Baptism by fire

Well friends, do I have a story for you. It's been 24 hours since we left port in San Diego, and I've already managed to destroy and then re-establish my circadian rhythm. This cruise started with a baptism by fire.

On Wednesday afternoon, Andrew and I had finished building and organizing most of our equipment. We had come far enough that it was time to pull out the optodes (dissolved oxygen sensors) for the lander and get them ready to go. We had already tested the optodes at home in Norway and they all worked, so this was just one final check before the cruise got underway.

Here's the thing: in order to be able to change the settings on the optodes and download data from them at sea, we needed a software package. We had downloaded several different standard packages (called "terminal programs") before leaving Norway, but none of them were able to both control the optode settings and download data from them. Only one piece of software, engineered by the company that made the optodes, could do that. We obtained a beta version of the software from them before leaving Norway, and I had been trained on the program. It was easy to use, with intuitive commands and self-explanatory labels. Easy-peasy, lemon squeezy.

Did you notice the catch? The software is a beta version - that means it's still in development and isn't yet on the market. Translation: there were some glitches. Major glitches. Software-doesn't-communicate-with-the-optodes glitches.

Since the optodes were shipped to San Diego in early December, on board the ship was the first time we had the optodes and the software in the same place. After several hours of plugging things in, unplugging them, checking and re-checking our connections, we decided to call the manufacturer in Germany. There's a 9-hour time difference between Germany and the western U.S., so we couldn't call until midnight (9 am in Germany), when the company opened for business.

After speaking with the company secretary and patiently waiting for the software engineer to have his coffee, we explained the problem. The software takes 20 minutes to recognize the optode the first time it's plugged in, he said. We left the optode plugged in for 20 minutes. No change.

We called back. A new version of the software has been developed since we downloaded it, he said. He e-mailed us the new version of the software, and here's where the story really goes south. We were sent 3 different versions of the file in 3 different formats, and none of them downloaded properly. The software engineer seemed to think that we were both well-versed in file format lingo, had the capacity to download anything to our laptops, and had the world's fastest internet connection. None of these are true.

We finally got one version to start downloading around 2 am. The file wasn't even that large - 36 MB - but it took half an eternity to load. Now, the ship's internet is slow, but it's not that slow. Someone else on the ship must have been taking up the bandwidth by downloading a large file of their own. Andrew and I decided that since it didn't take two of us to monitor the downloading file, we would alternate watches. We both snuggled into armchairs in the ship's computer lab; I put in my headphones and made sure to jiggle the mouse every few minutes.

At 4 am, roughly half of the file had been downloaded. There must have been a momentary interruption in the ship's internet connection, because when I looked at the screen, it read "Download interrupted." I clicked on the button labeled "Resume," but instead of picking up where it left off, the file started downloading from the beginning. We were back to square 1.

I don't remember the next few hours, which I take to mean that I fell asleep. My body must have just taken over control, because I was freezing cold, sitting in a very uncomfortable position, and listening to heavy metal - not ideal sleeping conditions, to say the least. At 6:30, I woke to Andrew's voice, asking if the file had finished downloading. Whatever I mumbled must have been coherent enough for him to understand a "no," because the next thing I knew, he was on the phone with Germany and carrying the computer into the other room.

I slowly collected myself and followed after him. I only took a few minutes, but by the time I got there, Andrew had downloaded the new software - just like that. I was utterly confused, since the exact same file took 2 hours to download only halfway overnight. If someone else had been taking up the ship's bandwidth, they obviously weren't anymore.

We installed the new software and plugged in the optodes, only to get the exact same error message: the program was unable to connect. Furthermore, we were unable to download data from the optode. A data file was created, but it was completely empty.

We made one last frantic phone call to Germany and were informed that the software engineer who had been helping us overnight was now unavailable; he was in a meeting. The secretary found someone else for us to talk to, who ended up being the man who had trained me on the software. He asked what the problem was. We explained. He asked if we had updated the software. We said yes. At one point, I actually switched into English with him just to explain in graphic terms how tired I was and how little time we had left before leaving port. I was so angry, I couldn't think in German anymore.

Andrew and I were now in the main lab, and other scientists were wandering in as they woke up. I think my little outburst must have gotten the software engineer's attention, because he finally asked the question that solved this whole thing: had we updated the firmware? Andrew and I actually had no idea what he was talking about at first, but firmware is internal software, stored inside the optode, which allows it to communicate with the external software program. We had not updated the firmware, because we didn't know it existed.

The engineer e-mailed us the new firmware file, and thank goodness the ship's bandwidth was clear. We downloaded it. We installed it. Meanwhile, the main lab was filling with people, and an annoucement from the captain came over the PA: all scientists were required to attend a safety briefing in the main lab at 0800 hours. I looked at the clock. 7:58.

Andrew connected the optode to the computer. He opened the software. It recognized the optode! He was able to change the optode settings. He was able to talk to it. It seemed to be working! In one last test, Andrew clicked "Download data," and we watched numbers flash across the screen as the software pulled all recorded measurements off of the optode. Line after line of numbers appeared as people crowded into the main lab - now the first mate, now the captain. I could feel my pulse surging against the phone pressed to me ear. A text file appeared. Andrew opened it, and - "Yes!" I shouted. The file contained numbers! The program worked!

After thanking the German engineer profusely, we hung up - and not a moment too soon. It was 5 pm in Germany, and the engineer had made it clear he wasn't going to stay late for us. Furthermore, we had to attend the safety meeting that was now assembling under our noses.

Our sleepless night, though frustrating, was worth it, because if we didn't get the software working, there wouldn't be a cruise for us. Those optodes are everything, our lifeblood, our only research tool. They'll be attached to the lander to measure oxygen consumption at the deep seafloor, which is the entire point of Andrew's and my presence on the cruise.

I finally crawled into bed about 11 am, and I was out like a rock. I just hope the first day was not a sign for how the rest of the cruise is going to go. We'll see, but for now, I'm optimistic. After a baptism by fire, everything else must feel like cool water.

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