Chilly Scenes of Winter off Cape Cod

Oct. 10, 2005—A blustery late October morning finds Andrey Shcherbina, Glen Gawarkiewicz, and me at an empty boat landing in Eastham. We’re waiting for Dawson Farber, the harbormaster. He’s going to be taking us out in his boat for a REMUS mission.

Problem is, there are no boats in the water. He arrives right on time with his smaller-than-expected skiff on a trailer. He’s a tall guy, built like a Navy SEAL, wearing a big orange-and-black mustang suit. “Brought your foul-weather gear I hope!” he grins as he loads gear into the tiny open cockpit boat.

I take a look at the sky—dark clouds on the horizon are promising some fun. We suit up and launch the boat. Andrey programs the mission into the REMUS as we glide through the calm waters of Nauset Harbor.

Oct. 10, 2005—At the shallow break separating bay from open ocean, we hit a wall of heavy swell. After a few minutes of bouncing on the waves, we arrive at the deployment site. We quickly lower the REMUS over the side and send the start signal. Off it goes on its predetermined route eastward, undulating from the surface down to 90 meters (300 feet) to capture a cross-section of temperature, salinity, and current speed and direction.

As we follow the REMUS, the clouds turn a shade more menacing. Dawson keeps checking his gas gauge and his watch, which makes me nervous. Once the clouds start spitting their first raindrops, we send the abort command. We grab the REMUS and beat back to safety with water sheeting over the rails and a storm kicking up all around us.

I’m soaked to the skin when we pull back in to Eastham, but overall, it was a great start to this winter’s work—a nice late fall data section at a fraction of the cost of a day aboard the research vessel Oceanus.  And, we’re back at WHOI in time to make the afternoon seminar.

Dec. 19. 2005—WHOI Engineer Craig Marquette (hands), Andrey (left), Glen, Ian (right), and I assemble the small moorings on the heaving fantail, pay them out the back, and push them into the cold water. We tie-wrapped the tiny temperature-measuring loggers on the lines at WHOI beforehand. Craig says it best: “Now it’s all grunt work.” Attach float to mooring line. Throw float over the side. Pay out line. Pay out chain. Push over the anchor. Repeat.

I do most of the work on my knees so that I can better maintain my balance. By 3 p.m., the sun is sinking low on the horizon. All of the moorings—six lightweight temperature logger strings and two bottom-mounted instrument cages—are safely at sea with no mishaps; a very good day.

Everyone keeps asking where I got my tan. I think it’s actually windburn.

Dec. 21, 2005—Winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. It’s pitch black when we pull into the parking lot and load the coffin-sized REMUS case onto Tioga. The light from Nobska Lighthouse winks goodbye as we accelerate away from Woods Hole.  When we arrive at the mission’s start point, the sun has just broken the horizon. Dripping seawater has frozen into icicles on the anchor chain.

The REMUS collects data while we hunker down out of the wind behind the pilot house. The sun is back down before we hit the pier. We’re the science vampires—leaving in the dark, returning in the dark, carrying a heavy coffin full of data sucked from the sea.

Jan. 20, 2006—

I can see the exhaustion written on everyone’s faces. We deploy the REMUS and turn on the acoustic tracking. Our routine is now familiar: We take turns lowering the small fishlike tracking device into the water, then we wait for the vehicle to send us its status. After confirming the vehicle is on track, we pull the “fish” back onboard and head off to the next location.

We’re battered and bruised from trying (unsuccessfully) to keep our footing on the pitching deck. The seasickness medication makes me a walking zombie. By midday, we’re all catnapping on the transits, lulled by the throbbing bass of Tioga’s engines. Rainbows—probably the last thing I’d expect to see on a day like this—form in the white water flying over the rail.

Feb. 21, 2006—The weather looks great in this photo—clear blue skies—but the mustang suits tell the real story. The air is freezing and the cold water from the wet mooring lines has soaked through my gloves.  We can see our breath when the wind isn’t ripping it out of our lungs. The physical labor keeps our minds from seasickness.

The previous winter two entire mooring chains were mysteriously lost, so it is a relief when we find that all six of the temperature moorings are right where we left them three months ago. Only two moorings, the bottom-mounted cages, remain.

Feb. 21, 2006—“OK, one more time,” Craig signals to Andrey to lower the acoustic transponder over the side. It sends a coded acoustic signal to the bottom-mounted moorings with an Acoustical Doppler Current Profiler (ADCP). The moorings are programmed to release a float attached to a line. Then we haul the line and instruments aboard. The problem is, one of the moorings isn’t answering. After circling the spot for an hour with no communication from the mooring, we give up for the day.

Feb. 21, 2006—Andrey unclips the temperature loggers from the mooring lines while Ian pulls them up with the winch. Only the uppermost loggers have been lost. “Must have been some abrasion with the surface float,” Andrey speculates as he unclips another logger.

March 24, 2006—Andrey is on the phone with Greg Packard, REMUS expert from the WHOI Applied Ocean Physics and Engineering Department, getting some technical advice at sea. Glen (center) and Jen Hua Tai, a visiting student from Taiwan (blue jacket) watch expectantly to see if data from a sidescan sonar will reveal the location of the missing ADCP mooring. “Wave ripples, sandy bottom,” Andrey declares as he scans the images. Of the lost mooring, there isn’t a trace.

March 24, 2006—WHOI Engineer Tito Collasius drives the controls on a remotely operated vehicle, panning around with the vehicle's camera to look for the missing mooring. Craig (left) watches the monitor. Jonathan Borden of the U.S. Geological Survey is in the background.

“This current is too strong to anchor. I’ll have to keep her in position using the engines,” Captain Ken Houtler explains. After a full day of searching, we give up on the missing mooring. It’s possible that a scallop trawler snagged it and dragged it far out to sea.

Postscript: As I was typing the last caption for this article, Craig Marquette received an unexpected phone call. It was Henrique Franco, the skipper of the fishing vessel Mary K, calling to say that he had caught a large yellow object in his nets while fishing off Chatham on July 8. Once the Mary K pulled into port, Andrey and I drove over to New Bedford to retrieve our missing mooring. While only a portion of the data could be recovered from the cod-scented instruments, it was still a relief to get them back. This summer we will be piecing together the story of winter beneath the waves and drying out the survival suits for next winter’s adventures.