Look Up
Friday, July 25 – Day 10 at Sea

As we near the Galápagos, excitement hums through the ship. Most of us are hard at work on our project ideas, scanning the water for marine life, and marveling at the boobies that have been flying alongside us (and sometimes pooping on us-yay for good luck x2!) for days. A few of us are even quietly wishing for just a few more days out here at sea.

My colleagues have beautifully captured our life on board and the thrill of exploring the deep ocean, but I want to share something different: what it feels like to look up in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

I’ve always been drawn to the sky, especially at night. A few days into the voyage, my son asked me to name three highs and one low. Naming the night sky as one of my highs was easy.

Back home in the San Francisco Bay Area, city lights obscure the stars. Out here, we’re free of that glow. It wasn’t until the third night that I made my way to the top deck at the stern to stargaze. My bunkmate, Brandi, brought a towel, and we lay on the steel deck, letting our eyes adjust. A few of the ship’s lights lingered, but as our eyes adjusted, more and more stars appeared—then the Milky Way revealed itself and a few of the shooting stars I had been hoping to see made an appearance. 

Someone nearby whispered, “I get the concept of a planetarium now.” That’s exactly what it felt like: a dome above, full of light, the universe wrapping around us. I was awestruck. Despite the sky’s vastness, there was comfort in its familiarity. I thought of camping trips, old friends, past moments of wonder—and how starlight lets us look back in time. The more I know about the sky, the more questions it gives me. It always sparks wonder, just as it did when 12 year old Wendy dreamed of being an astronaut.

As we lay there, the sky seemed to rock gently. Someone told me later, “If it feels like the sky is moving instead of the boat, you’ve got your sea legs.” That made me smile.

The daytime sky holds its own magic. My camera roll is overflowing with sunrises and sunsets. If the night brought quiet reflection, the sunset was a moment of community. We’d gather at the main deck to watch the show, each one unique: sometimes cotton-candy pinks and blues, other times an understated fade into dusk—until, five minutes later, the horizon exploded with color as soon as we went below deck. 

The clouds told stories too—towering cumulonimbus hinting at distant storms, low stratus layers marking the dew point in the humid tropics, high cirrus clouds painting delicate streaks across the sky. How they moved and danced with the sun, and the stars, blocking our views, but telling us so much about the atmosphere ahead and behind was pretty incredible. I have never been able to see a view of the horizon in 360 degrees before with no land in sight.

One morning after overnight operations, many of us gathered to watch the sunrise beneath a crescent moon. As the sky brightened, Venus and Jupiter slowly disappeared from view. To see the moon, Jupiter, and Venus all together in that pre-dawn glow felt like the perfect close to a night of exciting science and shared experience.

The sky, in all its forms, has been a thread tying this journey together. It’s something we’ve all seen every day of our lives—but out here, it feels different. Despite its mystery and infinite scale, the sky offers comfort. It’s a constant. And when I next see a shooting star, a sunset ablaze, or the Milky Way on a clear night, I’ll remember this voyage—a postcard I get to carry with me, wherever I go, even when I am away from the ocean.

#nsffunded #SOR2025 #columbialamontearth