The Reincarnations of Research Vessels

Last week I came across a good justification for saving old issues of National Geographic: The opening photo spread of a year-old article on the Bering Sea featured the University of Alaska Fairbanks' former research vessel Acona.

But only her name was the same. The 85-foot ship had been subsumed into a much bigger, industrial-strength fishing vessel. Financial and legal advantages adhere to ships built in the United States to such an extent that refurbishing an old and water-worn US vessel at a foreign shipyard instead of building a new fishing factory ship anywhere was the most profitable choice for the ship's new owners. Apparently just enough of old Acona remains to keep the fish processors on the right side of the laws.

It wasn't the first time Acona underwent plastic surgery to suit new management. Virtually all university-operated research vessels are owned by the federal government, and they are transferred about among oceanographic institutions according to the decisions of a committee of experts. Like so many seagoing foster children, the ships are sent where the government decides they're wanted and can be supported. In 1964, Acona was transferred from Oregon State University to the brand-new Institute of Marine Science at the University of Alaska.

At the time, the marine station for the institute was located in Douglas, across the channel from Juneau, and Acona first worked in the sheltered waters of southeastern Alaska. She was well suited to Southeast, but the institute's work reached into stormier seas. By 1969, she was scheduled for rebuilding. The plans were to cut her in half, splice an extra section into her hull, and weld her back into a longer whole. The plans were grander than the available funds, so the Alaska oceanographers had to settle for having their vessel's stern deck enclosed. The galley was moved to this newly rebuilt aft section, a decision that proved beneficial only to the dieters aboard. Acona was what is known as a tender ship, which means when the ocean moved, so did she---exuberantly. With food and eating facilities in a lively zone of a lively ship, mealtime could prove hazardous to the oceanographers' health. "I had some cruises where we declared the galley off limits for days at a time, and no one objected," Tom Royer has reported.

Royer, whose work in physical oceanography meant many hours offshore even in severe weather, credits experience aboard Acona for convincing some students that theoretical studies were preferable to field work. Trying to work aboard an 85-foot ship during winter storms with waves up to 40 feet high can have that effect.

Yet Acona served well, so the scientists saw her departure from Alaska in 1980 with mixed feelings---especially when they discovered that her replacement was also a tender ship. The 133-foot Alpha Helix also needed rebuilding to suit new management when she came to Alaska from the Scripps Institution of Oceanography in California---a bit more strengthening, some reconfiguring for different equipment, and a lot of cleaning to remove the flora and fauna that had moved aboard during years of voyaging in tropical waters.

Even with such reworking, the bouncy vessel isn't ideal for northern seas. Royer and other Alaskan oceanographers are working hard for the long-planned arctic research ship. This bigger, better, and genuinely ice-capable vessel may solve some scientific problems, but probably not those of green faces at the rail.

One solution for seasick researchers is something my spouse Peter McRoy is working on as I write this. He's part of the first civilian scientific contingent to study the Arctic Ocean from a U.S. Navy nuclear submarine. Down there, the waves don't roll the ship and there's no rail over which green faces could hang.

National Geographic is interested in the scientific submariners, too. That'll make the perfect excuse to save another issue.