Life Below The Galapagos, Part 4

The following is the conclusion of

Bottom-Dwelling
On the Woods Hole Research Vessel Atlantis there are many routines. For the six-man Alvin dive team, they begin at 5:30 a.m. preparing the deep-ocean submersible for the dive at 8:00 am. Every surface, every system, every joint, tube, and wire is checked. There is no room for error. Each member of the Alvin team knows by heart diagrams of 200 complex systems; they frequently troubleshoot and repair the submersible in the midst of dives at depths no other vehicle on earth can assist them. Tubes with wires are filled with uncompressible oil; leaks in systems are carefully examined; electrical checks, lighting checks, battery checks, and mechanical arm checks go on and on. Alvin pilots are usually not "scientists." But wise scientists respect the pilots' superior experience and judgment because these brave explorers visit such remarkable undersea treasures every day.

Before the Alvin is sent off the back of mother-ship Atlantis, scientists, like frenzied crabs, descend to shove as many sensors and collection devices as possible on the basket in front of the sub. The dive team loads in the few pillowcases nervously packed the night before by today's Alvin explorers. These bags are full of warm clothes bottom-dwellers will need as the sphere descends to the chilly depths.

Just try to sleep. I dare you to try. Aboard the Atlantis, in a berth rocking with the ocean, divers-to-be are understandably nervous. In a handful of hours, we will be on our way to the ocean floor with pressure so enormous my dive watch would have imploded at just a tenth of the way down. Styrofoam coffee cups crush to the size of thimbles. The night, scientists and crew make keepsakes for friends and relatives: taking waterproof ink to Styrofoam cups drawing ornate illustrations ... then placing these totems into a mesh bag hung outside the Alvin for the dive down below. After the cups are exposed to 250 atmospheres(!) of pressure below the waves, the mesh bag, once full of good-sized cups, hangs limply with tiny timble sculptures of ocean art. I came prepared: the head of the CBS art department kindly illustrated a cup with my handsome face and a picture of Alvin. And, while I was at it, I brought several dozen other cups to crush for schools, friends, and complete strangers I couldn't stop telling about my upcoming dive.

Inside the Alvin, they have several canisters of pure oxygen but only a single tank is used on a normal dive. Oxygen, a highly explosive gas, is kept at the lowest possible concentration in Alvin's internal atmosphere: around 17 percent, to decrease the chance of fire. Because of the fire risk, anyone traveling on the sub must wear layers of natural fibers: cotton or wool. No more-flammable plastic or synthetic material gets on board. The temperature inside Alvin goes from hot at the surface to very cold within moments of submerging: so layers, including a wool cap, are preferred.

A few hours before I tried to go to bed, Dr. Tim Shank, chief scientist, tells me I'll dive with two most experienced comrades: Dr. Daniel Fornari, another lead scientist with dozens of trips down below, and the dean of the Alvin pilots, Pat Hickey. They are all business and darn great at it.

At 5 in the morning, I finally gave up hope of trying to fall asleep and wandered the ship. Scientists, many of whom haven't slept for 36 hours, were continuing to process biological and chemical samples gathered several hours earlier from the ocean floor. Some were testing sulfide levels in vent water; others dissecting tube worms; still others studying scrapings of bacteria from vent rocks. Tim, who also never seems to sleep, happily hands me two sheets of single-spaced dive objectives: "Alvin Dive 4117." It listed pretty much every possible scientific challenge: gathering, testing, repositioning, sampling, photographing, measuring. It was pretty horrifying: no way could we accomplish all these objectives in the mere 5 hours we'd be down on the bottom. "You don't know Pat," Tim laughed. "Sometimes we just add tasks just because he zips through the list so fast."

With no bathroom or seats or comforts aboard Alvin, you try to take care of "business" and get as comfortable as you can before it's time to climb down the ladder and get locked in for the next eight hours. "There's enough oxygen to keep us going in here for about three days," the pilot says. Great. Just what I needed to hear. But can any other sub come down and get us if there's a problem? "Nope. But there's plenty of ways to get straight up." Alvin's two titanium arms can be jettisoned; the science tray in front can be dropped; a number of other systems in the back could be tossed off before the "nuclear option." That final emergency measure, never tried in the ocean, is to open a panel in the sub's floor and take a large "t-wrench" and turn it, releasing the dive sphere from the rest of Alvin. "You'll blast up to the surface like a rocket," the pilot says. We don't want to do that.

Alvin is slowly tracked out from her hangar on a rail bed to the stern of the ship. There, a heavy "Spectra" fiber rope is looped around her lifting "T" just in the center of Alvin's deck. The tall crane lifter groans and raises Alvin gently up. Slowly swinging up there is a "special" feeling. Within moments, we're lowered into the sea, directly above the dive site, and swimmers outside Alvin, make last-minute checks and detach cables. Today, there's no shark in the water, but I'm still relieved when the divers return to the Zodiac. "Alvin to Atlantis, permission to dive?" "Granted" and water ballast is sucked into tanks. We are quickly descending. Within a few hundred feet, the water changes from sky blue to grape to dark to super black.

As we descend, the changes in the water column are astounding: first the top level seems loaded with microscopic creatures. As the light disappears into inky darkness, we soon discover something unexpected: an endless light show. Bright, somewhat bluish light sparkles like stars in the night. Photoluminescence is very much like seeing fireflies underwater: jellies, shrimp, and micro-fish emit light for mysterious reasons. Some think creatures flash light to ward off other creatures ... or to attract mates ... or to lure predators to the flash as they scamper away in the darkness. As we descend thousands of feet, the show continues. Some creatures glow in shapes like centipedes, others like specks of dust, or round balls of jellies glowing and undulating. Pat, Alvin's pilot, flashes the lights and the luminescent creatures answer back. As suddenly as it began, perhaps 1,000 meters down, the light show ends. We sink deeper into jet black darkness.

Within a few minutes, or what seems like a few minutes, the air gets pleasingly cool. Moisture in the air condensates along the walls of the titanium sphere. The delicate viewing ports fog and need to be cleaned over and over again with special wipes. We near the bottom in what feels like 10 minutes. Amazingly, more than an hour-and-a-half has passed.

We drop two weights and add water to the ballast tanks so the pilot can maneuver around the "Rosebud" field. Rosebud was formed over the last seven years, following an eruption of lava that paved over the first lush site of life. That had been called "Rose Garden" when discovered in 1977. Scientists were amazed when they discovered this underground oasis of life, teeming with fish and strange tubeworms. The mineral-rich water bursting from the vents were toxic yet mysteriously sustained life. In this region of unimaginable pressure, completely without energy-producing light, scientists discovered a startling and unexpected phenomenon: "chemosynthesis." In these scalding vents, bacteria thrived on hydrogen sulfide stewing in the hot water. Animals, like the red-plumed Riftia, live off nourishing chemicals produced by the sulfur-eating bacteria. Vent crabs and mussels also thrive at the edge of super-heated vent sites. This is, simply, one of Life's most mind-boggling tricks: dashing long-held views that sunlight was essential for life; that life couldn't exist in environments highly toxic to humans; that the benthic regions (ocean bottom) were devoid of life. The camera lights on the exterior of Alvin blaze on. All around us, we see life at its most amazing.

First, let me tell you a little about Riftia Pachyptiya, also known as the tubeworm. This has got to be the strangest animal on earth. Basically, this bacteria-loving red "planimal" is surrounded by a white hard surface, the "tube" made of chitin, a substance similar to fingernails. The fleshy, wavy, wing-like red worm has no eyes, no mouth, no digestive system. It does have rich hemoglobin that transports oxygen and hydrogen sulfide to the vent bacteria. The bacteria, harvested in the tube worms' belly pouch, provides Riftia with carbohydrates in this symbiotic relationship. Tubeworms are only found along the perilous edge of the geothermal vents. The white tube is rooted along the vent and the blood red tubeworm spreads out its tendril-like "wings" over the mineral-rich sulfurous water. See them once and it's easy to understand how "Rose Garden" and "Rosebud" got their name.

These colonies of Riftia dance to their own melody. They push their fat, eel-like bodies up nearly out of the tube until something approaches and they shoot back inside their tube for safety. Blind white crabs, the mortal enemy of Riftia, try to nibble at the tendrils but tubeworms retreat. The dance between stubborn crabs and pop-up-pop-down Riftia goes on 24-hours a day, without let up.

In the submarine, moisture fogs the viewport. The pilot begins the first task: moving a huge sediment trap into position. But we can't find it. Alvin has forward and downward-looking sonar. Above, on the Atlantis, a huge long acoustic beam, called the "Trackpoint," receives pinger information from Alvin and submerged buoys at fixed locations so the undersea position can be accurately computed. Every few minutes, a radio blast from the Atlantis queries the Alvin. The pilot responds with the latest position and heading. "You should see the first trap now," says one of the other Alvin pilots, up in the command center on the bridge of Atlantis. But we don't. "You're right on it ..." But we're not. So we circle awhile and rise and move. Eventually, finally, we find the huge collector. Pat grabs it with one of the large manipulator arms and we slowly spin around repositioning somebody's PhD thesis on the ideal vent site.

The Riftia wave, pop, and hide. Crabs scuttle. Strange fat-headed purple Bythitid-something-or-other fish dart around pointlessly. Bottom fish of the ocean, by and large, are pretty darn ugly, probably because it's so dark they just don't need to look good. The similar-looking rat tail fish is my favorite in the all-around-yucky department. Fat heads taper away into long, rat-like tails.

On the ocean floor, two kinds of crabs compete at the vents: the scientific names I've learned are "fat crabs" and "skinny crabs." It should be no surprise that the skinny crabs run from the fat ones. These bone-white crabs are scattered over the ocean floor, quietly waiting. Suddenly, out of the starboard window, I see frenzy. Ten crabs roil over a giant mussel. Literally a dozen more crabs race to the spot. The mussels are bright yellow and look somewhat sulphurous. Like Riftia, they also live off vent bacteria, feasting on toxic microscopic life that grows quickly on their shells.

Our list of tasks is daunting, but back and forth the Alvin goes: exploring volcanic glass flows... carefully placing instruments... mapping the vent site region with a camera array on Alvin's bottom. Every few seconds, another strobe flashes. Port and starboard observers control their own video cameras: pan, tilt, focus and zoom. There are two recording decks on board and we switch between views to monitor and record the science. But mostly, we stare between amazing video from the cameras and amazing sights from the side window.

The pilot has the best view of all: a head-on wonderland of life and motion. Four "HMI" camera lights brightly light his center view port. Pat, the pilot, also has the only "seat" in the house... a square box under which some spare emergency gear is stowed. Behind us are three oxygen bottles and several canisters of chemicals that, when opened, remove carbon dioxide from the sub's atmosphere. The air is chilled and, at first, easy to breathe. After awhile (feels like minutes but it's actually several hours) your head begins to throb as it senses the reduced oxygen levels inside Alvin. Some pilots pop a couple of Advils before each dive to offset the gentle, inevitable malaise.

Pat has surveyed, gathered, moved, and explored. While the Alvin pirouettes around each project on the punch list, I stare out the portal: to me, tubeworms are not animals ... they're like giant animated flowers popping and weaving a rhythmic pattern they alone understand.

We explore new areas of the deep, places where new obsidian rock (clean, shiny and black) suddenly looks weathered and dusty. Here, sediment of centuries gathers undisturbed save for the occasional sea cumber slogging through or white crab scuttling by. Alvin stirs up the dust which billows around the view ports. Even in this sediment, even in this long history of sea dust, there is life: microbes and other small creatures dance in the yellow muck.

Ahead, Pat comes to a Riftia bed. He gathers samples with the giant claw ... one, two, three ... and places them in the collection box. We motor over a clam bed and, quick as a flash, 10 samples are picked up and placed in special collection tubes. Handling the titanium arm like a surgeon, Pat makes gathering samples look easy. To me, the process seems as simple as picking up a bowling ball with chopsticks. In a final act of grappling virtuosity, Pat spies a large, flat lava plate and, he can't be serious. He's trying to lift this flat rock the size of a kitchen table into the collection basket. The volcanic sheet glass fractures. Another grab, another pile of debris. Finally, a tenuous hold and the black slab, nearly two inches thick, hangs over the science tray in the front of the craft.

With that, Pat says, "dropping weights" and we're headed up. Lights are shut off and now we suddenly feel very cold and damp. We have been to the bottom of the ocean and, in what feels like minutes, our exploration is ended. Yet, amazingly, 7 hours have somehow mysteriously gone by in a blur. We move our legs over each other's and jockey for seating space. In thick plastic bins, we find simple sandwiches: cold cuts or peanut butter and jelly. They're the best damn sandwiches I've ever had. With a full science load, Dan Fornari has completed a whirlwind of experiments. He's happy. We've been taken all over the dive site. Carefully cradling a high-definition video camera, I've captured some astonishing video: Riftia spawning; mussels in the hot poison brine; crabs in frenzy. It's been drilled into my head that the camera can not touch the delicate port window so I've carefully held my hands protectively over the edge of the lens to thwart sudden movements of Alvin.

The ascent now seems to take forever. We're cold and our legs, after nearly eight hours cramped in a tiny space, could really use a stretch. Yet I have this happy grin. "1000 meters." The bioluminents are dancing around again. "500 meters." Dan radios a precise science log detailing the accomplishments. He's preparing the science team for the sudden sprint to preserve all the precious samples from the sea floor. I think about Dr. Beebe and Mr. Barton who, back in the 1930s, astonished the world by setting the deepest dive record at the time in their Bathysphere. We have surpassed their 3,028 foot achievement many times over. We have seen an entirely new order of life even the fanciful Mr. Barton could not have dreamed of.

As we near the surface, the ocean moves from pitch black to dark cherry to purple, blue, then sky blue again. The launch is in the water and swimmers come out to greet us. The wait, before trivial, is now somewhat nauseating. We bounce like a cork as the divers search for an oil leak, perhaps, and secure some of the outrageous samples Pat has gathered from below. Slowly, way too slowly, the big ship Atlantis moves into position and the tow line is deployed. Divers attach the line and Alvin starts to zip along. The long thick "Spectra" tether is again wrapped around the big heavy hold point and Alvin is lifted up from the sea. We have returned.

One of the things sailors learn on the ocean is that their more experienced comrades are happy to "educate" them. When they pass the equator, for example, newbies are subjected to a ritual hazing with garbage and abuse from experienced "Shellbacks" and "King Neptune." So far, even perilously close to the equator, we have happily avoided this initiation. First-time divers on the Alvin, however, undergo a different initiation. Though it differs dive to dive, the idea is basically the same: dump gallons of frozen sea water on the head of the first-timer. Did I mention the frozen shoes? Oh, yes, your only pair of shoes is encased in a solid case of ice. My tormentors kindly added red and green gunk to the saltwater baptismal ... in honor of the Riftia hemoglobin and some other green sea guts only scientist-pranksters can understand. Frankly, I'm laughing and babbling and don't give a damn. Into the salt-water I go with a smile ... for I have been to the bottom of the sea.

By Dan Dubno