Programs Blog

Sunday, 03 May, 2026.

Noon Position: (Lat and Long): 31 degrees 53.6’ N, 064 degrees 22.7’ W

Log (nm): 1981 nm

Weather / Wind / Sail Plan (from 1300 Watch Change): Sailing a broad reach on a starboard tack under the stays’ls, C/O 080 degrees PSC. Wind SWxS force 5, seas SWxS 6 feet, 24 degrees C.

Description of location: Over the Bermuda Rise

I’ve made the mistake of signing up for two blog posts where my watch falls in the afternoon of that day, meaning that for my first post I was scrambling after dinner to write my piece on time for Sophie (ever patient with the students) to post before she went to bed. This time, although I can’t change what watch I’m on, I’ve decided to get around this problem by writing my blog at night just after getting off evening watch. I’m sleepy, but it should be a better situation, given that I’m awake now (for the most part) and have some ideas.

We’re at an interesting point of this journey that we’re back underway on. I look back on some of my journal entries and my blog from the beginning of this trip and it’s evident to me how much I’ve learned in a really short amount of time. Just this evening I called a gybe to get us headreaching for the neuston deployment (going 2 knots with the sails in a certain configuration, and the wind on the beam of the ship). I also spent the better part of an hour after the neuston net came back on board trimming sails to try and get the Cramer to agree with us on steering East, and kick it up a few tenths of a knot in speed in the meantime. I climbed into the headrig to help get a nice, satisfying furl on the JT before all of this started. I did admittedly sink my foot directly through the basket below the bowsprit. To have the already unsteady floor disappear out from under you above the vague blackness of the ocean is, to say the least, a jarring experience. It was a balmy 21 degrees tonight, and even though that’s warmer than it’s been, I wore my blue hat that my mum made for me out of wool, so that it keeps me warm even if it gets wet. This property was put to the test today, not from rain, but rather fog. The air was so densely saturated with water, it cast a thin dewy film over everything: the beam, the deck, the stays, the sails, and my skin and clothes. The lowest of the clouds, really just tendrils of fog at this point, passed quickly like a veil in front of the just-past-full moon, which has been shining a gorgeous strange and glimmering silvery pseudo-daylight onto the deck these past few days at its fullest. This unforgettable image, and many others like it, has made me intensely curious about the collective memory and tradition of superstition and supernatural tales by sailors at sea.

I feel that I should now explain the title I’ve given this blog. This is a reference to a very specific episode of The Simpsons, an early Treehouse of Horror episode that is a parody of The Shining. Homer has written all over the walls of Mr. Burns’ vacation home’s basement that “No beer and no TV makes Homer go crazy.” He lures Marge there, where the conversation leads him to say that “No beer and no TV makes Homer something something.” She responds, “go crazy?” and he says, “Don’t mind if I do!” before ostensibly flying into a murderous rage. There’s a rather well used gif that comes out of this scene. I think that lots of these sea beasts, monsters, and superstitions of the minds of sailors throughout history have been ways of keeping themselves from going crazy. Both in the absence of the comforts of home (probably not without beer in particular though), and with so many conflicting emotions about the waters you sail through. Of course they’re not your own, they’re the influences of many more-than-human creatures, tugging at the strings of your soul in strange directions. It is also, secondarily a nod to Homer, as in the Greek writer who wrote about the Trojan wars in the Odyssey and the Iliad, and the heroic Argonauts sailing through his famous wine-dark sea.

There are many ship superstitions about the wind that we’ve been treading lightly around. The primary one of course being the fear that you can whistle up a gale, because the winds take your musicality as a challenge. Whistling riles them up, which might be a good thing in moderation in the doldrums, or if you’ve hit an unproductively light patch. You might also mess with the wind by accidentally touching an inexplicable handle on the outside of the chart house, which seems like it should have a real use, but it has not yet been explained to me. Just a rotating bit of metal that’s at just the right height to get bumped by traffic between the charthouse and the quarter deck. I’ve been guilty of this on a number of occasions. There is also a story that Sophie told us of a sailor who was given a rope with three knots, each of which unleashed an increasing amount of wind behind his sails. His hubris and his desire to get home quickly led him to be wrecked and killed by the overzealousness of untying the third knot. These stories aim to grant some kind of control (or blame) to sailors who are largely at the mercy of a good wind to bring them to the right place. They make it feel less helpless out here, because of course we have a gale approaching, it’s because Simon’s been whistling at the helm all day.

There are also plenty of anxieties, fears, and absolute horrors of sailing that create fantastic monsters to watch out for at sea. We watch intently as the ship heels over further, further, in rolls that in this part of the ocean, and on the Cramer are very safe, but in higher seas, on a less sturdy vessel could cause real problems. What terrors could be waiting for a sailor whose ship has fallen sideways in rough waters? And thus, the Kraken is born. A massive cephalopod with malignantly curious peering eyes, and arms that tear boats through the water to drown and devour its crew. Perhaps the fear comes more from high winds that rip through sails and stir up gargantuan waves that crash on the deck, pulling sailors away overboard with it. For that we have the maelstrom, Charybdis, a maw within a hurricane that struck fear into the hearts of Greek mariners. Or her sister Scylla, a many-headed creature representing the perils of indecision, plucking crew off the deck of a ship slowly, methodically. Further North, the fishermen feared disturbing Jormungandr, the world serpent who sleeps peacefully, most of the time beneath the waves, until they poke too far, extract too fervently, wake something ancient. The ocean is full of variables outside of the control of any of us. These stories allow there to be a villain, a malevolent being that wishes harm to the ship, that can be fended off or appeased or outsmarted to remain safe.

On the other side of this fear there is an innate and pervasive curiosity, a draw to the ocean experienced (I suspect) by many, not just the sailors and seafarers among us. In the face of all the danger, this confusing and conflicting beauty is also attributed to creatures of the ocean. Standing on lookout, you watch the surface of the sea beneath you, and it almost always feels strangely, temptingly inviting. My friends and I have noted on so many occasions that it’s crazy that we’ve been around the water for so long and not been allowed to be in it. That we’ve never been around water this long without swimming or at least sitting with our legs dangling over the side, our feet making ripples as we move. This demand to be a part of the ocean conjures up images of sirens and merrows. On a hot day where the sun sparkles over the ocean’s soft waves, she might be tossing through the current right under the bow, her skin like ours, dusted with hair that shimmers golden white in the sun. At night when moon and starlight glimmers on the blue-black surface, and everything seems just a bit more dramatic, you might imagine her leaping from the water like a shark, with claws clutching the basket under the bowsprit, and curious glowing eyes like the bioluminescence that we see throughout the whole ocean. On either occasion you just want to see the water a little closer. To cool off your skin, and maybe just dip one arm in, and see how it feels. This is so in contrast to the anxieties that the ocean simultaneously creates, you have trouble reconciling the two.

I feel that I’ve fit well for this short time into the superstitious world of sailors because I also belong to the two other most superstitious groups of people: scientists and followers of baseball. Baseball is no shock. Athletes and fans alike have their little rituals to bend luck in their favor for each of the 162 games they participate in. But it might surprise people to know how many scientists are also this way. I work in a lab where everyone has a favorite dissecting scope, the same brand and model just two feet down on the bench doesn’t work the same. It doesn’t agree with you. I’ve never had a successful dissection day on a Tuesday, so I just avoid them. Once you get into a workflow, you shouldn’t dare stop because you’ll never get it back. We give our equipment and expensive machinery personalities to account for when things go wrong. This computer program or that confocal laser microscope is temperamental. You have to wait until the autoclave makes a happy noise before you open it. The same way sailors want to give themselves control over the winds, or blame their misfortunes on outside forces, we all in some sense want to do the same.

This is my second and final blog during this program, and I’m excited to take advantage of these final days aboard the dear Corey Cramer doing science and learning more sailing. I am also looking forward to getting back to land and fully catching up with everyone at home. It was so good to talk to you all in Bermuda! And I absolutely cannot wait to see you all and give you big hugs and show you a few pictures of what we’ve been doing here. I won’t stop talking about “when I was on the Cramer” and “during the cruise track” or “in the Sargasso Sea…” You’ll be positively sick of it! It also turns out there are no Shake Shacks in St. Georges, so I’m still looking for that black and white shake. Miss you and love you all, and I’ll see you soon.

In the meantime, fair winds!

Lyra Gold, B watch

A hazy red sunset from a couple of days ago. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight I hear! (photo by Sarah K)

A little sea monster we caught in the Neuston tow. (photo by Sarah K)