Science prides itself on being as objective as possible. There is the scientific method, which provides a clear process for going about exploring research, and peer-reviewed journals to publish papers that are meticulously critiqued. That’s great, but following those rules isn’t everything.

When science, especially anything biological or ecological — anything alive — is your life’s work, it is not enough to hold it at arm’s length and be objective about it. You have to love it. A professor of mine likened this to having a girlfriend and telling her that you like the idea of her as a woman. She would dump you.

I’m such a sucker for ecosystems; I’ve fallen in love again and again.

My first real job was as an apprentice on the Hudson River Sloop Clearwater, a wooden boat with environmental education programs. I quickly became smitten with both the river and boat. Clearwater is a replica of the type of sail boats that shipped goods up and down the river before the advent of highways and trucks. The boat and its crew sailed from New York City to Albany, bringing kids on board to teach them about the Hudson River.

It was visceral to haul on rope every day to put our sails in the air and make the boat go places. Every muscle in your body works to bring up a sail, all pumping thighs and clenching abs as you pull the line in hand over hand. We became part of that pulsing, tidal river. Acting swiftly and as a team was crucial to safely and successfully maneuvering sails that weigh thousands of pounds with the aid of pulleys alone.

We were trawling every day, becoming intimately aware of the marine life we pulled up in our net. We could anticipate catching different critters depending on where we were on the river. My favorite fish was the hogchoker, a flat river sole the size of your hand that lives across the whole length of the river crew would gleefully pull them out of the buckets and stick them on our faces for kicks.

The first night I stood anchor watch, I was tiptoeing on deck checking lights, batteries and making sure the anchor remained firmly attached to the riverbed. It was an August night crisp with the onset of fall. We were in a dark cove north of West Point where you could see more stars than I had imagined existed — that night was the kind of beautiful that smacks you in the face and consumes you. The whole crew was sleeping on deck that night, being lulled to sleep by salty breezes, just as enamored of this place as I was. This was the moment I knew that I couldn’t have tried to shake this river; it will always pull me back.

Since going to college I have always been drawn to study estuary ecosystems, tidal bodies of water where freshwater meets saltwater. I’m invested in what happens to the fish, the water and people who live there because they are real and they love me back.

Leanna Mulvihill is a senior forest engineering major and environmental writing and rhetoric minor. Her column appears every Tuesday. She can be reached at lpmulvih@syr.edu.

 

Published on October 2, 2011 at 12:00 pm