the keys off a nearby bridge into the boat as it passes underneath. It takes about 1/2 an hour to walk to the bridge in the heavy dry suit. Dropping the keys goes well (you thought we'd lose the keys, didn't you?) and then I start walking toward the boat ramp, a few miles away. Somewhere along the way, my phone battery starts to beep its last warnings. It is my only form of communication with the car. The sun sets. I keep walking. I feel like I walk forever, but it's probably only about 45 minutes before the car appears. I am nevertheless absolutely exhausted.
Meanwhile, John has been walking down the beach, on soft sand in his heavy dry suit. He climbs all the way up a set of stairs from the beach to the road before realizing that he is no longer in possession of his phone. Returning to the beach as the last rays of light are fading from the sky, he finds his phone bobbing gently in the shallows. This explains why our frantic calls to reach him have not been answered. We have no idea where he is; he has no idea where we are. I walk down cliff stairs to the beach looking for a lone figure in the twilight: no luck. I call again: no luck. When I try for about the 6th time, John answers and we talk - me on dying mobile, he on drenched mobile. He gives us an idea of where he is. It takes a while but we eventually find him in the dark.
I call Z to tell him that we're off the water and relatively safe. Upon hearing about our day he asks, "What did you do - piss off Shiva?"
Back at the house, I realize that my back is truly rooted; I can't straighten it. I swallow massive quantities of ibuprofen and crawl into bed at 8:30. In my exhaustion, I wonder if I haven't in fact died; that I will wake up in the morning to the start of the previous day; that I will be stuck in an eternal cycle of hell, unable to do anything except repeat these horrendous days over and over and over again.
Day three: We wake up at 5:30 and do the whole thing again. This third day, however, has much less hypothermia, fewer bouts of sea sickness and, of course, we have no camera to lose.
Ah, the glamorous life of a marine biologist. Doesn't it sound like fun?
Day one: The high for the day is 16C, much less if one takes into account the very chilly southern wind. The water is 14C. There is no sunshine. It is very, very choppy in a very, very unpredictable way. This makes getting in for dives difficult as we are constantly (and literally) being thrown all over the boat. It also makes us all (even CJ who has never felt queasy on a boat) feel at least mildly sea sick. Despite the fact that I am in a dry suit, I am very cold after my first dive. As I get into the water for dive two, I slip and snap the back plate on my BCD (the vest that holds the tank and provides buoyancy). I have a spare BCD on board but it will take me a while to get it set up, so I send in another diver and sit out dive two. It is cold. I have a choice: duck out of the wind into the semi-enclosed space in the bow and get terribly sea sick or sit out in the open and get hypothermic. I choose the latter and get sea sick anyway. While I throw up I realize that this is my version of hell: the boat won't stop moving; the wind won't stop blowing; my body won't stop violently shaking - and I am about to go diving. I keep falling asleep though it is less like napping and more like passing out. The guys surface from dive two and I get ready for dive three. I am attempting to add a weight to a weight-belt when I realize that I am no longer functioning; I look down and discover that I have mis-threaded the weight, a task as easy as looping a belt through a buckle. I mention that maybe I shouldn't dive. The guys look at me and tell me that I look like hell: shockingly white with blood shot eyes and the violent shakes. The verdict: no diving for me. I get out of my dry suit and into gortex while the guys do another dive. The violent shakes calm to uncontrollable shivers. I sit on the boat thinking about quitting; no data is worth this much pain. After their dive and on the way home, we go to pull in the camera and discover it is stuck, wedged into the reef. Despite the cold and the sick, I jump in for a dive to free it. Then we go back to the house in which we're staying.
Day two: We get up before dawn to do it all again. On our way up the estuary at low tide we run aground. I jump in to push us off the sand bank. At the time, it seems like no big thing. Later, I realize it was a sign from on high to TURN AROUND; GO HOME; GIVE UP. Being blind to such omens, we continue on.
Out on the open water, there is weak sunshine and less chop. I am wearing more layers but still get unbearably cold while in the water. I don't know what's happened to me; Monterey is far colder and I used to dive that in a wet suit. Is this what happens when you get old? In between dives, we all discuss the appeal of terrestrial research. Dive two takes place in about 3m of water under crashing waves. It is not fun to be thrown repeatedly into rocks while trying to take measurements. In fact, it is so not-fun that it earns a prize: The Worst Dive of the Entire Six Month Field Season. Because I don't have my BCD with its integrated weights, I am using a weight belt. This causes my back to contort into an incredibly painful position which the cold cements into place.
At the end of the day, we go to pick up the baited camera that I dropped in at the beginning of the day. Because my wrists and back are all screwy, CJ pulls up the frame. He gets it to the side of the boat and says, "That's not good." I rush over to look over the side and see the frame minus lid and minus camera. Which is to say, minus $3000 camera. We all swear. I immediately start getting into my gear and jump into the water. I get to about 3m and realize I can't equalize - my left ear won't clear. I surface, leaving John on the bottom completely unaware of what's going on. CJ gears up as quickly as possible and jumps in. They spend about twenty minutes searching. As they surface, I see they are holding something colourful - the camera! I think. But no, it's just the lid for the frame. Perhaps the camera is positively buoyant? We search the surface for it, zig-zagging our way towards the beach, following the waves and wind. We decide that a couple of us should swim in to shore and search the beach while the other two drive the boat around to the launch ramp, get in the car, and come to pick up the searchers. I volunteer to go in along with John. We pull on fins, masks, snorkels, and throw some food and phones into a dry bag. We have a surf zone to get through before the beach. This is made all the more difficult by the fact that we extremely buoyant in our dry suits; diving under breaking waves or any kind of swimming is impossible. Instead, we are tumbled into shore like flotsam - or is it jetsam? We get there eventually and start to walk. I hear my phone ring; it is CJ calling from the boat to ask where the car keys are. "Could you please tell me that they are not in the dry bag in your hand?" he begs. We all let out a collective "D'Oh!" but with more expletives. CJ suggests that one of us hitch a ride to the boat ramp while the other continues to search. I agree, hang up and relay this message to John. There's a pause. We look at eachother: dripping wet and covered in sand. No-one will pick us up. So I call CJ back to tell him that I will drop the keys off a nearby bridge into the boat as it passes underneath. It takes about 1/2 an hour to walk to the bridge in the heavy dry suit. Dropping the keys goes well (you thought we'd lose the keys, didn't you?) and then I start walking toward the boat ramp, a few miles away. Somewhere along the way, my phone battery starts to beep its last warnings. It is my only form of communication with the car. The sun sets. I keep walking. I feel like I walk forever, but it's probably only about 45 minutes before the car appears. I am nevertheless absolutely exhausted.
Meanwhile, John has been walking down the beach, on soft sand in his heavy dry suit. He climbs all the way up a set of stairs from the beach to the road before realizing that he is no longer in possession of his phone. Returning to the beach as the last rays of light are fading from the sky, he finds his phone bobbing gently in the shallows. This explains why our frantic calls to reach him have not been answered. We have no idea where he is; he has no idea where we are. I walk down cliff stairs to the beach looking for a lone figure in the twilight: no luck. I call again: no luck. When I try for about the 6th time, John answers and we talk - me on dying mobile, he on drenched mobile. He gives us an idea of where he is. It takes a while but we eventually find him in the dark.
I call Z to tell him that we're off the water and relatively safe. Upon hearing about our day he asks, "What did you do - piss off Shiva?"
Back at the house, I realize that my back is truly rooted; I can't straighten it. I swallow massive quantities of ibuprofen and crawl into bed at 8:30. In my exhaustion, I wonder if I haven't in fact died; that I will wake up in the morning to the start of the previous day; that I will be stuck in an eternal cycle of hell, unable to do anything except repeat these horrendous days over and over and over again.
Day three: We wake up at 5:30 and do the whole thing again. This third day, however, has much less hypothermia, fewer bouts of sea sickness and, of course, we have no camera to lose.
Ah, the glamorous life of a marine biologist. Doesn't it sound like fun?
April 22, 2008
Return
I just returned from three weeks on Gabo Island, which is in far eastern Victoria near - well, not near much of anything. One could almost walk from the island to the mainland, though once on the mainland it would be a serious walk through national park to reach the nearest town of Mallacoota, population 1000.
I'm still adjusting to being back in a city and a house that is not overrun with mice. At night, there are no penguin calls to provide the treble to the deep rumbling bass of surge pounding granite. Wind does not howl through the turbine outside my window. I am not down at the dock by dawn watching sea eagles hunt and falcons hover motionless in counterpoint to the fluttering of the kestrels' wings.
I'm at a loss of what to say other than it was completely awesome. I loved being out there, even though the toilet was 200m away down the hill in the dark and the mice would thump around my room chewing through everything at night. I miss the wild solitude of the place and am already scheming my return. I posted some photos here and hope to write up more in the next few days.
March 30, 2008
March 21, 2008
Boulders metaphorical and actual
I've just spent seven days out in the field and accomplished the equivalent of one day's worth of work. I'm not nearly as frustrated as I would expect. I still care deeply about my project but no longer care about the day-to-day setbacks. And boy are there a lot of them. I've been working down at Wilsons Prom where I haven't been able to gather enough hands to push the boat into the water off a beach that's a 3-minute drive from my cabin. Instead, I've been using a launch ramp that's a 1.5 hour drive away by road, and then a 2-3 hour drive by boat. On Tuesday these numbers added up to make a 14 hour day in which only 2.5 hours were spent doing research. A businessman would describe this as extremely low ROI and urge that you invest your monies elsewhere.
Also on Tuesday, half of my thumb went numb while I was holding on to the throttle of the boat. At first I thought it had gone to sleep, but considering it's yet to wake up I can only assume that it's a nerve rather than blood issue. Or it's really hungover and needs a good long nap.
Despite the long boat ride, Wednesday was a day that reminded me why I'm doing this sort of work. The ride down the east coast of the Prom in the early morning light was gorgeous: steep tree-clad slopes pitching down to meet the water in a line of rounded rosy granite boulders. Sitting on turquoise waters between camera drops watching surf wash up on crescents of yellow sand. A dive that was tropical in clarity: those same rosy boulders forming steep underwater cliffs down to soft sand, the sides covered in undulating kelp. A school of 100+ silvery salmon slowly circling me, my bubbles making a hole in a swirling salmon donut. Days like these act as intermittent reinforcement and keep me going. It would appear that I only need a couple a month - I'm not a very demanding person.
In the middle of all of this I feel a strong well of confidence lurking just under the surface, a bit like one of those boulders I suppose. It makes me feel solid and allows me to achieve a Buddhist-like detachment when it comes to delays. The confidence is there because I'm actually getting stuff done; despite immense hurdles and set backs I'm actually pulling off this project. I can't help but feel a sense of pride and accomplishment. I received a lot of positive comments after I gave a talk to the department a couple of weeks ago, which has also contributed to my general well-being. I guess I am like a pet: all I need to be happy is intermittent reward, positive reinforcement, love and food.
Well, almost happy. I would also like my thumb back.
Also on Tuesday, half of my thumb went numb while I was holding on to the throttle of the boat. At first I thought it had gone to sleep, but considering it's yet to wake up I can only assume that it's a nerve rather than blood issue. Or it's really hungover and needs a good long nap.
Despite the long boat ride, Wednesday was a day that reminded me why I'm doing this sort of work. The ride down the east coast of the Prom in the early morning light was gorgeous: steep tree-clad slopes pitching down to meet the water in a line of rounded rosy granite boulders. Sitting on turquoise waters between camera drops watching surf wash up on crescents of yellow sand. A dive that was tropical in clarity: those same rosy boulders forming steep underwater cliffs down to soft sand, the sides covered in undulating kelp. A school of 100+ silvery salmon slowly circling me, my bubbles making a hole in a swirling salmon donut. Days like these act as intermittent reinforcement and keep me going. It would appear that I only need a couple a month - I'm not a very demanding person.
In the middle of all of this I feel a strong well of confidence lurking just under the surface, a bit like one of those boulders I suppose. It makes me feel solid and allows me to achieve a Buddhist-like detachment when it comes to delays. The confidence is there because I'm actually getting stuff done; despite immense hurdles and set backs I'm actually pulling off this project. I can't help but feel a sense of pride and accomplishment. I received a lot of positive comments after I gave a talk to the department a couple of weeks ago, which has also contributed to my general well-being. I guess I am like a pet: all I need to be happy is intermittent reward, positive reinforcement, love and food.
Well, almost happy. I would also like my thumb back.
February 06, 2008
Three unrelated paragraphs
Lumpkin and I were IM'ing a while back and discussing our brilliance. We are, in fact, each of us so smart that we are occasionally incapable of functioning in real society. When I walk into the wall it's because I'm a genius; when Lumpkin falls down the stairs, it's because he's a genius. We are genii.
The weather this week is abysmal: 30 knot winds and 4m seas. I was hoping to get three days of diving in but don't think I would be able to get out from the harbour in these conditions, leaving me high and dry. It feels like a week off though I'm still working pretty darn hard. I've been watching a lot of footage from my baited underwater cameras and it's taught me a lot about life. It's true; you can learn from the fishies. For example, I'm sure you've often found yourself up late at night pacing and asking yourself why, why do the fishes school? Doesn't that just make them an easy target for a big-mouthed shark/whale/seal/fish? After trying to count fish that are a-swirling together I'm happy to report that schooling does confuse a predator. Being a predator of sorts, school-like behaviour makes me unhappy. I would prefer that the fishes swim slowly past my camera in orderly rows, pausing so that I can identify them.
I've managed to spend a fair bit of my week filling out lots of forms. All of Australian health and safety departments require that risk assessment forms be completed before any activity can be undertaken. This involves identifying risks and things that can be done to mitigate the risks so that all risks are L for Low by the time an activity is undertaken. Yes, it's as pointless as it sounds. There's one risk, namely Dangerous Marine Animals, that always has us stumped. The consequences of the risk are severe though the chances of anything happening are extremely low, still a High risk overall. And what the hell are we supposed to do to mitigate against this risk? On one form, I wrote down "prayer, hope". A colleague routinely writes down, "vigilance". This is the same colleague who mitigated a risk posed by a teenager carrying around a fully cocked spear gun with "stern words". It's just as well our dive safety officer doesn't have time to read the forms!
The weather this week is abysmal: 30 knot winds and 4m seas. I was hoping to get three days of diving in but don't think I would be able to get out from the harbour in these conditions, leaving me high and dry. It feels like a week off though I'm still working pretty darn hard. I've been watching a lot of footage from my baited underwater cameras and it's taught me a lot about life. It's true; you can learn from the fishies. For example, I'm sure you've often found yourself up late at night pacing and asking yourself why, why do the fishes school? Doesn't that just make them an easy target for a big-mouthed shark/whale/seal/fish? After trying to count fish that are a-swirling together I'm happy to report that schooling does confuse a predator. Being a predator of sorts, school-like behaviour makes me unhappy. I would prefer that the fishes swim slowly past my camera in orderly rows, pausing so that I can identify them.
I've managed to spend a fair bit of my week filling out lots of forms. All of Australian health and safety departments require that risk assessment forms be completed before any activity can be undertaken. This involves identifying risks and things that can be done to mitigate the risks so that all risks are L for Low by the time an activity is undertaken. Yes, it's as pointless as it sounds. There's one risk, namely Dangerous Marine Animals, that always has us stumped. The consequences of the risk are severe though the chances of anything happening are extremely low, still a High risk overall. And what the hell are we supposed to do to mitigate against this risk? On one form, I wrote down "prayer, hope". A colleague routinely writes down, "vigilance". This is the same colleague who mitigated a risk posed by a teenager carrying around a fully cocked spear gun with "stern words". It's just as well our dive safety officer doesn't have time to read the forms!
January 28, 2008
Hit it!
I had a dream that I was playing tennis in the Australian open, except that instead of a racket I was using a wooden spoon. I wasn't very good.
I'm home for three days, catching up on sleep, watching fish videos, recharging camera batteries and readying myself for another four days in Apollo Bay. I imagine that this is largely what my life will be like for the next four or five months: home for a couple of days a week, gone for a few weeks a month. The transition back to home hasn't been especially smooth. On the boat, it's Go Go Go and I'm in charge, making lots of snap decisions and generally running the show. It doesn't take much imagination to figure out why coming home has met with a few hiccups.
Today is the Australia Day holiday, which I am celebrating in true Aussie style: by doing nothing much at all. Actually, I'm at work and planning to meet up with Z and friends in the park in a few hours. We finally managed to find a frisbee and I'm looking forward to running around like an idiot for a bit. And drinking some beer. At least that part of the day will be true to the Aussie spirit.
I'm home for three days, catching up on sleep, watching fish videos, recharging camera batteries and readying myself for another four days in Apollo Bay. I imagine that this is largely what my life will be like for the next four or five months: home for a couple of days a week, gone for a few weeks a month. The transition back to home hasn't been especially smooth. On the boat, it's Go Go Go and I'm in charge, making lots of snap decisions and generally running the show. It doesn't take much imagination to figure out why coming home has met with a few hiccups.
Today is the Australia Day holiday, which I am celebrating in true Aussie style: by doing nothing much at all. Actually, I'm at work and planning to meet up with Z and friends in the park in a few hours. We finally managed to find a frisbee and I'm looking forward to running around like an idiot for a bit. And drinking some beer. At least that part of the day will be true to the Aussie spirit.
January 20, 2008
Just peachy
It's raining peaches in Melbourne - well, in our yard anyway, thanks to the neighbours' tree which has leaned well over into our back garden. Last year we didn't get any ripe peaches - just a few rotting in the garden beds. This year's a different story. I've been picking a few every now and then, letting them ripen to a delectable sweetness on the kitchen counter. On Thursday I went out and picked everything I could reach, which was enough to take a big bag next door, put two bags in the fridge, pack a third bag for the weekend, and stew enough for ten servings of delicious, cinnamon and rum flavoured fruity goodness. There are still more on the tree. Anyone want some peaches?
We spent a very relaxing weekend with friends A and M whose baby F is just about the cutest kid I've ever seen - but only because I haven't seen your child lately. We were down at Venus Bay, about 2.5 hours southeast of Melbourne on the coast. The weather was not so great, though I did manage to go swimming twice. The second time was very brief and afterwards my skin burned with an icy fire. I felt so alive.
Tomorrow, I'm off down the coast in the other direction to do a week's worth of work in Apollo Bay. Even though there's a good amount of stress and worry to my days, I have to admit that my life is pretty awesome. Peaches and beaches. It doesn't get much better than that.
We spent a very relaxing weekend with friends A and M whose baby F is just about the cutest kid I've ever seen - but only because I haven't seen your child lately. We were down at Venus Bay, about 2.5 hours southeast of Melbourne on the coast. The weather was not so great, though I did manage to go swimming twice. The second time was very brief and afterwards my skin burned with an icy fire. I felt so alive.
Tomorrow, I'm off down the coast in the other direction to do a week's worth of work in Apollo Bay. Even though there's a good amount of stress and worry to my days, I have to admit that my life is pretty awesome. Peaches and beaches. It doesn't get much better than that.
January 06, 2008
Shiny, purdy, new
Since that last post, things have taken a turn in the upward direction. Sure, it was hard to go down, but I'm talking really UP. By Wednesday evening I had figured out that much of the problem lay with my laptop - at 3.5 years old, the DVD drive is not working consistently, the power cord is befracked, and the touchpad is wonky. Z and I decided it was time to get a new computer, but that we would wait another six months or so to save the money by buying one in the States. In the meantime, I would buy a new DVD drive for a couple of hundred bucks. I explained all this to my supervisor on Thursday morning when I ran into him in the hallway. His response? Just buy a new laptop - and get reimbursed from the grant.
Say what?
Yes indeedy. I'm getting a free laptop. And it's much, much more of a laptop than I would ever buy myself because the grant will pay for it to have all sorts of fancy media capacity - extra RAM, a super fast processor, a big hard drive, and lots of dedicated video RAM. And yes, I can now use RAM in a sentence, and most of the time I'm doing it correctly.
And I should be thrilled and happy, right? Part of me is - we'll call this part the little person sitting on my right shoulder. And what is the little person on my left feeling? Schizophrenia? Well, yes, but also mild disgust at our consumerist society. Despite my best efforts to avoid the quick thrills of retail therapy, new and shiny things are appealing. When I find myself attracted to new things, I feel like I've been sucked into the world in which happiness can only be found in a new pair of shoes or a new kitchen gadget. I don't like that world nor do I want any part in it. These two little people do battle over my head which leaves me feeling a little woozy.
I swear I can hear my dad reading this while sighing with disappointment and telling me to Just Get Over It Already and enjoy the new laptop.
Which I will. In a couple of hours.
Woot! Woot!
Say what?
Yes indeedy. I'm getting a free laptop. And it's much, much more of a laptop than I would ever buy myself because the grant will pay for it to have all sorts of fancy media capacity - extra RAM, a super fast processor, a big hard drive, and lots of dedicated video RAM. And yes, I can now use RAM in a sentence, and most of the time I'm doing it correctly.
And I should be thrilled and happy, right? Part of me is - we'll call this part the little person sitting on my right shoulder. And what is the little person on my left feeling? Schizophrenia? Well, yes, but also mild disgust at our consumerist society. Despite my best efforts to avoid the quick thrills of retail therapy, new and shiny things are appealing. When I find myself attracted to new things, I feel like I've been sucked into the world in which happiness can only be found in a new pair of shoes or a new kitchen gadget. I don't like that world nor do I want any part in it. These two little people do battle over my head which leaves me feeling a little woozy.
I swear I can hear my dad reading this while sighing with disappointment and telling me to Just Get Over It Already and enjoy the new laptop.
Which I will. In a couple of hours.
Woot! Woot!
January 02, 2008
Sucky Suckity Suck
I am having a very bad day. It's so bad that it's hilariously funny; I find myself sitting in the computer lab, shivering with cold from the overzealous air conditioners, laughing hysterically with tears streaming down my face. Thanks to Kevmo for providing the comedic interlude. He's had two coffees and a coke and is pretty funny to chat with. He's also helping me figure out this motherfucking shit stinking bitch of a problem that I'm having transferring my movies from miniDV tapes to DVD. I've already enlisted the help of my dept tech guy, a coworker who does this sort of thing, and friendly BennyG whose credits include a real, honest-to-god movie. BennyG talked to people who know people who know this shit and we concluded that I have all the right equipment and that none of it works. At least I'm now able to capture movies from camera to PC, a process that took two weeks to figure out; two weeks of reading manuals that said things like "Simply plug in the iLink cable" or "If you're having connection problems remove the iLink cable and plug it back in". Yeah thanks a lot fuckwad. So no problem capturing movies. Now I'm having problems burning DVDs that my computer can read. It used to work just fine and occasionally still works - but then it doesn't. And the swearing begins. It is the most frustrating thing in the world. Kevmo suggested, "For your phd you could make a fish art piece scaled with corrupt DVDs of all the data since you couldn't deliver the real project due to technical difficulties." I think that might be the most awesomest idea I've ever heard. I just need to transfer over to the Faculty of Art.
Meanwhile, the bike shops weren't open for a week meaning that I still haven't been able to get a new bike "iron" to replace the one that broke, meaning I still have a flat tire. It's been two weeks. I tried to fix it again this morning using a spoon - and then I broke the spoon and the second tire "iron". I rode in on Z's bike which made me appreciate my bike more and realize just how desperately Z's needs a tune-up. It changes gears all on it's own; what a clever bike!
Arrived at work to discover that student email is down. Still down. It's been at least FOUR days. It's only email. Or perhaps I should say, we're only students. I'm sure there's an explanation of the problem and an estimated fix time - in my inaccessible inbox.
I think I need a beer. Or five.
Meanwhile, the bike shops weren't open for a week meaning that I still haven't been able to get a new bike "iron" to replace the one that broke, meaning I still have a flat tire. It's been two weeks. I tried to fix it again this morning using a spoon - and then I broke the spoon and the second tire "iron". I rode in on Z's bike which made me appreciate my bike more and realize just how desperately Z's needs a tune-up. It changes gears all on it's own; what a clever bike!
Arrived at work to discover that student email is down. Still down. It's been at least FOUR days. It's only email. Or perhaps I should say, we're only students. I'm sure there's an explanation of the problem and an estimated fix time - in my inaccessible inbox.
I think I need a beer. Or five.
January 01, 2008
Surviving
We spent new years eve day huddled in the front room in the dark, curtains drawn, playing scrabble and drinking frozen fruit shakes. I felt a bit apocalyptic, justified by the fact that it hit 45C (113F) yesterday according to the Abruzzo club sign. Our lovely brick house stays a good ten degrees cooler than outside, maybe a bit more in the hallway, which is great but means that it's still 35C (95F) inside. Who knew that hot could feel so cool? Around 4:00 we ventured out in search of real air conditioning, choosing to see the French film Tell No-One (Ne le dis à
Stepping back into the furnace afterwards was literally breathtaking; I could feel myself cooking. At a friends' birthday in the park a few days ago we were chatting about growing up in Australian summers. Someone remembered that we used to put the sprinkler on in the back yard and spend the day running through it. With the current drought, no-one even owns sprinklers - or if they do, know that they will face a neighbourhood lynching committee should they use them. There are other memories and survival tactics from childhood - like the closing of curtains and doors, mango in the freezer, a love of bathroom tiles.
Last night at 10pm we were still sweating, sitting on our neighbour's porch drinking various alcoholic concoctions and talking about the intensity of the day. It wasn't any cooler when I went to bed at 3am. Thank god I bought us a fan a few weeks ago.
Today is meant to be cooler but I just stepped outside to water the very withered tomatoes and got slammed by that wall of heat that only 100+ days can deliver. There's a cool change coming this evening when we'll finally be able to pull back the curtains, open the windows and doors, and emerge from our cocoons to enjoy the 24 hour respite from the heat.
Stepping back into the furnace afterwards was literally breathtaking; I could feel myself cooking. At a friends' birthday in the park a few days ago we were chatting about growing up in Australian summers. Someone remembered that we used to put the sprinkler on in the back yard and spend the day running through it. With the current drought, no-one even owns sprinklers - or if they do, know that they will face a neighbourhood lynching committee should they use them. There are other memories and survival tactics from childhood - like the closing of curtains and doors, mango in the freezer, a love of bathroom tiles.
Last night at 10pm we were still sweating, sitting on our neighbour's porch drinking various alcoholic concoctions and talking about the intensity of the day. It wasn't any cooler when I went to bed at 3am. Thank god I bought us a fan a few weeks ago.
Today is meant to be cooler but I just stepped outside to water the very withered tomatoes and got slammed by that wall of heat that only 100+ days can deliver. There's a cool change coming this evening when we'll finally be able to pull back the curtains, open the windows and doors, and emerge from our cocoons to enjoy the 24 hour respite from the heat.
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