Lonesome dreams
"I land on an island coast
Where the only souls I see are ghosts
I run through a wooded isle
And chase the sunlight mile after mile
And I feel like I know this place
As a tree line breaks in a wide open space
I stare at a bright red sun
And search all day, never find anyone"
- "Lonesome Dreams" by Lord Huron
There's a point at the end of every cruise when I come to the shocking realization that I am alone. Right now, I am sitting on possibly the world's most comfortable chair in a hotel room that I could never hope to afford by myself. I am barefoot; my hair is down (neither of which have happened for the past 42 days); and I am alone. Really, truly alone. I said goodbye to the last of my shipmates a few minutes ago in the hallway, and my room feels strangely quiet and oddly empty.
Gone are the 2-a.m.-to-2-p.m. working shifts. Gone are the steel-toe boots. Gone are the hard hats, the life jackets, and the knife in my pocket. I no longer have to smother myself in SPF 50 just to step outside.
In some ways, the end of a cruise is the worst part. Returning to land is always surreal for me, because I suddenly find myself in a completely different set of surroundings, and everything that happened at sea begins to feel like a distant dream. The effect is heightened for this cruise because we returned to the same port city we left from. As I walk the streets of San Diego, everything looks exactly like it did 6 weeks ago, and part of my brain starts to wonder if the cruise ever really happened. It's like someone knocked me in the head, and I slipped into a coma and just had this amazing dream.
In the dream, I sailed past the edge of the earth. I worked and I strained and I stressed. I struggled and I survived, and I did it all in the company of people I have come to admire and cherish. But when I woke up, they were gone.
I know these people better than I care to. I have seen them depressed, and I have seen them elated. I have seen them hungry, angry, and tired. I could tell you all of their personality quirks, their flaws, and what they're like after a hard 12-hour shift.
And I will miss them.
For 42 days, we worked side by side. We helped each other out on tasks that required 8 hands. We stood around and chatted when there were too many people and not enough work. We shared our meals, our frustrations, our joys, and our dreams. Inch by inch, we pushed back the frontiers of human knowledge, giving everything we had for this sole purpose. Most importantly, we did it together.
Where the only souls I see are ghosts
I run through a wooded isle
And chase the sunlight mile after mile
And I feel like I know this place
As a tree line breaks in a wide open space
I stare at a bright red sun
And search all day, never find anyone"
- "Lonesome Dreams" by Lord Huron
There's a point at the end of every cruise when I come to the shocking realization that I am alone. Right now, I am sitting on possibly the world's most comfortable chair in a hotel room that I could never hope to afford by myself. I am barefoot; my hair is down (neither of which have happened for the past 42 days); and I am alone. Really, truly alone. I said goodbye to the last of my shipmates a few minutes ago in the hallway, and my room feels strangely quiet and oddly empty.
Gone are the 2-a.m.-to-2-p.m. working shifts. Gone are the steel-toe boots. Gone are the hard hats, the life jackets, and the knife in my pocket. I no longer have to smother myself in SPF 50 just to step outside.
In some ways, the end of a cruise is the worst part. Returning to land is always surreal for me, because I suddenly find myself in a completely different set of surroundings, and everything that happened at sea begins to feel like a distant dream. The effect is heightened for this cruise because we returned to the same port city we left from. As I walk the streets of San Diego, everything looks exactly like it did 6 weeks ago, and part of my brain starts to wonder if the cruise ever really happened. It's like someone knocked me in the head, and I slipped into a coma and just had this amazing dream.
In the dream, I sailed past the edge of the earth. I worked and I strained and I stressed. I struggled and I survived, and I did it all in the company of people I have come to admire and cherish. But when I woke up, they were gone.
I know these people better than I care to. I have seen them depressed, and I have seen them elated. I have seen them hungry, angry, and tired. I could tell you all of their personality quirks, their flaws, and what they're like after a hard 12-hour shift.
And I will miss them.
For 42 days, we worked side by side. We helped each other out on tasks that required 8 hands. We stood around and chatted when there were too many people and not enough work. We shared our meals, our frustrations, our joys, and our dreams. Inch by inch, we pushed back the frontiers of human knowledge, giving everything we had for this sole purpose. Most importantly, we did it together.
You see, if the end of a cruise is the worst part, it's also the best part. By now, the work is all over, and it's time for us to relax. Time to revel in what we've accomplished and simply enjoy each other's company. We did just that at the cruise party tonight, and I was thankful for the opportunity. Thankful that we all smelled nice for the first time in weeks. Thankful that we could talk to each other easily, that for the most part, we have become genuine friends. Thankful for social and professional platforms that will allow us to keep in touch. Thankful that deep-sea biology is a small enough community that I'll most likely see each of my shipmates again, even the crew. Thankful for the past 42 days at sea, for the science we accomplished, for the experiences that we shared. Because we did it. Together.
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