schshhhhhhhhhhthchhchhhhhhthhchhchhhcrackleshcchsnaphrhchhchchch chilechrhchhcshhehhchhehhhfhhhehhhehhshhehhhshhehehchhchhhhh hthhchhchhhcrackleshcchsnaphrhchhchchchcehshhshchshhshfhschshhshhchs hhchshhchhshshrhhshchilechhshhhhthchhchhhhhhthhchhchhhcrackleshcch snaphrhchpeppershshshchchsahchthachdhahhahahhfhhhehhhehhshhehhhs hhehehchhchhhhhhthchshshchhchshchhchhchhhhhhthhchhchhhcracklesh cchsnaphrhchhchchchcshchshchshsnap *beep*…….

We have had a couple of busy days this weekend. Yesterday we surveyed the southern portion of Piccard Cove and had 68 visual detections of marine predators. The majority of these were humpback whales logging at the surface, and when the day ended we had counted over 100 individual whales. Amazing! We cut the visual surveys short to aid with tagging operations, otherwise we would have topped our sightings from the previous day.

Our visual survey operations were truncated to help with tagging efforts, and this resulted in the retrieval of one tag that had been deployed all day, and the attachment of a new tag on a humpback for our first overnight deployment. This last point brings me to the subject of the current weblog entry. Radio tracking.

I haven’t done *a lot* of radio tracking of marine mammals at night in my life, but I have done enough of it to recognize the archetypal pattern inherent in each and every undertaking. It is almost always an emotional roller coaster that leaves the trackers exhausted and the PI a complete wet noodle. It goes something like this:

Stage 1. Anticipation. People are usually restless, watching and waiting for the shift from visual tracking of the tagged animal to tracking them solely on the few beeps its tag produces when the animals comes briefly to the surface.

Stage 2. Anxiety about being the ‘one’. As night descends the tracking begins, and more often than not the animal strays further from the boat than the researchers would like. The effect of this on those responsible for tracking the whale is almost always the same – growing anxiety that they will be the one to ‘lose’ the animal during their shift. If lucky, their shift ends with clear reception of VHF beeps on their headphones, and their anxiety is replaced by relief.

Stage 3. Panic. A couple of shifts have passed and no one has heard the whale in over an hour. Oh oh.

Stage 4. Blame and liability. After catching a few hours of sleep, rejuvenated researchers return to the bridge to find that the whale has not been detected in some time. The questions start to circulate… When was the last time that the whale was heard? Who was on that shift? At this point you better hope that you have an excellent tracking pedigree or you might be hung out to dry.

Stage 5. Depression. Everyone is shattered after countless hours of listening to white noise… searching amidst the chaos for the one bright blip of audio order – the blessed beep. Hollow eyes and tight lips are on most faces. Coffee is consumed in large quantities. Sometimes researchers are driven to aural hallucinations, and every single bit of radio interference that the ship makes (and there are many) seems like it could be the cure to this dreaded depression.

Stage 6. Elation! When it is least expected, someone looks up and catches the eye of a co-worker tracking on the other side of the bridge and says “Did you hear that?”

We are currently deep within stage 5. Wish us luck!

Back to tracking…

schshhhhhhhhhhthchhchhhhhhthhchhchhhcrackleshcchsnaphrhchhchchch chilechrhchhcshhehhchhehhhfhhhehhhehhshhehhhshhehehchhchhhhh hthhchhchhhcrackleshcchsnaphrhchhchchchcehshhshchshhshfhschshhshhchs hhchshhchhshshrhhshchilechhshhhhthchhchhhhhhthhchhchhhcrackleshcch snaphrhchpeppershshshchchsahchthachdhahhahahhfhhhehhhehhshhehhhs hhehehchhchhhhhhthchshshchhchshchhchhchhhhhhthhchhchhhcracklesh cchsnaphrhchhchchchcshchshchshsnap *beep*…….