Defenders of Wildlife Blog

We are close to the vast array of rigs and support ships here at the Deepwater Horizon spill site. We navigate the Nancy Foster carefully around our various sampling stations. Much of the day we wait on local shipping controllers before moving to another station, occasionally to within a few miles of the well head itself.

Our research mission had two primary objectives. One objective was to study the Far Field to understand how ocean currents transport the spilled oil. A second objective, and no less important, was to test water samples at depth to see if accelerated bacterial feeding caused by these huge volumes of spilled oil depletes oxygen so essential to marine life. We had received special permission to sample at great depths extremely close to the spill site, a task we also shared with NOAA research vessel Pisces. Read the full story

Sometime before midnight yesterday, our expedition’s principal investigator, Ryan Smith, jumped up: “Hey, come look at this!” A monitor in the dry lab prints out continuous readings in lines of different colors for sea surface temperature, salinity, oxygen and chlorophyll. The blue line for salinity has just nose-dived, plummeting more than two parts per thousand. This was not evidence yet of oil; rather, it told us that we had run into the outfall of the Mississippi River, a 20-30 foot thick lens of freshwater sitting on top of the saltier Gulf. We were getting close…

After a fitful night’s sleep, I awake to find absolutely everyone energized and bustling. Normally, the ship’s crew works on a 4-hours-on, 8-hours-off cycle, whereas the science team works 12 and then rests 12. Today, however, everyone was up, and it was easy to see why. High on the flying bridge, I could see the Deepwater Horizon surrounded by its myriad support platforms and tenders. It looked like a distant skyline from a small city. At breakfast, one member of the science team was near tears describing first looks at the massive amounts of oil. Another describes with wide eyes a large “oil pancake” that she found during the night watch.

Our first station is 8 nautical miles east-southeast of the Deepwater Horizon. The Gulf here swarms with traffic. On the bridge, the radio crackles constantly with instructions, requests and warnings. A seismic survey vessel advises us to maintain at least two nautical miles of distance away from them. Helicopters fly by, and a few small planes buzz low overhead. Scanning the horizon, I count at least 37 vessels. These research and support ships are clustered so thickly together, even the radar console gives up and just stacks them all on top of each other.

When I looked down below the Nancy Foster, I see a thick sheen everywhere, in every direction, as far as I can see. The smell is perceptible but not over-powering; it reminds me of the odor of fuel and water from an outboard motor on a lake. The water looks un-naturally opaque, almost like thin paint, and I see dirty foam tinged yellow-brown floating on the surface.

Because of contamination, the science team and crew confer on how to deploy the CTD (conductivity-temperature-depth) rosette over the side without fouling it with crude oil. The high-pressure fire hose is deemed the best means to rinse the instrument as it comes back on board. Ultimately, though, everyone is resigned to losing this $107,000 instrument. NOAA chiefs have declared that the data to be gained are worth the loss of this and another vital piece of gear, the $70,000 MOCNESS trawl.

I stand an hours-long morning watch to see if I can find any seabirds here. It is a search in vain. I see no birds, no marine mammals and no large fish. Finally, just before noon, I see a bright green clump, no more than 10-12 inches in diameter, floating just below the surface. It is a plant, washed far offshore by the Mighty Miss from some land or coastal ecosystem. And swimming underneath it, defying fate, are a dozen small fish no bigger than minnows.

This morning I awoke to find that we were in the midst of a protracted station, this time just a bit north of the middle of Eddy Franklin. Station work involves deploying an array of different instruments, some of which can take an hour to send down to the depths and then retrieve. So after a light breakfast, I caught up on paperwork, and started an analysis in which I plotted marine bird distributions on a map of sea surface altimetry. A thunderstorm passed over us, building up the seas for a good roll, and drenching the deck crew manning the gear outside. Read the full story

Meet Ron Britton, with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife service. Ron started working on oil spills first as a biologist and then biological oceanographer. He worked on Exxon Valdez oil spill and is now helping with the crisis down in the Gulf of Mexico.

While down in the Gulf, he told Defenders, “You have to finally get to a point that emergency medical response teams have to get to, where you know you’re doing a good thing, amidst all the things around you that don’t seem  so appealing or attractive, and you just have to try to do the best job.”

Gulf thunderheads at dusk

We call it the “Far Field.” It is the reason scientists here on the Nancy Foster chose this remote, seemingly empty portion of the Gulf of Mexico to study. The Far Field is why we are such a long way from Florida, practically north of Mexico now, and working in water that is two miles deep. The Far Field is so-named because it is “downstream” from the actual spill site. Yet the Far Field is absolutely vital to understand if we wish to know where both the fresh and the weathered oil will end up going.

The Far Field consists of the Loop Current and several eddies associated with it in the eastern Gulf of Mexico. The largest eddy has been named “Eddy Franklin,” a warm, clockwise-turning feature. If you inspect this graphic closely, you can see other, smaller eddies on all sides of Eddy Franklin.

Photo credit ROFFS™

Cyclonic eddies turn counter-clockwise; anti-cyclonic eddies turn clockwise. In this picture of the entire Gulf, the cyclonic eddies show up in blue, the anti-cyclonic in yellow-red hues.

Photo credit University of Miami, Rosenstiel School of Marine and Atmospheric Science

Depending on the behavior of the Loop Current and its eddies, oil from the Deepwater Horizon spill can either stay mostly confined here in the Gulf, or it can be pulled around Florida and up the east coast of the U.S. All of our measurements, and certainly the cruise track itself, are aimed at better understanding this Far Field in order to improve forecasts about any current-assisted oil movements.

For the past several months, the Far Field has confounded us with its incredibly complex structure. It is a pattern not witnessed this dramatically since 1998, another time when the typical bulge of the Loop Current pinched off entirely, and a large, clockwise-circulating eddy ultimately wended its own way into the western Gulf. Why should we care? Right now, ocean currents are placing an unusually large number of obstacles in the path of the oil going very far, very quickly, away from the spill’s ground zero. And that is a good thing.

Today, we are sampling the middle of Eddy Franklin. For a seabird biologist, to be able to interpret one’s sightings in such a rich context of instruments, maps and data, all of it in real-time, is research nirvana. Yesterday, we discovered a modest hotspot for seabirds at a convergence (border between two currents) formed by two smaller eddies east of Eddy Franklin. Today, I found two kinds of seabirds inside Eddy Franklin that were unexpected. One of them was such a surprise that its presence here is sure to create a buzz — the conservation implications are great.

Other discoveries during these last 24 hours were gratifying for non-scientific reasons. I learned that our commanding officer is an avid birder, and I was able to show him three new seabirds he had never before seen. I learned that scientists from Miami brought the means to brew and share rich, dark and very sweet Cuban coffee to celebrate our completed station work. And, too, I’ve learned that going beardless can be survived, even if it is achieved with a very dull razor on a rocking ship.

Back deck of the Nancy Foster

We’re nearing the continental shelf edge off southwestern Florida. It’s a beautiful morning, still balmy; a light breeze keeps the air tolerably fresh before the tropical sun reaches a scorching zenith later in the day. But there is little time to relax and enjoy the surroundings. The Nancy Foster is a working ship, with heavy gear, and a ship and scientific crew who work 24 hours a day, every day. Time on research ships is preciously expensive, so everyone maximizes their opportunity at data collection.

At breakfast, the ship stops entirely, and the scientific team deploys sampling tows. One of these is the huge MOCNESS gear. MOCNESS stands for “Multiple Opening/Closing Net and Environmental Sampling System.” Towed from behind the vessel, it consists of five to twenty nets that are computer controlled to open and close at desired depths to catch plankton at various levels. An instrument package at the top of the MOCNESS collects and sends data about the water column (such as temperature, salinity, depth, and chlorophyll) to computers on board.

The MOCNESS

By late morning, when this station is completed and we are once again underway, the water turns a deep violet-blue, transparent color, with shafts of light piercing the depths visible from high on the ship’s bridge. We finally cross into water more than a mile deep, thereby increasing our chance to see the more pelagic species of marine life, including birds. Small clumps of Sargassum appear, a few flyingfish glide ahead of the bow, startled by the ship’s sudden appearance in their quiet ocean.

A buzz of excitement bounces around the entire ship today. We learn that the Incident Command Center for the Deepwater Horizon response has approved the Nancy Foster’s research plan to enter the center of the oil spill during the next few days. This unique team of NOAA researchers, affiliated with Miami’s Atlantic Oceanographic and Meteorological Laboratory, has

Underwater view of the MOCNESS, photo credit Gulf Maine Research Institute

specialized instrumentation that tests for oxygen levels in deep water. The tests are more reliable than those widely reported by the media, because the procedure is immune to the oil “fooling” less sophisticated equipment with false readings caused by clogged sensors.

I find myself unexpectedly reserved about going into the spill zone. So far, I’ve not seen any conspicuous evidence of oil in the waters that we are crossing. There is so much scrutiny that not even a floating styrofoam cup or milk carton passes us by without careful inspection. But as of today, the 85th day of the disaster, between 92 million and 182 million gallons of oil have spewed into the Gulf of Mexico. Where can that much oil be? It’s somewhere between us and our port destination. So, to be on the safe side, all of the scientific staff on the Nancy Foster are being fitted with respirators. My beard will have to go; a respirator must fit closely.

 It isn’t the startling new look of being clean-shaven that bothers me. Rather, I’m reluctant to part with the picture of the Gulf that I have right now. Calm and clear seas, blue skies, and off our starboard bow a sunset to end a productive day.