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The sea, the ship, and I : stories, things and objects from oceanography during the Cold War Ford, Denzil Lee Dawn 2015

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THE SEA, THE SHIP, AND I: Stories, Things, and Objects from Oceanography during the Cold War    by    Denzil Lee Dawn Ford     B.S., University of California, Santa Barbara, 2004 M.A. Montana State University, 2009     A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF  THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF    DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY    in    The Faculty of Graduate and Postdoctoral Studies  (History)    THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA  (Vancouver)   June 2015   © Denzil Lee Dawn Ford, 2015  ii Abstract  This dissertation examines how and why men on oceanographic research vessels in the middle of the 20th century used storytelling as part of scientific practice. I weave scholarship on literature and science together with the history of oceanography and demonstrate that oceanographers constructed their social world through narration. To begin, I look closely at a diary, memorandum, cartoon, and motion picture and then illuminate how the process of creating these narratives formulated collaboration, persuasive strategy, friendship, and community. Each author used the process of narration to make sense of expedition life and determine how best to proceed as a member of the oceanographic community. I argue that storytelling was not merely a pastime: it formed an integral part of social functioning of science at sea.  Inspired by scholarship concerned with things and objects, the study also uses the content of the stories to investigate the ways in which things and objects at sea did four actions: influenced the oceanographic gaze on the Pacific, altered the patronage relationship between oceanography and the U.S. Navy, facilitated the construction of a shipboard ecology built upon collaboration, and came to represent Scripps as the dominant creator of knowledge in the Pacific. While historians have explained how elite actors created the geopolitical arrangements that determined ocean science in this period, this project argues that non-elite scientists, graduate students, Navy crew, and medical doctors recorded everyday experiences on expeditions in stories because their contributions to shipboard life and work were also a crucial component of the development of oceanography at sea during the Cold War.       iii Preface  This dissertation is an original intellectual product of the author, Denzil Lee Dawn Ford.   All correspondence with living members from the Downwind expedition were conducted in compliance with the Behavioral Research Ethics Board at the University of British Columbia. Certificate Number H13-00323.   Permission for use in this dissertation of photographs, images, illustrations, and visual excerpts from archival documents that I collected from the Scripps Institution of Oceanography physical and online archives granted by Lynda Corey Claassen, Director of Special Collection and Archives, UC San Diego Library, August 5, 2014.   Permission to use the personal photograph collection of Alan Churchill Jones granted by Alan Churchill Jones on November 30, 2013. These images appear throughout the dissertation and primarily in Chapter 2.   Permission to use Erwin Schweigger’s map (Image 32) of ocean surface temperature granted by José Alarcón Oviedo, Editor de Texto, Revista de Marina de Chile, April 8, 2014.  The Epilogue was originally published as an online essay for The Atlantic under the Object Lesson Essay Series: Denzil Ford. “The Secrets of the Jumbo Squid: A Writer Imagines the Final Moments and Afterlife of a Squid that Died February 3, 1957.” The Atlantic. Technology Section. January 31, 2014.                       iv Table of Contents Abstract	  ....................................................................................................................................................................	  ii	  Preface	  .....................................................................................................................................................................	  iii	  Table	  of	  Contents	  .................................................................................................................................................	  iv	  List	  of	  Images	  ........................................................................................................................................................	  vi	  Acknowledgements	  ..........................................................................................................................................	  viii	  Dedication	  ...............................................................................................................................................................	  x	  Introduction	  ...........................................................................................................................................................	  1	  An	  Unexpected	  Archive	  .............................................................................................................................................................	  1	  Oceanography	  in	  History	  .........................................................................................................................................................	  7	  Bread	  and	  Butter:	  Method	  ....................................................................................................................................................	  11	  Stories,	  Things,	  and	  Objects	  .................................................................................................................................................	  14	  The	  Downwind	  Expedition	  ...................................................................................................................................................	  25	  Dissertation	  Track	  ...................................................................................................................................................................	  30	  Prologue	  to	  Chapter	  1	  	  Director	  Roger	  Revelle’s	  Sea	  Search	  Story	  ....................................................	  35	  Chapter	  1	  Sea	  Stories:	  Narrative	  as	  a	  Social	  Tool	  of	  Science	  ................................................................	  43	  Introduction	  ................................................................................................................................................................................	  43	  Storytelling	  Legacy	  and	  Expedition	  Context	  ................................................................................................................	  51	  1.	  A	  Diary	  Story	  ..........................................................................................................................................................................	  59	  2.	  A	  Memorandum	  Story	  ........................................................................................................................................................	  66	  3.	  A	  Cartoon	  Story	  ....................................................................................................................................................................	  75	  4.	  A	  Motion	  Picture	  Film	  Story	  ............................................................................................................................................	  86	  Conclusion	  ....................................................................................................................................................................................	  94	  Prologue	  to	  Chapter	  2	  Geologist	  Bob	  Norris’	  Expedition	  Diary	  ..........................................................	  97	  Chapter	  2	  Airplanes	  and	  Islands:	  Surveying	  and	  “Primitive”	  Bodies	  in	  the	  Pacific	  ..................	  107	  Introduction	  ..............................................................................................................................................................................	  107	  Seeing	  the	  Pacific	  from	  Clipper	  Mohawk	  .....................................................................................................................	  111	  The	  Moonlight	  Tiki	  Sneaking	  Society	  ............................................................................................................................	  127	  Conclusion	  ..................................................................................................................................................................................	  142	  Prologue	  to	  Chapter	  3	  Doctoral	  Student	  &	  Navy	  Sailor	  John	  Knauss’	  Memorandum	  ...............	  144	  Chapter	  3	  Ships:	  The	  Social	  Life	  of	  Two	  Research	  Vessels	  .................................................................	  146	  Introduction	  ..............................................................................................................................................................................	  146	  Horizon	  and	  Baird	  ..................................................................................................................................................................	  151	  Translation	  ................................................................................................................................................................................	  156	  Articulation	  ...............................................................................................................................................................................	  165	  Agency	  in	  Malfunction	  ..........................................................................................................................................................	  175	  Conclusion	  ..................................................................................................................................................................................	  186	  Prologue	  to	  Chapter	  4	  Maxwell	  Silverman’s	  Cartoon	  ..........................................................................	  191	  Chapter	  4	  Boundary	  Objects:	  Scripps’	  Hidden	  Shipboard	  Ecology	  .................................................	  192	  Introduction	  ..............................................................................................................................................................................	  192	  Heterogeneity	  ...........................................................................................................................................................................	  204	  Index	  Maps	  ................................................................................................................................................................................	  210	  Explosives	  ...................................................................................................................................................................................	  221	   v Conclusion	  ..................................................................................................................................................................................	  230	  Prologue	  to	  Chapter	  5	  Medical	  Doctor	  Robert	  Bingham’s	  Film	  .......................................................	  232	  Chapter	  5	  Photographs	  and	  Film:	  The	  Entire	  Pacific	  Basin	  as	  Scripps’	  Domain	  ........................	  240	  Introduction	  ..............................................................................................................................................................................	  240	  The	  Collections	  .........................................................................................................................................................................	  251	  The	  Underside	  of	  Innocence	  ...............................................................................................................................................	  270	  Conclusion	  ..................................................................................................................................................................................	  287	  Conclusion	  ..........................................................................................................................................................	  289	  Epilogue:	  Imagining	  A	  Voice	  from	  the	  Deep	  ...........................................................................................	  295	  Bibliography	  ......................................................................................................................................................	  302	                                    vi  List of Images  Image 1: Maxwell Silverman's Drawing of Roger Revelle ......................................................................... 83	  Image 2: Pages 52 and 53 of Robert Norris' Diary. .................................................................................. 102	  Image 3: Airplane propeller travelling to Downwind over Guatemala .................................................. 114	  Image 4: Panagra DC-6 [named Clipper Mohawk] unloading in San Salvador .................................... 114	  Image 5: Volcano at Atitlan, Guatemala ..................................................................................................... 115	  Image 6: Robert Fisher with child at Saksaywaman, Cusco, Peru. ......................................................... 116	  Image 7: Lake Nicaraguas .............................................................................................................................. 116	  Image 8: Coastal dunes near Chancayao, Peru ........................................................................................... 117	  Image 9: Transition to Andean Peaks ......................................................................................................... 117	  Image 10: Chilean central coast. ................................................................................................................... 121	  Image 11: Guano Islands, central coast, Chile ........................................................................................... 122	  Image 12: Peak from 22,000 foot altitude (unpressurized) ...................................................................... 122	  Image 13: Islas Hormigas off Callao, Peru ................................................................................................. 123	  Image 14: Islas Hormigas off Callao, Peru ................................................................................................. 124	  Image 15: Cap Roggeveen, Easter Island from Baird ................................................................................ 128	  Image 16: Walking tour through Easter Island farm ................................................................................ 130	  Image 17: Robert Norris and women from Easter Island ....................................................................... 131	  Image 18: Easter Island church of Father Sebastian Englert. ................................................................. 131	  Image 19: Easter Island Ranch house ......................................................................................................... 133	  Image 20: Tour of Easter Island in Chilean military jeep ........................................................................ 136	  Image 21: Alan Jones and Moai on Easter Island ..................................................................................... 137	  Image 22: 33-inch Moai carved in wood ..................................................................................................... 138	  Image 23: Navy crew meet people from Easter Island ............................................................................ 139	  Image 24: Research Vessel Horizon, 1957 ................................................................................................... 153	  Image 25: Reserach Vessel Baird, 1952 ........................................................................................................ 154	  Image 26: Exchanging goods between Horizon and Baird on Downwind ............................................. 154	  Image 27: Berthing compartment on Baird, 1952 ...................................................................................... 173	  Image 28: Research Vessel Horizon, 1953 ................................................................................................... 177	  Image 29: Maxwell Silverman's Downwind cartoon ................................................................................. 191	  Image 30: Figure 15 from Preliminary Report on Downwind ................................................................ 214	  Image 31: Figure 8 from Preliminary Report on Downwind .................................................................. 217	  Image 32: Erwin Schweigger's map of ocean surface temperature ......................................................... 219	  Image 33: Sketch of depth-sounding sonar ................................................................................................ 223	  Image 34: Near surface TNT shot from Baird ........................................................................................... 225	  Image 35: Fruit vendors, Callao ................................................................................................................... 253	  Image 36: Carreta with oxen ......................................................................................................................... 253	  Image 37: RLF [Bob Fisher], small girl, Sacsayhauman [sic]. ................................................................... 254	  Image 38: Nubile Chilenas ............................................................................................................................ 254	  Image 39: Chilean Navy officers, Norris Rakestraw center ..................................................................... 255	  Image 40: Equator initiation ......................................................................................................................... 255	  Image 41: George Hohnhaus dunking pollywog ....................................................................................... 256	  Image 42: Bob Norris being dunked ........................................................................................................... 256	  Image 43: Giant [sic actually jumbo] squid .................................................................................................. 256	  Image 44: Alan Jones for scale ..................................................................................................................... 257	  Image 45: Moai inventoried number 284 by Sebastian Englert. ............................................................. 258	   vii Image 46: Final Downwind sunset .............................................................................................................. 258	  Image 47: Crossing the line: King Neptune ............................................................................................... 261	  Image 48: Crossing the line: men on deck .................................................................................................. 261	  Image 49: Crossing the line: cheering. ......................................................................................................... 261	  Image 50: Crossing the line: pollywog ......................................................................................................... 262	  Image 51: Launching temperature probe .................................................................................................... 265	  Image 52: Bob Norris, Pasamay, Peru sand dunes .................................................................................... 266	  Image 53: Mataveri Airport, Easter Island Image ..................................................................................... 266	  Image 54: Bob Fisher at Pasamayo, Peru sand dunes. .............................................................................. 266	                                          viii Acknowledgements  My first encounters with the history of science, and academic history at all for that matter, came as I entered my masters program at Montana State University and attended a little reading group organized by Carla Nappi that grappled with Hacking, Haraway, and Latour. I remember we drew a lot of stick figure illustrations in hopes of making sense of ideas that seemed to challenge everything I thought I knew. I also recall sparks being lit. The possibility of new understandings of the world combined with a deeply engaged set of peers excited me. This opened my eyes to a new way of seeing and ignited an intense flame that inspired the quest to write this dissertation.     Everything resembling coherence, argument, clarity, and intellectual contribution within this text emerged in one way or another from my time spent learning from Jessica Wang. I am lucky to have found a dissertation supervisor who not only appreciates the attempt to smash things together that do not normally go together, but who could help me execute the task. Jessica also challenged me in countless spoken and unspoken ways to navigate verbs and voice, argument and creative thought, intellectual exploration and disciplinary boundaries, writing demons and scholarly potential. She has been incredibly patient with me as I re-learned many aspects of written English by writing and editing this dissertation. Thank you, Jessica, for being there when I needed support, offering sage guidance paired with a good laugh, and for just being able to tell a really good story. Tears of pride and relief well up when I think of how far this text has come from the original full draft. Words cannot explain my gratitude for the energy you expended in teaching me how to write history and be a productive scholar.    Carla Nappi has been my teacher and mentor across institutional, international, and historiographical boundaries for eight years now. She introduced me to and helped me hash through the scholarship on things and objects. Her instruction informed the skeletal structure of this dissertation. Her approach to intellectual work and mentorship eased many of the growing pains that come with this process, helped me find direction when I was lost, and periodically reminded me why I was on this journey in the first place. Carla is the kind of academic who bleeds inspiration, love, innovation, laughter, integrity, dedication, and hope. I am grateful for every second she has spent training me and lucky there have been so many seconds. Thank you, Carla, for being an invaluable model as an intellectual, writer, and human being.   I owe a huge debt to my committee as a whole: Jessica Wang, Carla Nappi, and Alejandra Bronfman. I appreciate their deep engagement in their profession both as researchers and teachers. This project benefited greatly from individual feedback and a few brilliant and illuminating occasions where we discussed my work all together in the same room. They each offered their deep support for this project from its most meager beginnings. For much of the writing and editing process, Tina Loo was also a committee member. Her feedback has been invaluable in framing the project’s introduction and clarifying several points throughout the text. Many faculty from my home department provided assistance at various stages of my training and the project itself. Michel Ducharme, Neil Safier, Bill French were especially helpful teachers. And to our graduate support staff, Gloria Lees and Jason Wu, thank you for everything.    I received generous fellowships from the University of British Columbia. The Department of History supplemented these general fellowships and contributed much (much) more. The dissertation is about an American expedition through the south Pacific, and this support allowed me  ix to chase that journey. I went to many locations in Chile and Peru visited by the oceanographers in 1957-1958. While I don’t know exactly who they are, there are people behind the department scenes responsible for making this possible, and to them I am grateful. Outside of UBC, Middlebury College provided a fellowship for me to attend their summer Spanish language program. I also received assistance from the Scripps Institution of Oceanography Archive. Canada’s Science and Technology Museum supported my participation in their 2009 “Reading Artifacts Workshop.” The 2014 “Place and Practice: Doing Science in and on the Ocean Conference” funded a presentation of “Ships that Talk,” a short version of Chapter 3 of this dissertation. Special thanks to Eric Mills and Keith Benson for their detailed attention to this chapter.    Thank you to the staff and archivists at the Instituto del Mar del Perú, especially for the sitting stool and conversation provided by the armed guards while I waited for a cab to leave Callao. Many thanks to the staff at el Instituto de Estudios Históricos-Maritímos del Perú, el Instituto Geofísico del Perú, el Archivo Histórico de la Armada de Chile, and la Biblioteca Santiago Severín, Valparaíso. Special thanks to Bob Fisher and Alan Jones, the two living members of the Downwind expedition. Fisher made himself available for many telephone conversations and mail correspondences. Alan Jones generously provided a set of photographs and permission for use that appear throughout the dissertation.    A most heartfelt thanks to my fellow companions on this journey in doctoral education. First I want to thank Chris Laursen for his friendship and hospitality through the personal and professional troubles and transitions that tend to come with this process. The post-coursework diaspora has made me long for similar affections I received from Geoff Bil, Kieran Metcalfe, and Tamara Caulkins. Luckily Henry Trim and Christina Adam made it over for pizza night from time to time, evenings that seriously kept me sane. Thanks to each of you, including Antony Adler, who read early chapter drafts with honest and keen eyes. Glynnis Kirchmeier brilliantly handled some of the technical tasks that came with constructing this text. And thanks to Phil Van Huizen, Laura Madokoro, Chelsea Horton, Kelly Cairns, Samantha Muka, Megan Raby, and Jerry Jessee who always answered my questions about navigating a doctoral education with insight and care. And thank you to my Macbook Air for not breaking down or electrocuting me. You proved a trusty mate in this adventure.    During the last two years and eight months of writing and editing, I also had two babies. There is no way one word of this dissertation would have been written without an amazing child-care support system [and an accommodating adviser, thank you again, Jessica]. Thank you Kuhan Milroy, Ali Joy, Glynnis Kirchmeier, Poonam Jhingan, and Elise Van Draanen for taking such wonderful care of the little men that mean more to me than anything. Speaking of care, thank you to Danny and Christine Vickers for taking me in during two bouts of personal turmoil. I will always hold your hospitality, songs, and home-cooked-meals in my heart.    My Mom and Dad put the idea of getting a PhD in my head twenty-some-odd years ago. It took me a long time, but in many ways this dissertation is for them, my brothers, and the rest of our family who have stood by me in what sometimes feels like complete intellectual self-indulgence. But the formal dedication for this finished project is for my best friend and partner in everything, Kuhan Milroy. He has done more than anyone, possibly even me, to ensure that these ideas in my head turn into a finished product. His love, encouragement, and support have been copious and unending.       x               Dedication     For Kuhan             1 Introduction  An Unexpected Archive  In 1953, doctoral student John Knauss wrote a play that parodied the absurd nature of negotiations amongst his superiors, whom he characterized as overly dedicated academics, out-of-touch institutional leaders, and compulsively bureaucratic university Regents. Knauss’ skill is evident from the fact that the drama continues to be funny today, but the script is remarkable because Knauss was not a graduate student of drama or literature. When he wrote it he was training to be a physical oceanographer, and the play is about the administrative aspects of getting ships out to sea to do science. More than five decades later during his oral history interview, Knauss was asked to talk about the script and discuss what compelled him to write something so artistic about oceanography. After reminiscing about his undergraduate liberal arts background Knauss replied: “…I’m not quite sure I remember, but it was kind of fun at the time, and so I did it.”1 The explanation seems simple enough. It made sense to use his skill to poke fun at the sometimes frustrating, always arduous process of getting ships to sea for scientific expeditions.  This dissertation digs underneath such a pragmatic interpretation of the many stories and narratives created in this period of oceanography. What does the history of oceanography look like if one treats sea stories as an unexpected yet incredibly rich archive of ocean science and takes narrative as well as the materiality contained within seriously? This study connects scholarship on stories and narrative to the history of oceanography and demonstrates that the act of storytelling about life at sea actually built and placed limits upon personal and professional relationships during and after expeditions. My approach examines how and why men on scientific research vessels in the                                                 1 Laura Harkewicz, “Oral History of John Atkinson Knauss,” 1 November 2005, SIO online archive, accessed June 24, 2014, pp. 7.   2 middle of the 20th century used storytelling. It considers deeply the narratives contained within a diary, memorandum, cartoon, and motion picture and then argues that the process of creating these stories formulated collaboration, persuasive strategy, friendship, and community. Each author used the narrative process to make sense of expedition life and determine how best to proceed as a member of the oceanographic community. Not merely a pastime, storytelling formed an integral part of social functioning of science at sea. Beyond the act of narration, the analysis also investigates the content of the stories and engages with scholarship on things and objects in order to reveal that the material world was not merely a backdrop, but in some instances acted on and thus influenced the expedition community. For my purposes here, I am less interested in the details of what things were on a metaphysical level and more tuned towards what work they performed.2 Deep-sea expeditions centralized research in this era, and I demonstrate that oceanography cannot be fully understood without attention to relationships between men and things at sea. It is precisely at that point of contact where the project uncovers, first, how commercial airplanes and islands influenced the oceanographic gaze on the Pacific; second, why oceanographic research vessels and their malfunctions played a crucial role in the patronage relationship between oceanography and the U.S. Navy; third, why seemingly mundane tools of oceanography, namely maps and TNT explosives, reveal a hidden shipboard social ecology; and fourth, where photographs and film transformed from casual snapshots of expedition experience into visual representations of power.  This dissertation contributes several new and surprising ways of seeing oceanography as a particular kind of Cold War science determined as much by the everyday reality of living and working on ships at sea as it was by geopolitics and military patronage. Along with scientific journal                                                 2 Throughout this dissertation I use and loosely conflate the words “thing” and “object” in order to signal my attention to particular finite entities of the material world. I do not make a metaphysical comment on the difference between things and objects because doing so is not vital to the construction of the historical arguments contained within this project. For further discussion on the differences between things and objects see Bill Brown, “Thing Theory,” Critical Inquiry 28, no. 1, Things (Autumn, 2001): 1-22.   3 articles and geopolitical documents, oceanographers built their discipline through narration in plays, poems, speeches, diaries, memos, cartoons, photographs, and film. Ships at sea certainly afforded scientists technological platforms from which they encountered the ocean, but airplanes and islands also provided crucial vantage points for understanding that environment. The ships, however, were not technological godsends nor were they unproblematic markers of oceanography’s place in the Golden Age of Science. These vessels operated in a continual state of malfunction and crucially altered how oceanographers engaged in relations with their Cold War military patron. Further, seemingly insignificant items at sea held the power to bring people together for work in new ways. Maps and TNT explosives, for example, facilitated shipboard collaborations that were not dependent on geopolitics or high internationalism. Finally, an oceanographic identity emerged in this era not only because of public representations of the science but also through the production of private photographs and film. Deliberate historical attention to fun, and to personal and seemingly mundane events at sea, demonstrates that expedition oceanography in this era was not merely a product of elite leaders, centralized institutions, technological advancement, and a lot of money. The Cold War got expeditions out to sea, but it was the men on ships who determined what came back and to what use the things that returned were put.  Think for a moment about the ocean world in which oceanographers travelled during the middle of the 20th century. Especially consider what it would have been like to conduct science there. Rusty metal constituted a physical boundary between seawater and scientists who used ships to navigate across this world. On these ships, glass in the shape of bottles brought water up from the deep. Steel tubes rescued sediment cores from the deafening silence under the seafloor. Nearer the surface, 400-pound TNT explosions sacrificed fish, squid, and whales in order to send sound waves down to the greatest depths. Sunrise at daybreak, songs sung after the evening meal, amoebic dysentery and many other everyday realities made their way through life and science at sea. The men  4 on these ships not only lived this day-to-day existence, they also recorded stories about experiencing it. For instance, the following vignette takes the reader out to sea to experience the sunrise from the deck of a ship: I stand in pre-dawn darkness on a moist and rolling deck to watch the tortured waking of the day. As yet the ebon coverlet of night lies close and snug upon the gently heaving bosom of the sea. The myriad points of cosmic light that dot the velvet black shine on as though unknowing of the greater light that soon will make their feeble sparks unseen. I stand a sole observer, an audience of one, in the now-deserted pit before the cosmic stage on which is daily played the tragi-comedy of time. Slowly, almost timidly, faint gray streaks along the eastern rim appear. The stars are dimmed like houselights, and a sudden quiet, heavy with expectancy, descends upon the sea.   We wait, the sea, the ship, and I. We all have watched this scene before, but have not seen it played twice the same. The gray has fought and lost a silent struggle with a gentle rose that now suffuses all the eastern sky. Day is waking slowly now, and gently eases back the tattered coverlet of night to peer with bleary eye above the eastern rim. Phoebus’ first fiery, ray, that silver gauntlet of approaching day, thrown down in angry challenge on the sea, is hurriedly picked up by every sloping surface, shattered, and thrown back, as though to say, “Bring on your sun, we’re ready for the day.”   The hush has gone, the gray has gone, the pink has gone, the night and stars have gone. The ship, the sea, and I alone remain. We three have watched the wonders of the dawn, but of these wonders the other two are mute, and I alone am privileged to tell.  Anon. – For Chrissakes Anon.  When I first read this I thought the author was playing with a strange idea. He seemed to be considering things like the day, stars, sea, and ship to be capable of action, at least to some extent. In one moment, the man stands alone at sea because he is the only person. The narrative arc, however, implies a relationship between that single man as human and the sea and the ship as material things. Even though they cannot speak they are present, and for some reason their presence deserves a prominent role in his narrative. The act of watching affords these things animation. The man, then, is not actually alone because the sea and the ship also watch the daybreak. They are his companions, and they also experience the sunrise. The author’s lyrical writing provides the reader a narrative experience in which the sea and the ship behave as entities with some kind of agency to act and experience.   5  Many similar stories, in multiple literary and visual forms, surface from the archival record when one looks for them. Others indicate a more literal intersection between scientists and their complex material world. The following anonymous poem, for example, explains that for the oceanographer, no matter how dangerous life was at sea the real risks were to be faced back at home on land: The Oceanographer’s Lament  I’ve stood ‘fore the mast of a lurching bark And I’ve swarmed the rigging free I’ve probed the abyss With ‘ner amiss For oceanography.  I’ve crept about on a queezy deck With half the sea aboard With enough dynamite  In my grasp so tight  To blow me to heaven, toward.  I’ve braved the brunt of the typhoon’s howl From the bridge of a stricken ship I’ve buried the dead With the green – one red –  And never my foot would slip.  But when I’ve left the soft sea foam To the realm where mankind tread The sticks and stones They break my bones  And the stern of the car ahead.  The sticks and stones and the car ahead All join in conspiracy And that’s not all  For I did fall  With the flasks of salinity.   The ocean’s wide and the ocean’s deep And you think of the dangers there But the dangers lurk  On the doggoned dirt Near the east of my office chair.   6 So I’ll sail again where the Trade Winds blow Where I’m safe upon the sea For I’m glad I’m alive  And I’ll never survive This armchairography.3   The story contained in this poem represents oceanographers from this era as the sort of knowledge-makers who are passionately drawn to the open ocean. The author self-reflectively describes a world in which physical illness, the potential of blowing oneself up, typhoons, and the possibility of death at sea appeal more to expedition oceanographers than sedentary life on the mainland, driving in traffic, and the professional office chair. Of course, not everyone agreed with this sentiment in every moment. Some men left expeditions early or never returned to the sea after an expedition ended due to negative experiences, dislike, and a variety of reasons. Nevertheless, oceanographers constructed a culture of seagoing in which the act of navigating the ocean world for science was a privilege, an adventure, and fun. Within this culture, men recorded stories about how material things and objects like the sea and ships often transcended categorization as object of inquiry and scientific instrument such that the inanimate emerged as a vital force the oceanographer worked alongside and against.  These stories, things, and objects stand orthogonal with much of the history of oceanography, which has been concerned with the integration of science with politics, policy, institutions, government, internationalism, and patronage. Those histories either directly or implicitly argue that governments and oceanographic institutions – packed full of elite leaders, politicians, and money – determined oceanographic functions and practice. Overwhelmingly, the approach characterizes the flow of power from the mainland out to sea. From this perspective, expeditions emerge as a sole product of the geopolitics of Cold War Big Science and its elite leaders.4 This                                                 3 SIO Subject Files, Box 46, Folder 10: Poetry 1951-1970.  4 Ronald Rainger describes expedition development at Scripps prior to World War II in: “Patronage and Science: Roger Revelle, the Navy, and Oceanography at the Scripps Institution,” Earth Sciences History 19, no. 1 (2000). I utilized the online version reprinted by the History of the Sciences Society from Earth Sciences History (2000): 1-74, esp. pp. 4-9.   7 dissertation operates at a different level and thereby illuminates the ways in which everyday social, cultural, and material realities at sea travelled back to the mainland, influenced how oceanographers organized themselves, offered an alternative vantage point for seeing the Pacific, crucially altered the patronage relationship, and built scientific collaboration.  Stories, things, and objects help us re-envision oceanography during the Cold War as a science in which deep-sea expeditions catalyzed the development of social groups, technological alterations, and a particular way of seeing the Pacific Ocean. The history of oceanography looks very different when it starts far from the mainland. Out on the water the obnoxiously loud sound of a ship’s diesel engine mixed the smell of burnt oil with the sulfured stench of the ocean. After a long day of dropping instruments into the deep, men of science devoured freshly caught leatherback turtle and jumbo squid for an evening meal. As they ate, they stared across hundreds of miles of ocean water at the horizon. Immortalized in stories, everyday expedition experiences became a currency with which men on ships exercised power and made adjustments to the social and cultural functioning of oceanography during the Cold War.  Oceanography in History  Historians of 19th and early 20th century oceanography have addressed expedition practices in their scholarship. Eric Mills, for example, examined the ways in which individual oceanographers in the early 20th century created unprecedented amounts of data and new ideas about the ocean from work at sea.5 It is the history of 19th century oceanography, however, that has more thoroughly investigated some of the realities that took place on the ocean. Helen Rozwadowski’s work has been                                                                                                                                                        And on page 29 he turns to Revelle’s support of expeditions after the war on the deep-sea. He states: “Prior to 1941, Scripp’s scientists had done no deep-sea research,” pp. 29. Revelle claims that the war was what changed the Institution’s expedition practices to include deep-sea work. Jacob Darwin Hamblin describes expedition development during and after World War II at Scripps in, Oceanographers and the Cold War (2005). 5 Eric Mills, The Fluid Envelope of Our Planet: How the Study of Ocean Currents Became a Science, Toronto: University of Toronto Press (2009).   8 pivotal to understanding how British and American practices, including narrative creation, enmeshed with mid-19th century entrepreneurial interest in laying the Atlantic cable.6 She attended to the ways in which science of the sea expanded the human imagination of what the ocean was in the first place. Thus, it was not just the entrepreneurs driving increased interest in knowledge of the ocean. Scientific curiosities emerged at the same time that middle-class Europeans became more aware of the open ocean, gained the means to travel to that environment first-hand for pleasure, and developed a new genre of maritime novels. Rozwadowski explained how 19th century science on the sea not only emerged within this broader social context but incorporated popular voyage narratives into professional activities. Back further beyond this relatively recent history, symbols and myths sit famously within many classic pieces of literature including, for example, the Babylonian epic Gilgamesh, the Bible, and throughout the works of Shakespeare.7 Indeed, human desires to know the sea consistently turn up throughout human history.  Storytelling on the ocean was still a vibrant practice after World War II when surplus war vessels provided by the Navy allowed expedition science in the United States to expand dramatically. In this period, oceanographic institutions sent hundreds of large and small expeditions to sea. The Scripps Institution of Oceanography (Scripps) rose to become one of the leading organizations conducting research concerned with the deep ocean environment. Once military patronage funded American ocean science, scholars trained their analyses within political, financial, administrative, military, and governmental realms, and the historical significance of storytelling vanished.  The dominant historiography on oceanography during the Cold War comprehensively explains how the production of ocean science involved the Office of Naval Research, the President’s                                                 6 Helen Rozwadowski, Fathoming the Ocean: The Discovery and Exploration of the Deep Sea, Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard University (2005): 69-95. See Eric Mills, Biological Oceanography, Ithaca: Cornell University Press (1989) for an institutional account of developments in studies of sea flora and fauna across Germany, Scandinavia, Britain, and the United States in the 19th century.  7 Sebastian I. Sobecki. The Sea and Medieval English Literature. Cambridge: D. S. Brewer (2008). Steve Mentz. At the Bottom of Shakespeare’s Ocean. Harrisburg, PA: Continuum (2009).   9 Science Advisory Committee, the Carnegie Institution of Washington, the Scripps Institution of Oceanography, Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, Lamont Geological Observatory,8 and programs like the International Geophysical Year. This scholarship also discusses the complex and changing roles of elite leaders like Roger Revelle (Scripps), Edward H. Smith (Wood’s Hole), and Maurice Ewing (Lamont). Any history of American oceanography after World War II, no matter what its methodological and thematic focus, cannot ignore the real money and power that flowed from Cold War geopolitics into the development of large-scale research at sea.  Oceanography would not have been capable of the growth it saw after World War II without the patronage of the U.S. Navy. Historian Ronald Rainger’s work has demonstrated the ways in which patronage emerged at Scripps in large part due to the work of Director Roger Revelle who saw expeditions as the cornerstone of ocean science.9 Rainger explained how the military-scientific relationship, however, was not dominated by military concerns. He described a mutually beneficial exchange that emerged even though the Navy certainly held the power to influence intellectual goals and research trajectories through careful selection of projects to fund. Other scholars have touched on expedition practices in order to get at a different set of social issues and sometimes non-elite historical actors. For instance, Naomi Oreskes has investigated Scripps’ relationship with its Navy patron by considering the role of women who worked for Scripps as computers but typically did not work at sea. She demonstrated how “women’s work” was defined as work on land in laboratories after World War II not because of sexism inherent within the scientific community, but because oceanographers built their discipline on military patronage that came with very stringent expectations of gender segregation on ships at sea. The Navy, not the oceanographers, found it                                                 8 Renamed Lamont-Doherty Observatory in 1969 and Lamont-Doherty Earth Observatory in 1993.  9 Ronald Rainger, “Constructing a Landscape for Postwar Science: Roger Revelle, the Scripps Institution of Oceanography, and the University of California, San Diego,” Minerva 39 (2001): 327-352; “Patronage and Science: Roger Revelle, the US Navy, and Oceanography,” Earth Sciences History 19 (2000): 58-89; “Science at the Crossroads: The Navy, Bikini Atoll, and American Oceanography in the 1940s,” Historical Studies in the Physical and Biological Sciences 30 (2000): 349-371.   10 completely unacceptable for women employed by Scripps to board oceanographic vessels for anything but short day trips.10  Many aspects of geopolitics determined growth in ocean science in this period. Jacob Darwin Hamblin has described the Cold War state, institutional interests, internationalism, and the political environment as determinants of research programs, disciplinary priorities, and the general contours of oceanographic life in the United States. His research, however, also hinted at the presence of extra-geopolitical forces on the development of oceanography. While he focused on elite administrators and organization, he highlighted how expeditions sometimes were not just geopolitical initiatives. The Downwind expedition of 1957-1958, for example, was a trip to sea that involved pre-existing scientific concerns over the composition of the seafloor.11 Hamblin also raised questions about the exchange of scientists on ships at sea.12 He described expeditions not merely as geopolitical tools but as a means to economic wellbeing.13 Further, he discussed some of the complexities of oceanographic research vessels in this period rather than assuming them as unproblematic vehicles of oceanography.14  The Cold War context certainly created a dire need for oceanographers to establish credibility for their discipline. Before World War II, expedition science in the United States relied on random private philanthropy, a situation that resulted in very few ships going to sea. Prewar activities occurred mostly on the shore with only rare opportunities to study open waters. The war facilitated an alliance between the major oceanographic institutions, like Scripps, and the Navy and saw an influx of dozens of surplus military vessels capable of sailing to the deep ocean.                                                 10 Naomi Oreskes, “Laissez-Tomber: Miltary Patronage and Women’s Work in Mid-20th-Century Oceanography,” Historical Studies in the Physical and Biological Sciences, 30, no. 2, Military Patronage and the Geophysical Sciences in the United States (2000): 373-392. 11 Jacob Darwin Hamblin, Oceanographers and the Cold War, Seattle: University of Washington Press (2005): 78. He also discussed Downwind on pp. 94.  12 Ibid., 70, 138. Also see these pages for further discussions of expeditions: 10-11, 24-25, and 137-138. 13 Ibid., 121. 14 For instance, see Ibid., 68-70, 25, 95-98.   11 Oceanography navigated its adolescence in an era of intense scientific competition against nuclear physics, a field that spoke directly to the world’s most pressing fear, the nuclear arms race. Within this context, oceanographers needed to position their contributions as solutions for some of the greatest risks to human society. Scripps Director Roger Revelle made his career doing just that. Many other ocean scientists who operated in the political and administrative realm followed suit. Within this political discourse, oceanography became necessary as a way of understanding human survival. Knowing the oceans deeply would tell scientists how to make long-range weather forecasts, mitigate human food supply by controlling dying ocean fish populations, and manage the “unbelievable quantities” of radioactive waste by properly disposing of it in the ocean.15 Proving this vitality of oceanographic science hinged on keeping the scientific separate from the personal lived experiences at sea, or at least seemingly so.  Bread and Butter: Method  Nearly all histories that mention Scripps in this period discuss the expeditions to varying degrees. In Jacob Darwin Hamblin’s language, they were the “bread and butter” of ocean research.16 Scripps Director Roger Revelle acknowledged what a priority it was to care for the body at sea when he wrote, “the food at sea is half the battle.”17 This overlap in language of sustenance, between Revelle as historical actor and Hamblin as a historian of Cold War oceanography, seems more than coincidental. Expeditions fed oceanography as a science, and food fed the body, which fed the expeditions. But underneath practical descriptions of such relationships, this period in oceanographic history was one defined by hunger in the sense of intense craving for adventure on,                                                 15 Roger Revelle, “Statement by Dr. Roger R. Revelle, Technical Panel on Oceanography, U.S. National Committee for the International Geophysical Year before the Appropriations Committee Subcommittee on Independent Offices, U. S. House of Representatives,” n.d., p. 5., SIO Non-Subject Files, Box 75, Folder 23: IGY Statements House of Rep Comm. 16 Hamblin, Oceanographers and the Cold War, 76. Hamblin specifically used this phrase in reference to expeditions during the IGY, but I extend that reference and claim it was true for expeditions throughout the 1950s.  17 Prologue to Chapter 1.   12 and knowledge about, the deep sea.18 Expeditions were the material manifestations of those desires. The bulk of the history of oceanography does not help us understand what expeditions meant to the men who traveled on them nor does it explain how those men leveraged the power to influence the social structure of oceanography, change commitments to scientific technology, and alter patronage relationships.  This dissertation is not an argument against the existing historical literature, but it attempts to offer a different perspective aimed at opening new conversations. My approach takes seriously the idea that the expeditions were the livelihood – the bread and butter – of oceanography. It does so to the extent that I consider everyday expedition activities to be included in the conditions of possibility that led to oceanography’s unprecedented growth during the Cold War. At sea was where men labored with their hands to understand all of the mysteries that so puzzled them. Out on the ocean men wrote stories, broke their bodies, and found adventure. In a few cases it was where scientists died in terrible accidents. For Scripps’ expedition leader Henry William Menard, it was where a split-second mistake resulted in three of his vertebrae becoming permanently fused, something he suffered for the rest of his life.19 Expeditions were events in their own right full of danger, adventure, and emotion. They required an almost unimaginable amount of work. That work often became a labor of love, sometimes hate, worthy of expressions in stories.  Those moments of hate are the one point at which this project challenges the existing literature. Much of the negative emotion expressed about participating in science at sea revolved                                                 18 Historian Rosalind Williams has written about another quest to understand what lies underneath. In her Notes on the Underground, she argues that since the 19th century, literary narratives about the underground world have provided a way for people to proselytize future states of the environment. The underground world became a model of artificial environments from which nature was banished. Like much of this dissertation, her book examines how people making the journey underneath (for her underground, for me underwater) experienced the journey as enduring and powerful. The process of discovery unfolded through descent.  19 This did not happen on Downwind. See Menard, The Ocean of Truth, 42-43 for a brief yet honest description of the deaths of Henry Stetson, Bruce Heezen, and an unnamed man in 1961. This passage mentions other accidents like being washed overboard. And Menard discusses his own personal most serious accident at sea where an un-skilled assistant cut a rope sending a piece of heavy equipment smashing into his back, which compressed his vertebra by a centimeter.   13 around the research vessels. These were scientific instruments that came to oceanography as surplus military ships from World War II. Oceanographers transformed these vessels from their military functions into scientific research tools. Alongside the history of oceanography, I acknowledge the great value these ships brought to ocean science. Without them scientists would not have been able to move their discipline from shore-based research to investigations of the deep-sea and the ocean on a planetary scale. I dig deeper, however, beyond their obvious positive worth and complicate the success story of ex-military ships that operated in the scientific context. Historian Rebecca Lemov has written, “As with much of Cold War technology, not least the atomic bomb, the dreamed of machine was also a nightmare.”20 Through focused attention on their presence in stories told by men who sailed on them, I uncover how these ships were mired in surprising levels of malfunction. Drawing heavily upon the literature regarding things and objects, I then consider malfunction as a manifestation of agency that transformed relationships between oceanographers and their primary patron, the U.S. Navy. The sea stories from this era have literally remained tucked away in the personal records of oceanographers and hidden in obscure folders within the archives. This impetus to hide and thereby devalue certain aspects of practice offers a reason, in addition to situating the Cold War as the primary explanatory factor for science after World War II, why scholars have looked past this layer of oceanographic history: many of the key documents that provide evidence toward this dissertation are overwhelmed in the archive by the volume of bureaucratic Cold War documentation. Relatively few have bubbled to the surface, 21 and only minor attention has been placed on the history of Cold War oceanography on expeditions at sea.                                                  20 Rebecca Lemov, “Hypothetical Machines”: The Science Fiction Dreams of Cold War Social Science,” Isis 101, no. 2 (June 2010), 407. 21 Some examples of stories that did circulate include: Henry William Menard, The Ocean of Truth: A Personal History of Global Tectonics, Princeton: Princeton University Press (1986); Helen Raitt, Exploring the Deep Pacific, New York: W. W.   14 Stories, Things, and Objects  My approach is informed by two main literatures: first, stories and narrative and second, things and objects. This strategy brings our analytical lens for the history of oceanography away from elite politics and the geopolitical nature of the Cold War and toward life and work on deep-sea expeditions. Centered on these voyages to sea, it becomes clear that narrative creation was not merely a pastime but a means by which thought and social action took place. Scientists used storytelling as a basic tool for puzzling out their purposes while on expeditions. The stories were also sites of performance used to negotiate social standing. As tools of thought and performance, these literary creations facilitated relationships and created community. The content of the narratives reveal how the material world altered the oceanographic gaze on the Pacific, transformed the patronage relationship, and helped build the scientific community.  I situate this dissertation within a broad trend of scholarship of the history of science that since the 1980s has moved toward understanding scientific practice.22 More specifically, because of my concern with the hidden stories of oceanography I locate this study within a smaller subset of scholars attending to the ways in which scientists, their practices, and their material reality refute a dichotomy between “text” and “action” by offering better understandings of the performative dimensions of science, especially the performance of narrative.23 Under this approach, science as a process of knowledge-making occurs such that scientists do actions in the world and engage in discourse about it. Analyses proceed by assuming that both forms of activity, material and                                                                                                                                                        Norton (1956); Elizabeth Shor, Scripps Institution of Oceanography: Probing the Oceans, 1936-1976, San Diego: Tofua Press (1978); and see the Scripps online archive for a set of links to numerous oral histories.  22 Foundational examples include: Bruno Latour and Steve Woolgar, Laboratory Life: The Construction of Scientific Facts, Princeton: Princeton University Press (1986); Bruno Latour, Science in Action: How to Follow Scientists and Engineers through Society, Cambridge: Harvard University Press (1988); Steven Shapin and Simon Schaffer, Leviathan and the Air-Pump: Hobbes, Boyle, and the Experimental Life, Princeton: Princeton University Press (1985); Andrew Pickering, The Mangle of Practice: Time, Agency, and Science, Chicago: Chicago University Press (1995); Andrew Pickering, Science as Practice and Culture, Chicago: Chicago University Press (1992).  23 See James J. Bono, “Making Knowledge: History, Literature, and the Poetics of Science,” Focus: History of Science and Literature and Science: Convergences and Divergences, Isis 101 (2010): 555-559.   15 discursive, contribute significantly to the production of knowledge and knowledge communities. Under this rubric, the literary, linguistic, and even artistic dimensions of scientific practice matter as much as more traditionally conceived scientific activities, such as experiments, sampling, measuring, and observation. Many scholars with this focus spend their time worrying about the ways in which literature has shaped or can shape scientific developments or how science influences the output of literature.24 Others swing wider outside of literature, formally conceived, to consider how the creation of narrative across different forms, not just literature and not just writing, intertwined with analytic practices of collecting, observing, recording, and categorizing. What emerges is attention, across a variety of local contexts, to the ways in which scientific work co-depends upon texts that come in multiple forms of expression from peer-reviewed journals to literature, personal narrative, and even art.  Donna Haraway’s work delves extensively into the relationships between literature and science. Many of her essays could be discussed in relation to my work, but it is “A Cyborg Manifesto” from which this project draws a foundation for taking sea stories seriously as components of scientific practice: “Releasing the play of writing is deadly serious…The tools are often stories, retold stories, versions that reverse and displace the hierarchical dualisms of naturalized identities.” These statements signal her concern with the ways in which writing held significance for colonized groups (her example is women of color in Western society). It does seem awkward at first to apply Haraway’s cyborg politics, which emerged out of feminism and utilized women as the exemplary human, to a group of relatively affluent white males in the middle of the 20th century. Although I am not explicitly making direct parallels between the women Haraway                                                 24 Bono’s “Making Knowledge,” Ibid. offers a nice introduction to this scholarship. Also see Katherine Hayles, ed., Chaos and Order: Complex Dynamics in Literature and Science, Chicago: Chicago University Press (1991); Stuart Peterfreund, ed., Literature and Science: Theory and Practice, Boston: Northeastern University Press (1990).   16 exemplified and oceanographers who went to sea, there is sense of Harawaian thought running through this dissertation.25   For Haraway’s women of color, writing held the power to signify a particular interpretation of the world, and with that power they reframed the boundaries around their own identities. Essentially, these women used the written word to subvert power structures that framed their lives. Oceanographers in the middle of the 20th century similarly constructed stories (in writing but also in other forms) as a way to exercise social power on an individual level at a time when elite politics weighed heavy on this branch of science. Expedition participants used stories as tools with which they built scientific collaborations, lobbied for technological changes at sea, grew friendships, and pursued social standing within the oceanographic community. If subversion is too strong a verb, these oceanographers definitely reframed their own identities by aligning themselves with certain shipboard co-travellers, distancing themselves from others, and creating clear separations between expedition participants and other peoples encountered along the way. They also used literary strategies to construct documents that pushed oceanographic institutions to change patronage relationships. In small but compelling ways, stories were vessels that expedition participants used to carry their experiences from the open ocean back to the mainland. As such, stories emerged as tools with which expedition participants altered some of the Cold War circumstances in which they operated.  Bruno Latour claims that narrative forms significant to science can vary from “a paper slip, a document, a report, an account, a map.”26 In this dissertation I address the ways in which a speech, diary, letter, cartoon, set of photographs, and a silent color motion picture allowed those who went                                                 25 Donna J. Haraway, Simians, Cyborgs, and Women: The Reinvention of Nature, New York: Routledge Press (1991): 175. 26 Bruno Latour, Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor Network Theory, Oxford: Oxford University Press (2007): 223-226, note 19. A literary studies approach to form and applied to history of science methodologies can be found in Henry S. Turner, “Lessons from Literature for the Historian of Science (and vice versa),” Isis 101 (2010): 578-589. Also Haraway’s “A Cyborg Manifesto” touches on the poem (p. 156) and the photo (pp. 169-170) as forms that have been important to cultural practices.  17 to sea an opportunity to commemorate and make sense of their experiences, extract the meaning behind those experiences from the story itself, and then translate experience into powerful messages that changed the scientific context and culture back on the mainland. 27 Throughout the chapters I address the following questions regarding these stories and their varied relationships to the history of oceanography: For what purpose or for whom was the story meant? What does it tell us? How did oceanographic work shape the narrative? How did the story mediate between oceanographic practice and cultural reality back on the mainland; shape practice at sea and on the mainland; relate to other stories; and integrate work and labor into the narrative? And how were these stories told?  Historians Hunter Heyck and David Kaiser discuss how “variation is now the theme” when approaching science during the Cold War. 28 Scholars depict the struggles of that era not merely as defined by military, technological, and ideological tensions but as a global transformation with a wide array of local forms. As a whole, this project ties together historical actors’ views of their lives with deeper consideration of unintended historical consequences. I contribute to the geopolitical history of oceanography a new look at how ideas, people, and things travelled from the sea to the mainland instead of continuing to look in the opposite direction. I engage with the intellectual history of oceanography as I detail how practices at sea involved bodies, materiality, and a mosaic cast of people with varied interests and agendas.  Within the last ten years, two ways of approaching scholarly analysis of the production of scientific knowledge have merged into a relationship that can help tune the history of oceanography during the Cold War toward the particular stories that did matter and that do offer deeper insight into how oceanographers created a culture of expeditions at sea. The history of science and the                                                 27 As I will repeatedly explain, the speech and the letter were not written on Downwind. The speech was by the Director of Scripps addressing a larger expedition tradition at his institution, and the letter was by a Downwind ship Captain writing about an earlier expedition. I argue that both of these still tell us a lot that we did not already know about expedition practices across the 1950s, the same period in which Downwind took place.  28 Hunter Heyck and David Kaiser, “Focus: New Perspectives on Science and the Cold War, Introduction,” Isis 101 (2010): 363.  18 separate field called literature and science have expanded into one another, an intellectual collaboration historian James J. Bono refers to as the creation of “interdependent fields.”29 The convergence of these two approaches has resulted in examination of how science affects literary culture and the ways in which literary practices contribute to the production of scientific knowledge. Scholars ask: how has literature shaped scientific developments; what were the performative dimensions of literature within the context of science; how have material practices been associated with literary practices; and in what ways have the circulation of texts and objects created networks of exchange in science? Essentially, the concern is with the ways in which the making of science has been a product of the creation, performance, and circulation of a combination of literary texts and scientific texts, objects, and ideas. Vibrant themes include the use of metaphor in science, literary and scientific texts as performative agents, literary form as a tool of scientific practice, the function of science fiction within scientific practice, the ways in which stories shape scientific practice, scientific work as integrated into travel narratives, and scientific text as narrative, to name just a few.30  For the purposes of this dissertation, I situate the sea stories in the interdependent space, as Bono describes, between the history of science and literature and science. It is in such a space that these expedition stories can be taken seriously as literary constructions that meant something within the science of oceanography. Bono’s interpretation of the relationships between these two fields has received some level of criticism. Two years after Bono’s Isis article came out, English Professor John                                                 29 James. J. Bono, “Making Knowledge: History, Literature, and the Poetics of Science,” in Focus: History of Science and Literature and Science: Convergences and Divergences, Isis 101 (2010): 555. The seminal journals corresponding to these fields are: history of science, Isis and literature and science, The Journal of Literature and Science. For an even more critical response on the debate as to whether the history of science and literature and science can and should overlap see: Janine Rogers, “Review of James J. Bono’s (ed) ‘Focus: History of Science and Literature and Science: Convergences and Divergences,’ Journal of Literature and Science 4, no. 1 (2011): 80-83.  30 Compilations of these themes can be found in two Isis Focus sections. “Focus: History of Science and Literature and Science: Convergences and Divergences,: Isis 101, no. 3 (September 2010): 555-598; and :Focus: Mathematical Stories,” Isis 97, no. 4 (2006): 678-726.   19 Holmes also addressed their relationship.31 While acknowledging overlap, Holmes points to a serious problem in overdrawing the connections between them, namely the differences in evidence. Literary texts often leave a level of uncertainty the history of science would find unacceptable. Nevertheless, he concludes that as long as scholars attentive to literature are frank about the nature of the evidence from which they work, there is much to gain despite these limitations. Essentially, keeping literature and science separate will allow scholars, who work from divergent sources, to make their case more convincingly. Literature and science methods reveal things about scientific ideas, their significance, etc. that the history of science alone cannot determine with “the same subtlety.”32 I appreciate Holmes’ concern over divergent sources, but claim that the nature of the stories from oceanography in this period requires that I braid the history of oceanography together with literature on stories and narrative. These stories emerged as part of the process of conducting science at sea, not separate from it.  Choosing stories as a central component of this history of oceanographic expeditions marks the project as cultural history of oceanography that works alongside more traditional political, geopolitical, military, and administrative approaches to this field of science. The narratives point to historical circumstances adjacent to cold war tensions and politics. For deep-sea expeditions at Scripps in the 1950s, a large gap existed between the ways in which elite administrators and scientists spoke about scientific journeys to sea and how those expeditions were actually experienced. While geopolitical tensions, institutional politics, and military patronage provided money, ships, scientific instruments, and military service to working oceanographers at Scripps, the power of influence was not unidirectional. Oceanographers’ personal, interpersonal, emotional, embodied, and material lived experiences created knowledge, opinions, preferences, and relationships that travelled back to the                                                 31 John Holmes, “Roundtable: Literature and Science vs. History of Science,” Journal of Literature and Science 5, no. 2 (2012): 67-71. 32 Ibid., pp. 69.  20 mainland. Sometimes the stories were a location where men on ships puzzled out their purposes in relation to others in the world of oceanography. After the writing process, these men then constructed their social world based on what they had determined while creating their narratives. At other times, stories acted as a kind of performance for a person who occupied a liminal social position in this scientific world. When a man achieved a higher status in the oceanographic community, those strategies were no longer needed, and they disappeared from the narrative record. In essence, these stories facilitated relationships, created community, and performed identity.  Taking the content of narratives seriously requires accounting for the incredible attention authors placed on the material world. Within these stories oceanic things and objects came alive.  Scholarship on things and objects has taken many forms, and several of its practitioners have claimed explicitly that a unified goal is antithetical to this kind of work. A defining link might best be described as a distaste for the (mis)characterization of our world when positioned primarily from the standpoint of human beings. The world has things in it, and if we ignore those things and their multifarious effects on us we cannot possibly interrogate the human condition.  Many scholars call their attention to “things” a kind of corrective to a Cartesian anthropocentrism in which René Descartes constructed our conception of human beings as the only entities capable of utilizing language, thus setting in stone, so to speak, a division between the human being and the natural world. To remedy this division, which many see as false (Latour adds political), scholars have taken notice of the ways in which humans actually revolve around, act on behalf of, and are moved by things. Roland Barthes wrote about the ways that mythologies of modern bourgeois life wove around certain things and even went so far as to claim that these things spoke a kind of language of their own. Martin Heidegger also famously wrote about certain things as  21 self-sufficient entities that cannot be fully captured by the human mind regardless of our perceptions of scientific theories about them.33  Many more recent works have found inspiration in the work of these classic thinkers. If one insists on identifying coherent schools of thought we could discuss New Materialism, Speculative Realism, Object Oriented Ontology, and even stretch that to communities of Actor Network Theorists. Each of these groups developed its own categories and conceptions of things and objects to work with. But that raises the question: Why do particular categories in fact apply to specific things and objects and not others? Such a methodological problem twists into a serious practical difficulty because the more attention paid to how scholars have attended to different objects in different contexts, the more kinds of objects pile up as possibilities for how things behaved and acted in historical cases. But importantly, the more unrelated kinds of objects emerge as possibilities from which to work.34  There have been interactive, natural, and indifferent kinds; boundary objects; commodities; things that circulate; objects of scientific inquiry; things that talk; quotidian objects; objects multiple; vibrant matter; units; and immutable mobiles, and these represent a small handful of object                                                 33 Martin Heidegger, What is a Thing?, University Press of America, 1985.  34 Ian Hacking described interactive, natural, and indifferent kinds: The Social Construction of What?, Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2000. Bruno Latour defined immutable mobiles, Science in Action: How to Follow Scientists and Engineers through Society, Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1987. Boundary objects: Star, Susan Leigh and James R. Griesemer. “Institutional Ecology, ‘Translations’ and Boundary Objects: Amateurs and Professionals in Berkeley’s Museum of Vertebrate Zoology, 1907-39. Social Studies of Science, 19, no. 3 (Aug. 1989), 387-420.  Commodities as scientific object: Warwick Anderson, The Collectors of Lost Souls: Turning Kuru Scientists into Whitemen, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2008. Things that circulate: Paul N. Edwards, Lisa Gitelman, Gabrielle Heckt, Adrian Johns, Brian Larkin, and Neil Safier, “AHR Conversation: Historical Perspectives on the Circulation of Information,” American Historical Review (December 2011): 1393-1435. Objects of scientific inquiry: Lorraine Daston, ed., Biographies of Scientific Objects, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000. Things that talk: Lorraine Daston, ed., Things that Talk: Object Lessons from Art and Science, 2004. Quotidian objects, Ibid., especially Lorraine Daston, “Introduction,” pp. 9-24. Objects multiple: Annemarie Mol, The Body Multiple: Ontology in Medical Practice, Durham: Duke University Press, 2002. Vibrant matter: Jane Bennett, Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things, Durham: Duke University Press, 2010. Units: Ian Bogost, Alien Phenomoenology or What It’s Like to Be a Thing, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2012. These scholars work to answer specific disciplinary questions that exist within social and historical contexts and methodologically range from investigating alliances and relations made of networks of people and things, inspired by Bruno Latour’s Actor Network Theory, to determining the role of things as “units” – individual things that exist and act regardless of humans and that hold just as much importance as humans in the world.  22 categories from the history of science literature alone. How does one justify a single framework as the best fit for any particular object or case study? Looking to the individual objects from existing scholarship only increases the complexity. All of this leads to a serious problem.35 It is one of the greatest criticisms directed toward this scholarship attentive to things: What, if anything, are we really contributing by affording the non-human world the power to act? Things are said to act in so many divergent ways that at times it seems like every single thing in the world might fall under any one of the already determined thing and object categories, and those that do not call for the invention of a new category.  For the purpose of analyzing the material content contained within oceanographic stories, this dissertation claims that affording non-humans the power to act provides a new framework for viewing hidden components of complex relationships amongst individual people and human groups. Because objects that exhibit action lie at the center of these relationships, this approach illuminates thus far unexamined yet formative interactions between humans and the objects themselves, but also between humans and other previously ignored humans. As anthropologist Arjun Appadurai put it, “from a theoretical point of view human actors encode things with significance, from a methodological point of view it is the things-in-motion that illuminate their human and social context.”36 Objects leave certain kinds of traces based on the particular local circumstances in which they function, and we can learn more about them if we follow those traces. Many of the specific things and objects that emerge from this scholarship could be examined under two if not more given categories. Lorraine Daston posed The Glass Flowers as an example of a “thing that talks,” yet application of Star and Griesemer’s boundary object theory might prove equally viable in understanding how these objects                                                 35 There are several works that attempt to offer some clarity on this vast scholarship. For instance, Arjun Appadurai, The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective (edited volume), New York: Cambridge University Press: 1986; and Bill Brown, “Thing Theory,” Critical Inquiry 28, no. 1, Things (Autumn, 2001): 1-22.  36 Arjun Appadurai, The Social Life of Things, 5.   23 have been socially situated. At the center of both is the question of how things interact with human beings and how those interactions alter, intensify, or degrade exchanges between the human beings themselves. We could say that in some situations boundary objects speak and that things that talk facilitate collaboration. That does not mean, however, that all categories apply to all things and objects always. Rather, the intricate specificity that tends to be at work when scholars mobilize things and objects toward understanding social processes sometimes hints at how objects can pose multiple functions in their interactions with human beings. But what is the nature of these “functions?” What do we mean by thing and object agency?  Jane Bennett’s Vibrant Matter describes “thing-power” as the ability of inanimate things to produce effects.37 Bennett’s central tenet insists that certain things in the world do not depend on humans for their power to act.38 Rather than focusing on how things are socially constructed, she explains that some things possess an “agentive capacity” all their own. Essentially, Bennett wants to redistribute the power in our world such that human beings do not necessarily occupy the center stage in all situations, histories, and interactions. Rather, if we “think slowly” about physical matter in the world, it becomes clear that in some instances things are not merely inanimate. For Bennett, thinking slowly and specifically about the possibility that physical matter acts will lead to new understanding of rich yet easily overlooked details of relationships between humans and things, but also, and perhaps more significantly, between humans and other humans. The key is that we use objects as analytical tools with which to understand relationships because they get us out of traditional ways of thinking about the same kinds of historical interactions.  Why do this? Bennett tells us that considering the capacity of the material world as vibrant and capable of impeding, blocking, facilitating, and assisting the wills and desires of human beings                                                 37 Jane Bennett, Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things, Durham: Duke University Press, 2010: 6.  38 Bennett is but one example of a scholar who builds upon a longer philosophical project to understand the material world that has now, in large part through the work of Bruno Latour, intersected with the history of science.   24 will fundamentally change how we analyze events such as consumption, public health, stem cell research, and energy policy. Attention to vibrant matter allows us to be more alert to our own capacities and limitations and with that alertness, we are able to engage more effectively as scholars and as living humans with the material world that we depend upon.39 While her concerns are not merely historical, her approach certainly can be applied historically.   Bennett’s concept of vibrant matter hints at some of the defining components of material agency with the concept of “things that talk” as posited by Daston et al. 40 According to Daston, there are special “things” in the world that “give rise to an astonishing amount of talk.” These things “talk” in the sense that their physical properties, component parts, movements – essentially their tectonics – create an inspiration for prolific discourse in human cultures.41 Daston provides The Glass Flowers as her example. These objects are a collection of 847 botanical models made of glass for Harvard’s Botanical Museum that were constructed from 1887 to 1936. Daston thinks about these fire blown silica structures as meticulously built artifacts. These glass structures appear lifelike and evoke wonder and emotion. Their construction, fragility, and presence cause humans to exhibit strange behaviors not seen in relation to other models of the natural world. Spectators and museum personnel alike talk “endlessly” about how well the Flowers’ represent real specimen, how they were constructed, and how they must be cared for. Understanding the frenzy around these artifacts requires consideration of not just what people think and do, but attention to the ways in which the constitution and imagery of the Flowers move people’s thoughts and emotions.42 Saying that these                                                 39 There are also scholars who seek to understand things irreverent of human beings. See footnote 4 for Object Oriented Ontology. Specifically see the work of Ian Bogost and his use of the word “unit” in place of “thing” or “object.”  40 Lorraine Daston, Things that Talk, New York: Zone Books, 2004: 11.  41 In her Introduction to Things that Talk, Daston does not use the word “tectonics,” but she describes the sense of construction from which I work. The book asks: What things are and how they are made (pp. 20). The chapters discuss the rigidity and functionality (pp. 19), bony materiality (pp. 18), and general properties (pp. 17) that make the things what they are and determine how they manifest in the lives of people and communities.  42 Daston’s Introduction, “Speechless,” introduces these issues, and her essay on the glass flowers at Harvard exemplifies each of these effects, “Chapter 6, The Glass Flowers,” 223-254.  25 things “talk” is a way of drawing focused attention to how they influence human conversations, feelings, and actions.43 The central subject matter of this type of analysis is not the things in and of themselves, but the relationships they participate in with and evoke between humans. The verb “talk” stands as a metaphor to help us think in new ways about what certain “things” in the world mean to people and importantly, what about those things elicits those meanings.44 It affords “things” the power to do work, or be vibrant in Bennett’s sense, but equally recognizes how that work reaps new ways of talking, thinking, feeling, and acting about and toward things.  The Downwind Expedition  The chapters in this dissertation use brief moments in time to look closely at relationships between people that formed or broke apart because of stories, things, and objects. In order to apply theories to specific circumstances and offer some relationship between those moments, I chose to structure the dissertation as a whole first and foremost around one oceanographic expedition. I decided upon the Downwind expedition conducted by the Scripps Institution of Oceanography under the International Geophysical Year, 1957-1958. This brief journey captures much of what is at stake in discussing the practices involved in taking American oceanographic expeditions to sea during the 1950s: the engagement of an extremely diverse set of historical actors, the movement of                                                 43 Daston writes, “Once circumscribed and concretized, the new thing becomes a magnet for intense interest, a paradox incarnate. It is richly evocative; it is eloquent.” Things that Talk, 24.  44 Lorraine Daston perhaps would argue that the phrase actually is not a metaphor and that such a description comes from skeptics who deem this mode of thinking a kind of “childish fantasy about tongues in trees and books in brooks,” Things that Talk, 12. However, she points to two facts that cause me to leave this comment as a footnote, signifying my own use of “things that talk” as a kind of metaphor: 1) things to not actually literally get up and start talking, and what we are after are the ways in which things elicit meaning in communities of people and how those meanings play out, and 2) it IS actually a metaphor in the sense that this kind of attention to things stems in part from the fact that even in the face of such doubt, scholars cannot ignore the multifarious historical instances in which “things have been said to talk.” In fact, Joseph Leo Koerner’s chapter “Bosch’s Equipment” in Daston’s volume states, “…while I don’t believe that the things I write about literally speak to me, there is something satisfying about pretending they do,” pp. 45. I believe Daston calls out those sorts of instances, where people give things language, as signposts signifying starting points for this sort of methodological application in search of a kind of co-construction of humans and their material world. As this chapter will demonstrate, there were many instances in which Horizon and Baird were anthropomorphized and given the possibility of human language. In part, it is from those instances that I begin to draw on the scholarship of things and objects, and more specifically on Daston et al.’s attention to things that talk.   26 those actors through ocean environments, the enmeshment of things and objects with people who worked to produce knowledge, and the intersection of science with the tradition of storytelling. Downwind provides a framework within which we can conceive of expedition experiences involving the material world, when recorded in stories, as powerful tools men on ships used to alter how oceanography functioned socially and culturally during the Cold War. In conducting the research for this project, I began from a set of narratives related to the Downwind expedition and then extended outward to many other sources. The hidden stories themselves come in multiple forms: a speech, diary, letter, Chilean scientific journal article, pen and ink cartoon drawing, and photographs and a silent color motion picture. Beyond the stories, I analyzed primary published literature, personal and institutional letters, oral histories and biographies conducted by other historians that sit filed in the Scripps archive, autobiographies, newspaper and magazine articles, Scripps oceanographers’ publications, photographs, ship’s logs, shipboard telegraphs, accident reports, IGY reports and addresses, charts, graphs, maps, internal reports, budget requests, memoranda, postcards, brochures, news releases, audio transcripts, a song written about Downwind, Navy and private contracts, National Science Foundation applications, and other materials. I also engaged in several conversations with one of the men who travelled on Downwind, expedition leader and research geologist, Dr. Robert L. Fisher. All of these documents verify the vital nature of expeditions in this period, but they also indicate that the history of oceanography included an incredible array of events and circumstances that took place on ships at sea.  With this archival base, I step outside of the standard cold war framework into a cultural approach to the history of oceanography. As already stated, historians of oceanography who focus on earlier periods incorporate the cultural, especially maritime traditions and narrative production,  27 into their accounts of knowledge making at sea.45 But once investigations into the Earth’s oceans enmeshed with military interests, during and especially after World War II, historians began to train their analyses at the level of geopolitics and the power of elite scientific actors tied directly to Washington. In general, non-elite historical actors that touched the world of oceanography do not appear. While historians also focused on how military patronage affected the science and thereby called attention to a small set of non-scientific actors, namely Navy personnel, explanatory arguments remained attuned to military support for science and ultimately led us right back to the Cold War as the prime mover of post-World War II science. This dissertation investigates the process of narrative creation and the content of stories in order to reveal that engineers, graduate students, and Navy crew also had a hand in shaping the social world of oceanography.  Men at sea lived and worked in an environment that constantly changed in many capacities. The ships themselves moved continually through the ocean. Downwind was a journey of two ships that sailed throughout the Pacific Ocean for 130 days. In the afternoon on October 21, 1957 the expedition left port at Point Loma, San Diego. The expedition sailed on two ships, Horizon and Spencer F. Baird (Baird), across the Pacific to a port of call in Papeete, Tahiti, and arrived on November 15. On these ships, the material nature of life at sea came alive. The ships themselves, oceanographic instruments, and various written or illustrated documents became vital material artifacts on the journey. The ships stayed in port until the 19th when they turned south and reached Rapa, the southernmost inhabited Polynesian island, on the 24th. Bad weather inhibited some of the planned work, but the ships reached the southernmost point on the expedition track (in blue water at 48°30’S. – about 2,500 miles west of Castro, Chile) on December 7th where the ships met light snow. The ships then moved north toward Valparaíso, Chile, the halfway point of the expedition.                                                 45 Eric Mills, Biological Oceanography: An Early History, 1870-1960, Ithaca: Cornell University Press (1989); Helen Razwadowski, Fathoming the Ocean: The Discovery and Exploration of the Deep Sea, Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard University (2005). Philip Steinberg, The Social Construction of the Ocean, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press (2001).  28 The people present on the expeditions also changed over the course of the journey. While oceanographers and staff came and went in every port of call, major personnel changeovers occurred at Valparaíso. Oceanographers travelled in late December down to Chile to meet the ships. The expedition members who continued through Valparaíso spent the Christmas holiday ashore, most of them in Santiago. On the 28th the ships began their journey up the South American coast over the Peru-Chile Trench. This leg of the expedition also carried five South American oceanographers on exchange as part of the IGY program. When the ships reached Callao, Peru on January 15 the South Americans left and one oceanographer from India joined the scientists on Baird. In Callao, Scripps scientists met their colleague working on location in Peru, Warren Wooster, who arranged several social gatherings with Peruvian IGY personnel. Equipment also became damaged or lost at sea, and new equipment was continually acquired. On Downwind, major equipment repairs took place in Callao and the ships left port at noon on the 18th. The last leg of the expedition extended up the coast of the Americas and back home to California. But before heading north, the ships headed due west, making stops at the islet Sala y Gomez and on Easter Island. On Easter Island, oceanographers met with the Chilean military, and some of them spent time with the famous missionary, Father Sebastian Englert. On February 3rd the ships made their final sojourn toward San Diego, where scientific work mixed with celebrations of the expedition’s impending completion. Oceanographers held a shipboard party, sang, and recorded a song commemorating their adventures. Both ships reached Point Loma on the 28th where they were greeted with family, friends, Scripps administrators, and a ceremonious concert performed by one of the local high school marching bands. The entire journey was one of shifting personnel, research concerns, scientific equipment, and physical locations in the Pacific. Downwind serves as a window into what I consider to be a hidden territory of expedition practices during the 1950s. Oceanographers focused on explaining their discipline in public and  29 political arenas as a field of science that created and relied upon vast amounts of data. As part of the IGY, so much data was produced that the International Council for Science created World Data Centers aimed at compiling an almost unmanageable quantity of numbers and figures under the assumption that anyone who wanted access to the information contained within merely needed to request it. In this era, data became important at a new scale within scientific discourse. Scientists were virtually required to participate in the worldwide data-driven scientific activities that emerged after World War II in order to legitimate their work.46 Practices at sea that generated much of the knowledge vital to the science involved much more than rote data and sample collection, however. Oceanographers practiced a rich array of observation and collection processes that were deeply dependent on personal experiences of their scientific bodies and minds with the material world. Attention to these processes reveals, first, that expedition work in this period involved bodily encounter between the oceanographer and the ocean as an object of inquiry, mediated often by scientific instruments. Second, expedition work also extended beyond the shipboard activities. Oceanographers met their object of study just as profoundly with a bird’s-eye-view achieved from cramped seats on commercial airlines, for example. And third, oceanographers not only studied the ocean from ships that moved around its surface, they extended their scientific and analytical work to islands where they were literally able to walk around inside another layer of their object of inquiry. Cold War, geopolitical, military patronage, and oceanographic administration frameworks cannot account for the depth to which physical realities at sea impacted those who worked there and inspired these men to use those experiences to instill intellectual and administrative change at their mainland institution. Sea stories from Downwind open such a window, and further investigations of                                                 46 There are many authors to be sited here. For an example that overlaps with this history of oceanography specifically see: Elena Aronova, Karen S. Baker, and Naomi Oreskes, “Big Science and Big Data in Biology: From the International Geophysical Year through the International Biological Program to the Long Term Ecological Research (LTER) Network, 1957-Present,” Historical Studies in the Natural Sciences 40, no. 2 (Spring 2010): 183-224.  30 many other related sources allow me to flesh out how work on ships at sea came to satisfy the requirements of oceanography.  Dissertation Track  The dissertation applies five different analytical approaches to stories, things, and objects across five chapters. Each of the five chapters begins with a prologue that showcases one of five stories from or closely related to the Downwind expedition, which allows the men who experienced and constituted the ocean world I seek to understand to set the stage, in their own words, for my analysis. Their narrative strategies, language, and concerns get the reader out to sea on the expedition. The analytical approach of this dissertation examines highly specific moments of interactions between humans and things, yet the prologues aim to contextualize those moments by providing a way to imagine what that world must have been like to see, feel, touch, smell, and taste. Where possible, I include the stories in their full original form, although excessive length required some truncation, which I indicate with ellipses. The prologue to Chapter Five was inspired by a silent film, which could not be literally inserted into this textual document. Therefore, I transcribed the film into prose that provides a factual description of the visual imagery experienced when watching the film. Inspired by each prologue, analytical chapters investigate the significance of stories, things, and objects in oceanography. Chapter One examines the process of creating the stories, and Chapters Two through Five draw things and objects out of the stories around which my analysis centers.    Following this introduction, the first chapter establishes the literary underpinning of science at sea in this era by examining what the process of narrative creation meant to the authors of five different forms of stories from or closely related to the Downwind expedition. I build from these approaches to ask, most basically, how the production of stories worked to structure and shape social interaction between expedition participants. I provide examples that belong within the history  31 of science as it intersects with literature and science. At that intersection within oceanography, a series of textual forms contained powerful narratives that shaped scientific practice and culture. I argue that the process of creating those stories helped the authors understand their scientific experiences at sea, and through the process of narration these stories became tools of cultural understanding that the authors used while navigating the everyday social and material world of ocean science in the Cold War era.   Chapter two explains that commercial airplanes and islands provided oceanographers new locations and vantage points from which to interrogate their object of inquiry. Historians and historical actors alike have tended to disregard oceanographic work in these places as activities tangential to actual science. I argue, however, that because oceanographers used their time in these places to conduct sensory surveys, the information taken from airplanes and islands should be integrated into our understanding of the production of oceanographic knowledge in this period. More traditional scientific activities, including indirect quantified measurements and quantified specimen samples, were not the only way that oceanographers came to produce knowledge. The moments when the scientist personally came into contact with the object of inquiry were also formative. Oceanographers used airplanes and islands as a means of surveying coastal and island areas, which provided them a fresh perspective on geological similarities and differences and a way of accounting for “primitive” bodies in a synoptic conception of the Pacific Island region.   Chapter three discusses how the malfunctions of research vessels crucially affected the oceanographic process by determining social arrangements. I argue that the impact was so great that the ships facilitated a breakdown in the military-scientific relationship. Cold war oceanographic practice at sea conducted by Scripps emerged on vessels that did not work properly and continually required maintenance and troubleshooting attention. Their design, regardless of multiple translations from military to scientific vessels, continued to articulate an original construction scheme that  32 oceanographers were forced to work around. This chapter argues that these malfunctions altered how Scripps saw military patronage and drove a wedge between science and the military. Regarding the ships, patronage was not merely a beneficial addition to ocean science in this era. Once extensive malfunctions of ex-military vessels surfaced, oceanographers came to desire a separation between the lifeblood of their institution, their ships, and the US Navy. Chapter 4 examines shipboard interactions between oceanographers and two groups of fellow expedition travellers: foreign scientists and Navy personnel. I present index maps and explosives as “boundary objects” that operated in different capacities to facilitate the collection of deep-sea ocean data. The particular mobilization of the boundary object framework here interrogates the heterogeneous nature of expedition work in the 1950s and explains oceanography as a fundamentally collaborative activity that functioned not just in the midst of, but precisely because of the diversity in agency among individual people, diverse groups, and a handful of material things. The boundary objects in this case acted at the division between Scripps oceanographers and Erwin Schweigger, a scientist from Peru, and at the intersection of Scripps oceanographers with Navy personnel. At those two social boundaries, maps and explosives (boundary objects) facilitated collaboration between diverse worlds. My analysis of the bridge that emerged on ships between these diverse groups illuminates how Schweigger and Navy personnel were not merely assistants to Scripps oceanographers; they contributed significantly to the production of knowledge on Downwind. I present Downwind as a case in which textual and technological boundary objects worked simultaneously in the collaborative production of knowledge between scientists and two groups that are otherwise almost completely silent in the historical record. Chapter five analyzes photographs and a film from Downwind as objects that present the world of expedition oceanography at sea from the oceanographer’s perspective, yet reveal unspoken realities also at work during the journey. Scientific adventure and fun often came coupled with a  33 culture of tourism built from a long tradition of travel and colonialism in the Pacific region. This chapter applies methodologies of image analysis to the history of oceanography towards explaining what was at stake as oceanographers visually documented their expedition experiences. I examine photographs and a film that captured expedition life and work and uncover how images in science at sea served multiple functions. I argue that the photographs and film from the expedition have two sides: they are casual recordings of men who merely wished to document their journey at sea, yet underneath they contain references to the process by which the entire Pacific Basin came to be the domain of Scripps.  In the conclusion, I widen my lens to explore some of the larger messages that can be extracted from the specific moments addressed in the chapters. Expeditions were not journeys that occurred outside of Cold War realities, a point that this dissertation could be accused of making. Rather, they were events that gathered many different species: narrative stories; airplanes and islands; ships; maps and explosives; and photos and film. In their collective function, these events brought together literature and the quest to understand nature, oceanographers and ships, science and self. They also enmeshed the world of geopolitical, military, and elite administrative concerns with shipboard life because when expedition participants returned from their journeys, they brought their experiences, thoughts, opinions, things, and objects back with them. Looking at these journeys to sea in this way helps us gain a broader, more inclusive understanding of how the men on ships leveraged the power to influence choices about technology, competition, international collaboration, and geopolitics in oceanography during the Cold War. The final chapter is an epilogue originally published as an online Object Lesson essay at The Atlantic with the hope of encouraging a popular audience to think in new ways about how our lives intertwine with the non-human world. The essay imagines that a squid, caught and killed on the Downwind expedition, narrates the story of its own death and afterlife. The Object Lesson Essay  34 Series is published under The Atlantic’s online Technology Channel. As an animal categorized within a technology section of a magazine, the squid becomes a tool for thinking about those intersections from below the surface of the sea. Inspired by a hope that a change in perspective offers the ability to see new ideas and connections, the epilogue attempts to give a nonhuman thing in this world, a dead squid, the last analytical word.  The setting for this dissertation, the point at which I focus my analysis, is precisely at the intersection between the men who went to sea on expeditions in the 1950s and the diverse material world within which they lived and worked. With “the sea” representative of the Pacific Ocean and its component parts, “the ship” indicative of the material world of artifacts, and “I” standing in for the diverse cast of human expedition travelers, my central concern in this project is to understand how “the sea, the ship, and I,” the title phrase, entangled with one another and became part of the conditions of possibility for American oceanography to grow at an unprecedented rate during the Cold War. Expedition experience narrated in stories was a kind of power that men on ships used to influence the nature of that growth and support the intellectual activities of science.                 35 Prologue to Chapter 1  Director Roger Revelle’s Sea Search Story   The architecture of this dissertation pairs analytical chapters with prologues that showcase stories from oceanography. The first prologue here presents a speech written by Scripps’ Director Roger Revelle that demonstrates how an elite leader publicly set the stage for stories within the social world of science at sea.47 Chapter 1 introduces four stories, all from the Downwind expedition, and analyzes what narration meant to each of the authors. The actual stories appear later as direct quotes48 in the prologues to chapters 2-5, which give voice to an ocean geologist, graduate student, engineer, and medical doctor – actors who have been written out of this history. Chapters 2-5 dig into the content of the stories and use them as windows for viewing everyday realities at sea. In sum, this structure underlines the power of narration (Chapter 1) and narrative content (Chapters 2-5) to support the intellectual activity of ocean science. If circumstances, events, or portions of the stories from Chapter 1 recur downwind in this dissertation, it is in aid of further elaborating the moments that defined what Revelle’s Sea Search story referred to as: a world full of mystery and secrets.                                                   47 Revelle acted as Director of Scripps from 1950-1964. The following works offer an introduction into his career as a charismatic leader at Scripps. Harold A. Thomas, Jr., “Roger Revelle: President-Elect,” Science 179, no. 4075, Feb. 23, 1973: 818-820; William A. Nierenberg, “Roger Randall Dougan Revelle (7 March 1909-15 July 1991),” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 136, no. 4, Dec, 1992: 596-600. Judith and Neil Morgan, Roger: A Biography of Roger Revelle, San Diego: Scripps Institution of Oceanography, 1996; and Robert Dorfman and Peter P. Rogers, Science with a Face: In Honor of Roger Randall Revelle, Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1997. Other examples of Revelle’s work include: Revelle’s Address to the 22nd Annual Meeting of the Associated Press Managing Editors, November 17, 1955, SIO Non-SIO Series, Box 76, Folder 2: IGY National Committee, 1953, 1955. Or see Revelle’s “The Oceans and the Earth,” December 27, 1955 before Session X6 – A.A.A.S., Symposium on the International Geophysical Year, SIO Roger Revelle Papers, Box 4, Folder 37: The oceans and the earth talk. These are just two examples from the IGY, but there are many others throughout Revelle’s papers that extend more generally outside of that special program. For example, see Robert L. Fisher and Roger Revelle, “The Giant Furrows of the Pacific: The long narrow and deep trenches around the margins of the Pacific Ocean may hold the key to the evolution of continents and the origin of mountain ranges,” Scripps Institution of Oceanography, draft held in SIO Russell Watson Raitt Papers 1922-1996, Box 6, Folder 2: R. L. Fisher 1957. 48 For the film, my transcription of the visual images.  36 Director Roger Revelle’s Sea Search Story   MAN IS A CURIOUS CUSS.49 Throughout history men have been prying into the secrets of the earth. They have looked behind rocks…dug holes into the earth to see what they could uncover…moved mountains to find out what they are made of [all ellipses throughout this quotation are original and indicate a direction to pause in spoken word not an omission of text]. But the greatest mystery of all, man is just beginning to uncover. The story of the things that lie beneath the surface of the sea is that mystery.   And this is the story of the men and women engaged in learning the secrets of the sea. It involves scientists and sea-captains, mathematicians and engineers, artists and dock hands, biologists and fishermen, oilers, chemists and cooks. These are the people who work on the land, on the sea, and under the sea. What they find is important to every person on the face of the earth for, from the sea, comes the basic sustenance of the major portion of the earth…from the daily rising vapor the sun steams [sic] from the surface of the oceans come the rains that grow our crops and give us water. Today, the human population of the earth grows apace, and men are beginning to look to the sea for the sustenance of the human race.   This is the story of the Scripps Institution of Oceanography, La Jolla, California, an [sic] extension of the University of California whose task is two fold – to learn the secrets of the oceans and to teach them to others [This strike through appears as blue pen over the original typescript. All remaining strike throughs represent capital X’s typed over the original text as a form of deletion].  Take a map of the Pacific coastline from the mouth of the Columbia River in Oregon to Cape San Lucas, the southernmost tip of Baja California. Run a series of lines a thousand miles out to sea on your map, spacing them forty miles apart. Then draw another series, running north and south, crossing the east-west lines and extending out to sea to the end of the first pattern. Mark each crossing of the lines with a pinpoint, give it a number and you have a series of “stations” covering the Pacific waters.   These are the domain of the Scripps Institution fleet of converted mine-sweepers, tuna clippers and luxury yachts…and they are the waters in which the tremendous fishing industry of the                                                 49 “Sea Search.” Addressed to “Hank Shippey, 5402 N. Banewell Ave., Azusa, California. SIO Roger Revelle Papers 1910-2009, Box 4, Folder 38: Hank Shippey. The text contained in this prologue is an exact quote of the entire document with clarifications added in square brackets. As stated in the first bracketed clarification, the ellipses are original and indicate a moment of pause while speaking.   37 west coast are interested. Both the commercial and the sports fisherman have an interest in these waters, the water that supports one of the west’s major industries, fishing.  Staff these small ships with competent men and send them to find out what is happening at each station you have marked on your map. And then send them again, and again. Fill shore buildings with mathematicians and chemists and artists and technical writers to sort and sift the mountain of data the ships out at sea collect.   Put all of this together and you get a picture of what is happening in this important section of the Pacific Ocean. This is the mighty task of the Scripps Institute.   Through these findings Scripps scientists and oceanographers find where the fish spawn, how they live and where they go. They find where the waters run in their mighty currents and can tell where they will be six months from now. Information important to our defense as well as important to the fishing industry [sic].   It isn’t easy. The men and women who do this work are capable, trained oceanographers and scientists in other fields…and they have been sailors who love the sea and are curious about their love. They must spend weeks and months each year tossing about on the surface of the waters they study…and then more weeks and months in the land laboratories putting the data together to make a comprehensive picture of the activity of the sea.   Let’s take a trip with the M S Horizon, the largest of the Scripps fleet. Just a routine trip, one of the many the ship will take throughout the year.   On board the ship we find equipment strange to the landlubber’s eyes. Nansen bottles, thermometers, plankton nets, jugs of formaldehyde, inclinometers; equipment to take samples [two or three unreadable words typed with x’s over them] and temperatures of the deep waters, for taking samples of the life content of the waters, and equipment for having fun on the days of rest that must be taken during the three week cruise.   And on board the ship we find the people to operate the ship and all the equipment. Captain, mates, deck and engine crew, radioman, marine technicians, chemist, marine biologist and a weatherman.   And not the least, the cook! The Scripps fleet prides itself on the cooks who go to sea with them for the food at sea is half the battle of making the trip.   The cruise is going into the southern waters. Leaving her berth in San Diego Harbor the Horizon clears Point Loma headed for the Coronado Islands, a scant twenty miles out. From here,  38 clear of bay shipping and week-end fisherman, she sets her course for Cedros Island, an overnight run south. The first station of this cruise is just south of Cedros.  The scientific complement aboard is readying their equipment for the first station. In the lab, the marine biologist inspects his plankton nets and hanging lights, numbers his bottles and jars, readies his formaldehyde to pickle his catch.   The four marine technicians aboard divide into two watches, each couple working alternate stations. In their lab they mount thermometers in Nansen Bottles, bottles which automatically take water and temperature at different depths. Three thermometers to a bottle, two are pressurized for comparison check purposes. The Nansen Bottle is a reversible, metal bottle which is clamped to a lowering cable upside down. A weight sliding down the cable trips the top clamp, the bottle swings over, closing doors in each and which traps water at the depth tripped. As the bottle turns, the mercury column breaks in the thermometers attached so they will maintain the reading at the depth tripped.    Then all hands settle down for the run south, relaxing until the moment the work starts. the [sic] coffee pot in the galley is steaming and the cook has steaks almost ready for the table. Bunks are made up and skin diving and fishing gear stowed away until the time comes to use them.   Stories of past cruises, weather the little ships have gone th [sic] through, discoveries and explorations they have undergone during the cruises, and contemplation of what is in store for them during this trip hold them through dinner and until time to bunk down for the first night out. The technicians are glad to get a good night’s sleep tonight for, once they hit the first station in the morning, they will be “on the line”, [sic] hitting stations every forty miles, whether it is 3:00 a.m., or noon.   Through the night the little ship makes her long run south. With dawn the ship becomes alive. The San Benitos islands are ahead…a deckhand yells into the sleeping quarters for all hands who want to watch a pack of killer whales go by to “roll out.”   In the morning light a pair of small islands loom from the misty seas. About five miles apart, these are the San Benitos, the home of giant sea lions and sea otters, and sea elephants. These monsters loll indolently in the warm waters and peek shyly from rocky grags [sic] surrounding the small beaches. During the dawn the ship has picked up an escort of albatross, the “gooney-birds” familiar to sailors the world over and now accused of wrecking aircraft on Midway Island. They glide on the wind astern of the ship, occasionally lighting in the water for a rest, landing with their ski-like  39 feet pushing the water ahead of them, and then awkwardly paddling themselves into the winds to follow again.   Under the bow of the ship a school of dolphins play a crisscross race with us, crossing our path inches ahead of the cutting metal bow, slicing through the clear water with incredible speed and grace. Off duty hands and technicians line the bow with their cameras trying to get pictures of Neptune’s ballet.  P Past San Benitos, the mighty northern tip of Cedros Island looms to the south. This stone face holds the scattered wreckage of more than one ship. It rises from the water to a height of thousands of feet, with one lone stand of trees on the very top.   The Horizon runs down the coastal, sheltered side of Cedros, taking protection from the sea, past the once booming whaling station of Cedros. Blue whales from Arctic regions pass here yearly traveling to San Ignacio Lagoon, the site of the whale’s nuptial rites.   Passing the southern end of Cedros the captain takes his bearings from landmarks on the island and on the barely visible mainland to the east. From this point it is only an hour to the first station. He sends word to the technicians to get ready.   “ON STATION” ! [sic]  The ship stops and a flurry of activity takes place. The technicians hoist a weighted cable over the side. The weight is painted white on top and they must estimate the distance below the surface this is visible, marking it on a chart. They work from a metal cage hanging on the side of the ship. The cable descends from a boom directly over their heads. The winch operator works where he can watch the activity in the cage.   After a few feet of cable have been paid out the cable is stopped. The first Nansen bottle is attached. This is the bottom bottle on the “cast” and will go to a depth of ____ feet [these blanks are original and were never filled in].   “Let her go”, signals the technician, and the winchman pays out another ____ feet below the surface. More bottles are stacked clamped to the cable at predetermined points, twelve in all, spaced so, with all submerged, they take data at known levels.   Once down the cast must remain a few minutes while the attached thermometers attain their correct readings. Then a small brass weight, a “messenger” is placed around the cable and dropped. This trips the first bottle, trapping water and breaking the mercury columns in the first bottle. The first bottle releases another messenger [sic] which trips the second bottle, and so on down to the bottom bottle.   40  After time has been allowed for all bottles to trip, the cast is brought back to the surface. One by one the bottles emerge from the depths, are taken from the cable and placed on a rack in the lab. The last bottle is put in place and the weight is swung aboard, but they aren’t through yet. Now comes the plankton tow.   The plankton net is a widemouthed [sic], coneshaped [sic] net, five feet in diameter, funneling about twelve feet to a removable cup about the size of a quart jar. It is designed to take the minute particles of free-floating oceanic life classified as plankton. This includes fish-eggs and larvae, shrimp, squid, jellyfish, and the hundred and one other things which make up this basic food-stuff of the ocean.   Through many experiences, oceanographers have evolved a method of using a plankton net, allowing them to attain exact data as to how much water passed through the net at certain levels.   The net is dropped ____ feet. The ship is headed slowly upwind. The net is dropped ____ feet in exactly ____ minutes. On the cable hangs an inclinometer. The net is allowed to remain at maximum depth for ____ minutes and is then slowly drawn in. The trick is to keep the cable at a constant 45%.   Here the technician or biologist in charge of the net tow takes over the ship. With one eye on the inclinometer, one eye on a stop watch, he relays orders to the bridge increasing or decreasing the speed of the ship according to the angle of the cable. Each thirty seconds the cable angle is marked on a chart – 40%, 43%, 48%, 53% - and he orders the ship speeded – 50% 47%, 45% - he grins with satisfaction, but  - 40%, 35%, 30% - and he is blue in the face yelling for them to stop the ship. Later, his degree markings on the chart will enable mathematicians to compute the exact length of time the net remained at different depths, giving certain knowledge of the plankton catch at different depths.   As the net comes from the water the technicians wrestle it aboard. They unscrew the quart sized cup from the huge funnel and take it into the lab immediately. The contents of the/cup [typed edit added in double spacing clarifies: ^finely  woven] are washed from the finely woven cup into labeled jars and pickled with formaldehyde. These are stored for return to the shore labs for analyzation.and [sic] counting of the contents.   On the biologists chart are also recorded the number of albatross and other birds, sharks, noticeable or observed fish, and the state of the weather.   The moment the technicians plankton net emerged from the water, the ship resumed its course, headed for the next station. Their stop on station has only been for about twenty minutes  41 and they are under way again, but far from done with the work of the station. This will continue for the next few days, until the ship reaches a favorable spot for a one-day rest. Out the line, stopping every forty miles to work a station, then coming back in again on the next line south, working along the way.   Underway, the technicians finish the work of the station. They take line and samples of water from the Nansen bottles for the shipboard chemist to analyze for saline and phosphate content. They take other samples [sic] which are bottled and capped to be brought back to shore to a determination of their oxygen content.   Then, with magnifying glass and flashlight, they read the three thermometers on each Nansen bottle. These reading are read by both the technicians on duty, doublechecking [sic] readings and giving a check on the variability of the thermometers in the time between readings.   So now we have the data to tell us about one particular place in the ocean. We can tell that at 1:00 p.m., April 4, 1955, the oce ocean at this spot contained a certain planktonic content, a definite mineral content, a certain amount of oxygen. We know its temperature at varying levels, its clarity was a certain degree, the weather was known and noted birds and marine life are known.   This gives us a known set of factors for one spot at one time. We have other ships working, taking the same type of data, every month of the year, covering our part of the Pacific Ocean.   We collect the known data from each station worked on every cruise of all the ships. With enough of them, taken over a period of time, it shows a definite pattern of activity in the ocean, following a set of factors from one place in the ocean to another, tracing the waters, known by their characteristics of content and temperature as one would recognize a familiar face, as they form the mighty oceanic currents the flow through the seas of the world.   But there is fun too on the cruise. Ending a line in the warm tropical waters below the tip of Baja California, somebody spotted tremendous sea turtles…and the chase was on.   Spears were the weapons used, and Scripps people are all skin divers at heart. Chasing down the turtles, the captain handled his ship like a sports fishing boat.   STRIKE! Got one. Follow him down the length of the ship from the bow where you speared him…back to the stern where you can handle him. They fight hard, these turtles, even with a spear thrust clear through them. In an house we have speared four big ones, and its turtle soup and turtle steaks for dinner tonight.   42  And the “days off” when the ship put into Magdalena Bay for a rest. For the lazy ones, just drop a line over the side and haul them in, but for fun, put a skiff over the side and row over to the little, warm clear, coves just inside the entrance to the bay.   Here, the shallow water is filled with fish and lobsters. It is a skin divers paradise. Even the rare “blue” lobster is found among the shallow rocks. The fish so thick that, in ten feet of crystal clear water, its hard to see the bottom. Back on board, cutting the choice fillets from your catch, saving the lobsters tails and throwing the rest back, placing your catch in the ship’s freezer to take home wi with you at cruise end.                                   43 Chapter 1 Sea Stories: Narrative as a Social Tool of Science Introduction  The people who went on Scripps’ expeditions in the 1950s make it clear that science at sea involved a lot of fun. In his Sea Search story Roger Revelle described a close relationship between scientific and everyday activities on expeditions in this era. He wrote, “But there is fun too on the cruise. Ending a line in the warm tropical waters below the tip of Baja California, somebody spotted tremendous sea turtles…and the chase was on.”  The phrase “ending a line” was a colloquialism for completion of scientific work, and Revelle’s rhetorical strategy illustrated how men on expeditions embraced adventures that flowed, almost naturally, out of what would more traditionally be understood as scientific tasks like sampling, observation, and measuring.  This chapter examines how a geologist, a graduate student, an engineer, and an expedition medical doctor, all under Revelle’s leadership, narrated their experiences on expeditions in this era using stories as objects to think with.50 I preview the stories in order to establish that the process of narrative creation – the action of coming up with the stories rather than the stories in and of themselves – allowed men on ships to puzzle out their social purposes, perform their identities, facilitate relationships, and create a coherent shipboard community out of an intermixed group of scientists, engineers, Navy crew, and various other assistants. In the stories analyzed throughout this chapter, each author narrated a series of events as a kind of interpretive aid in understanding how a                                                 50 Similarly, Sharon Traweek has explored the ways in which social meaning was transmitted among high-energy physicists (in the 1970s) in daily routines, especially stories told within a tightknit exclusively male community. She argued that physicists were made as young recruits were told stories about heroes, success, and failure, and through these stories learned information vital to developing as a viable professional. See Chapter 3 “Pilgrim’s Progress: Male Tales Told During a Life in Physics,” in Sharon Traweek, Beamtimes and Lifetimes: The World of High Energy Physics, Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1992: 74-105. For other examples of things people have thought and do think with see: Sherry Turkle, Evocative Objects: Things We Think With, Cambridge: MIT Press, 2007.   44 wide array of daily realities intertwined with science.51 These stories tend to be highly individual and personal, and, as I will show, they emerged for a variety of reasons. The thread linking them together is narrative’s power of influence: the ideas and relationships the creators came to apprehend through the process of narration subsequently changed, altered, and modified social arrangements within the oceanographic community. On the Downwind expedition, Geologist Bob Norris recorded his experiences in a diary. The process of creating that text was the basis for Norris’ puzzling out how he situated himself in relation to the men he worked with on the expedition. He wrote the diary in private, but doing so became vital to Norris determining how he related to non-scientists and in realizing that some of the surveys he casually conducted could be translated into intentional scientific work, a viable scientific collaboration, and subsequent journal article. Likewise, graduate student John Knauss recorded his personal perceptions of what it was like to live and work at sea. He wrote a memorandum to Scripps administrators explaining his experiences aboard oceanographic research vessels.52 In this memo, Knauss utilized a particular rhetorical strategy that softened the blow of his complaints about the difficulties he experienced on ships with strong statements regarding the overwhelming value of the vessels to the science of oceanography. In this case, Knauss used a memorandum to perform skilled narration because his status as a graduate student who desired technological change meant that he did not necessarily have the social standing to have his extensive complaints and requests taken seriously. Later in his career, he ceased using this strategy because he no longer needed to prove himself. Engineer Maxwell Silverman also sought credibility, but through illustration. The cartoon                                                 51 For a similar example, in the context of information technologists at the National Center for Ecological Analysis (1997-2001), in which storytelling is deeply implicated in “every aspect of organizational life,” (pp.10) see Florence Millerand, David Ribes, Karen S. Baker, and Geoffry C. Bowker, “Making an Issue out of a Standard: Storytelling Practices in a Scientific Community,” Science, Technology, and Human Values 38, no. 1 (2012): 7-43. 52 This was in reference to an earlier expedition, not Downwind specifically, but I use it as part of this dissertation as a document that singlehandedly represents the breadth of complaints typically voiced to Scripps administrators regarding the research vessels in this era.   45 that commemorated his expedition work on Downwind represented more than a fun pastime. Silverman created it for his scientific expedition leader, and in so doing, sought to build a bond between himself as a scientific assistant and his superior at sea. The drawing functioned as a tool Silverman used to facilitate an important professional relationship and create strong ties within the shipboard community. Also seeking validation in the oceanographic community, medical doctor Robert Bingham filmed a silent motion picture during the first leg of Downwind. In this film, Bingham portrayed himself as one of the oceanographers who spent time on Scripps’ land-based campus and who conducted scientific work on ships at sea. Although Bingham was invited to the expedition to care for the medical needs of the scientists and crew, the process of creating the film allowed him to construct a particular identity for himself in which he stood as a vital contributor to ocean research. He later attempted to submit the film to Scripps in hope of further strengthening his relationship with professional oceanographers. When that did not work, he gave the film new life as he presented it to public audiences in southern California.  Each of these stories demonstrate that personal and leisurely activities like writing a diary and memorandum, drawing a cartoon, and filming a motion picture were also a part of the development of scientific relationships at sea. As ethnographer Julian Orr has demonstrated, storytelling can be a legitimate component of working social arrangements, not merely an addition to it.53 I argue that the process of creating these stories helped the authors understand their experiences at sea, and through the process of narration, the stories themselves became tools the authors used to navigate the everyday social and material world of ocean science, and this is critical – at sea.  Out on the ocean, oceanography operated differently than it did back on the mainland. Shipboard science incorporated adventure and fun into sampling, measuring, and observing. The ship, however, was a difficult environment. Onboard, 30-50 men lived in tight quarters, and in the                                                 53 Julian Orr, Talking about Machines: An Ethnography of a Modern Job, Ithaca: Cornell University Press (1996).   46 very same space they completed their work. Typically more people travelled on these ships than the ship could comfortably accommodate and everyone felt cramped.54 The men came up with creative ways to solve spatial problems. They slept in beds in the sick bay rather than proper bunks. Many other circumstances proved trying. Seawater puddled on the deck from which the men worked. The walking surface was slippery, and one was always wet. Open-ocean waves often caused the ships to roll heavily, which made seasickness a daily occurrence for many of the men. The list of undesirables is long and I develop it more fully throughout the remainder of this dissertation. The important point here is that in this distinct shipboard environment, physical discomfort, adventure, engine noise and grease, seasickness and bacterial infection, sleep deprivation, oceanic beauty, friendly relationships, and contentious conflicts spontaneously flowed into moments where these men conducted scientific work. The extent of this overlap was not always benign: at times it impeded the production of science. Sleep-deprived, cramped, seasick scientists and assistants struggled to handle hundreds of pounds of oceanographic instruments that needed to be lowered and raised deep into the ocean. Shipboard communities overcame these difficulties by relying on one another. Social bonds at sea, formed in part by sharing adventurous and fun aspects of expedition life, facilitated the execution of daily research goals. The ways in which the men on ships interacted with one another personally cannot be separated from how they completed oceanographic research professionally. It was under the aegis of close interpersonal relationships that the work of deep-sea oceanography, from exploding TNT for seismic profiles to collecting water samples, succeeded.  To understand the career of oceanography in this era we must investigate how these social connections were generated through the process of narration.                                                 54 Frustrations over cramped quarters emerge time and time again from many different individuals across Scripps’ archival record.   47 My interpretation of oceanographic stories begins with the view that language does not merely reflect but constitutes the world.55 The stories did not come about on the fringes of oceanographic practice, and the intent and meanings behind them were not merely personal and therefore peripheral to science at best, weightless at worst. Rather, men on expeditions constructed their particular manner of conducting science through storytelling that built the very community that executed and supported the intellectual activities of oceanography. This study builds upon the foundation of Clifford Geertz’s idea that culture can be examined as an “assemblage of texts.”56 Attention to the many forms and strategies that people and groups use to narrate their lives and experiences allows for broader conclusions to be drawn about formative relationships, crucial tensions, and personal yet influential interactions. I study oceanographic stories by sorting out their style and structure, seeking crucial yet thus far ignored background information about their creation, and using both to determine, as Geertz calls it, “their social ground and import.”57 Geertz goes on to describe how this process requires the scholar to manage “a multiplicity of conceptual structures” that are “knotted into one another” and that are “strange, irregular, and implicit.” By undertaking a similar level of engagement with the narratives from oceanography, I argue that these stories hold clues to social commitments, structures, and beliefs at the core of scientific field practice during expedition life and work. Oceanographers and their assistants at sea created stories for different purposes. Sometimes narrative emerged in good fun for entertainment, for example, when they commemorated the end of an expedition. At other times stories came about when they needed to communicate work-related wants and needs to administrators. In both cases they used these narratives to make sense of that world, and only by undertaking close readings, including attention                                                 55 Specifically, I am working from literary scholarship that defines language as “generative” not “mimetic.” See, for example, Gabrielle M. Spiegel, “History, Historicism, and the Social Logic of the Text in the Middle Ages,” Speculum 65 (1990): 59-86.  56 Clifford Geertz, “Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive Theory of Culture,” in The Interpretation of Cultures, New York: Basic Books (1973).  57 Ibid., 9.   48 to style, structure, and form, can we become aware on a deeper level how narration in the context of mid-century expedition science was not merely a personal pastime.  The significance of my approach lies in its attention to the process of creating stories about life and work at sea. One of the most common ways in which scholars determine the role and impact of a particular narrative is by investigating its circulation through different communities or groups and seeking to understand how the dominant elements of the narrative embedded themselves into lived communities.58 But these oceanographic sea stories did not travel very far. With very limited exceptions, the words and images contained within them have remained private or enjoyed only a very limited distribution until their treatment in this dissertation. Some may not have seen the outside of a shoebox or archive folder since the 1950s. Nevertheless, at stake in this chapter are the ways in which the development and employment of narrative and narrative strategies indicate the author’s intent behind and experience in creating the story. Even though these narratives did not go on to reach a wide public at the time, become explicitly utilized in cold war scientific discourse, or emerge in science and society debates, the authors wrote, drew, and filmed them as tools to understand and build the community in which they developed friendships and sought professional mobility. I focus here on what the stories meant to the authors.  My attention to the act of storytelling binds my analysis to the problem of form. Scholarly debates on this polemic, even within the history of science alone, span wide, but generally address the following kinds of questions: How do scholars define literary and textual form in different historical contexts? How do different definitions of form relate to one another? What role do style, structure, and materiality (paper type, format, page size, headings, and layout) play? And what role                                                 58 Pivotal to this scholarship is the work of Bruno Latour and his concept of Actor Network Theory that addresses the ways in which textual forms circulate through scientific societies, Bruno Latour, Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network-Theory (2005). Also see Henry S. Turner’s idea that we should be paying attention to “networks of forms,” in “Lessons from Literature for the Historian of Science (and Vice Versa),” Isis 101, no. 3 (2010): 578-589, especially pp. 586-589.  49 have non-textual forms held?59 Each story in this dissertation comes in a different form: personal diary, memorandum, drawing, and film.60 By examining these stories, my first contribution is to explain how narrative worked as a tool oceanographers used to formulate their social world at sea.61 These scientists did not just narrate their work in scientific journal articles and military contracts.62 Personal and private stories that came in a variety of forms also held an important role for these historical actors.  This chapter also relates to questions of form in a methodological sense. Borrowing from literary scholars and historians of science attentive to the intersection of narrative and science, this chapter is built on the assumption that narrative structure is never simply an inert tool used in the creation of knowledge, but it contains knowledge itself.63 In analyzing how these stories were told, I closely read a wide variety of narrative strategies, such as verbal and narrative patterning, language, event range, format, repetition, hand-drawn images, and 16mm film scenes. With these readings I come to an understanding of how a particular author created his narrative, what was at stake in that story, and to what use the author put it within the oceanographic community. As the chapter develops I argue that these stories were used as social tools created for personal reasons but utilized with professional intent. The authors wrote, drew, or filmed these stories, but I argue that that process of creation and the final product also made a mark on each author’s behavior, relationships, and social stance. The stories themselves pushed back on their authors. They knit together matter and meaning. In literary scholar Laura Dassow Walls’ words, “…works of literature do not merely grace the halls of museums but weave the talking things of science into new and surprising                                                 59 See Henry S. Turner, “Lessons from Literature for the Historian of Science (and Vice Versa): Reflections on “Form,”” Isis 101 (2001): 578-589, pp. 580-581. 60 Many literary scholars do not limit the relationship between literature and social context to “literary texts” because they see no sound epistemological reason to make such a distinction. Spiegel, “History, Historicism, and the Social Logic of Text,” Speculum 65 (1990): 64.  61 Ibid., pp. 581 and 584.  62 Two forms of written discourse typically referenced in current literature within the history of oceanography.  63 See Ibid., 584.  50 alliances.”64 Said perhaps more simply, sea stories became narrative entities through which expedition participants built scientific collaborations, lobbied for technological changes at sea, grew friendships, and pursued social standing within the oceanographic community.  As a set, I situate these sea stories as part of a “network of forms,” including written text, hand-drawn image, and 16mm film, that facilitated communication, thought, and collective association among oceanographers by allowing the authors to think through and concretize ideas and social connections.65 In the context of mid-century expeditions, the written word, hand-drawing, and 16mm film were vital components of oceanographic culture. My attention however, by necessity of following the narratives themselves that did not circulate widely, gears toward extracting the meaning and ideas contained within the forms and seeking to determine how those meanings and ideas emerged and where they extended beyond written word, drawn cartoon, and light-exposed film reel. To begin this level of analysis, I ask why oceanographers in the 1950s recorded narratives about their work at sea in the first place.  At the start, the chapter provides the background necessary for understanding these narratives as tools. I explain how storytelling at sea was rooted in 19th century scientific expeditions. A much older way of doing science on the sea inspired men to narrate their experiences at sea after World War II. Then I describe the development of expedition science at Scripps in the 20th century. The heart of the chapter is the remaining sub-sections, which examine the four stories. These examples illustrate how expedition experiences inspired storytelling where men puzzled out their interpersonal lives and in so doing built the social world that became the foundation for oceanographic research on ships at sea.                                                  64 Laura Dassow Walls, “Of Atoms, Oaks, and Cannibals; or, More Things That Talk,” Isis 101 (2010): 598. 65 Henry S. Turner uses this phrase when discussing how he believes Latour’s notion of form is “especially innovative” because he pays special attention to how forms do not merely represent and do not merely hold meaning, but how they “function: form does things, it doesn’t simply mean things.” Ibid., 586-587, italics original.   51 Storytelling Legacy and Expedition Context  During the 1850s, primarily within the United States and Britain, a shift occurred from conceptualizing the ocean as something unknown and greatly uninteresting to an intriguing space that spawned real life monsters (large, dangerous, and sometimes weird-looking sea creatures) and simultaneously fostered human health (seashores offered rejuvenation).66 Before the 1850s, the open oceans were imagined primarily as a space of transport and mostly not thought of at all. Fisherman caught fish there. But this space in large part merely provided a liquid substrate used to get from one place to another. Not much was known about that which lay beneath the surface, and no one much cared. Historians agree that a strong momentum developed in the middle of the 19th century that led to the birth of modern ocean science.67 This momentum grew out of a new curiosity about ocean environments for human use and was tied in large part to prospering American and British maritime cultures and economies as well as an even bigger Western scientific trend to characterize, understand, and control large spaces, such as the atmosphere, the Arctic, and high-altitude mountain ranges.68 The new curiosity provided a foundation upon which people of all sorts began to wonder about the open sea and its great depths.   The growing mid-19th century interest in the world’s oceans arrived hand in hand with various forms of writing that historian Helen Rozwadowski groups together as “voyage narratives.”69 In modern Western cultures, especially since the 1850s, people of all sorts pondered, described, and understood the ocean in large part through writing, reading, and telling stories. These narratives took                                                 66 Ibid., 110-158 Steinberg describes the ocean as a void in the 19th century.  67 Many histories that cover fields of science that overlap with the history of oceanography in the middle of the 19th century characterize the 1850s as a time when people breathed a new kind of life into ocean science. Notable works that focus on this shift are: Helen Rozwadowski, Fathoming the Ocean: The Discovery and Exploration of the Deep Sea, Cambridge: Belknap, 2005; Eric Mills, Biological Oceanography, An Early History, 1870-1960, Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1989; Michael Reidy, Tides of History: Ocean Science and Her Majesty’s Navy, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008.  68 Eric J. Evans, The Forging of the Modern State: Early Industrial Britain, 1783-1870, London: Longman, 1983.  69 Rozwadowski explicitly defines “voyage narrative” in 19th century maritime literature as: “the chronological story of a voyage, sometimes constructed like a journal with separate daily entries,” pp.18. However her analysis goes on to include all of these forms I listed here that may or may not strictly fit that description.   52 many literary forms, including logbooks, journals, travel accounts, expedition narratives, published laments on expeditions, shipboard musings of sea experiences, maritime novels written by professional and sometimes famous writers, scientific voyage narratives, whaling stories, songs, poems, drawings, paintings, and since the early 20th century, photographs and film.  This wide variety of literary and narrative forms used to understand the ocean overlapped with a fusion that occurred in the 19th century between maritime culture and ocean science. People who worked on the open ocean saw and read what others working there drew, painted, and wrote. Scientists read accounts written by whalers, mariners, and novelists who in turn read what scientists wrote about the sea. Further, each of these groups began borrowing from the others as they continued to write their own narratives. Thus, over the 19th century, the practice of documenting sea stories in multiple forms became infused with creating knowledge about the world’s oceans.   Moving into the 20th century, the world of the ocean continued to change, as did peoples’ interactions with and interpretations of it. Innovations in scientific instrumentation provided a means of studying the plants and animals that lived under the sea surface as well as reaching, probing, and determining the qualities of the seafloor. Two world wars transformed ideas about the world’s oceans even further from a place of maritime transport to usable and knowable space – more specifically as a battleground for strategic and secret submarine reconnaissance.  Revelle’s Sea Search story describes how the scientists in the 1950s observed killer whales, islands, sea lions, sea otters, and sea elephants, and birds as they primed themselves for their work. They took photographs of dolphins alongside the ships. On station70 they made quantifiable observations and measurements at one point in the ocean. Eventually oceanographers began to incorporate all of this information into constructing a “familiar face,” or rather synoptic picture, of                                                 70 Remember that Revelle describes what “on station” means in his Sea Search story – a set of latitude and longitude coordinates that pinpoints particular spots of measurement under the ocean.   53 the Pacific. To create that sense of familiarity and synopsis, oceanographic practices enmeshed with personal sensory experience. Numbers and maps combined with illness, infatuation, dreaming, adventure, hunger, and celebration. Storytelling practices, for many of the men who went to sea on Scripps ships, not just Revelle, entwined with oceanographic research.  The stories from Scripps, and those from Downwind that I address in the remainder of this chapter, emerged within a broader narrative tradition of popularizing the ocean. Some of the most famous scientific and literary icons who reached American popular culture wrote prolifically after World War II. Beginning in 1951, Rachel Carson published three books about the sea. The Sea Around Us won her the U.S. National Book Award, and the other two became best sellers.71 Also published that year was John Steinbeck’s The Log from the Sea of Cortez, based on his 1940 trip around the Gulf of California with his scientist friend Ed Ricketts. Ernest Hemingway offered The Old Man and the Sea, the last work published in his lifetime. This book, written by a seasoned and famous author, earned the Pulitzer Prize in for Fiction in 1953 and the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1954. Jacques Cousteau used his ship Calypso for exploring the Mediterranean, and in 1953 published The Silent World, which documented activities on that ship. Along with producer Louis Malle, Cousteau turned the book into an award winning film released in 1956. Two years earlier, Jules Verne’s 1870 novel 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea was released as a film starring Kirk Douglas. Also at this time, National Geographic began publishing periodic articles about the ocean world and the people who lived at the seaside.72  The ocean held a prominent place in the American cultural imagination as reflected by the quantity and popularity of this literature. Scholarship tuned in to these sorts of storytelling practices                                                 71 The other two were The Edge of the Sea (1955) and Under the Sea Wind (1941), which was originally released in 1941 but sold poorly. After the success of The Sea Around Us, this 1941 book was reissued by Oxford University Press and became a bestseller throughout the 1950s.  72 For example, National Geographic January 1950 “From Indian Canoes to Submarines at Key West,”  and “Shores and Sails in the South Seas.”   54 has shown how individuals construct past events through narrative. In various other historical and cultural contexts, narratives have been used to claim identity, construct memory, and organize expectations for future discourse and behavior. Narratives also tend to engage cultural power structures and offer space to alter or reclaim certain forms of identity and essentially help people construct their own lives.73 As a component of scientific discourse, nonscientific narratives often legitimate technical aspects of science itself.74 Further, narratives can offer a space for the scientist to guarantee himself as a producer of reliable work by producing stories easily digestible by a public audience.75 The diary, memorandum, cartoon, and motion picture stories from Downwind illuminate cases in which narrative became a tool of collaboration, persuasion, friendship, and community that helped each author make sense of expedition life and determine how best to proceed as a member of the oceanographic community.  The literary context overlapped with a particular context of mid-century expeditions at Scripps. Any one individual expedition took place as one component of a much bigger research tradition.76 Sometimes these traditions formed out of the collective activities of research institutions. For instance in the 1950s, Sea Search, to use Revelle’s language from Prologue to Chapter 1, emerged as a particular way of doing oceanography at Scripps built by weaving together scientific interests with the legacy of maritime and Naval culture.77                                                 73 Coralynn V. Davis, “Talking Tools, Suffering Servants, and Defecating Men: The Power of Storytelling in Maithil Women’s Tales,” The Journal of American Folklore 122, no. 485 (Summer, 2009): 267-296; p. 288.  74 David K. Hecht, “Constructing a Scientist: Expert Authority and Public Images of Rachel Carson,” Historical Studies in the Natural Sciences 41, no. 3 (Summer 2011): 277-302. 75 Mary Terrall, “Mathematics in Narratives of Geodetic Expeditions,” Isis 97, no. 4 (December 2006): 683-699.  76 Oreskes takes the 1928 S-21 gravity-measuring cruise led by Dutch geodesist F. A. Vening Meinesz, jointly conducted under the Carnegie Institution of Washington, the U.S. Coast and Geodetic Survey, and the U.S. Navy, as the stabilizing event in a new research she calls: marine geophysics. She argues that three agents transformed this one cruise into a decade-long research tradition: 1) a consistent set of theoretical questions, 2) the gravimeter designed by Meinesz, and 3) the locale under study, which was the physical province of the Pacific basin. Naomi Oreskes, “Weighing the Earth from a Submarine: The Gravity Measuring Cruise of the U.S.S. S-21,” The Earth, The Heavens, and the Carnegie Institution of Washington, History of Geophysics, Volume 5, Washington, D.C., American Geophysical Union, 1994: 53-68.  77 See previous note #14, Naomi Oreskes, “Laissez-tomber”: Military Patronage and Women’s Work in Mid-20th-Century Oceanography,” Historical Studies in the Physical and Biological Sciences, 30, no. 2, Military Patronage and the   55  World War II changed oceanography across the entire country and especially at Scripps by birthing the Institution’s decade-long expedition tradition that Revelle referred to as Sea Search.78 Several prominent oceanographers associated with the Institution worked in wartime for the Navy to develop methods for understanding how weapons, submarines, and sound moved in deep ocean water.79 These exchanges led to a partnership when oceanographers moved from the Navy after the war into their role as scientists at Scripps. A new philanthropist emerged: the Navy began funding research at Scripps. Thus, the war transformed how Scripps paid for its work as a scientific institution and altered the practices involved in conducting research. Oceanographers now participated in defense research born tied to military agendas, found positions in Washington on the cold war stage, and took their science out on the open ocean in ex-military vessels provided by the Navy. The key point is that after World War II, Scripps began conducting much more of its research from ships at sea.80                                                                                                                                                         Geophysical Sciences in the United States (2000): 373-392. For an overview of the development of marine science and scientific interest in the ocean over the 19th and 20th centuries see Michael S. Reidy and Helen M. Rozwadowski, “The Spaces In Between: Science, Ocean, Empire,” Isis 105 (2014): 338-351. 78 For a look at American expeditionary science before the war, between 1902 and WWII, see Ronald E. Doel, “Expeditions and the CIW: Comments and Contentions,” The Earth, The Heavens, and the Carnegie Institution of Washington, History of Geophysics, Volume 5, Washington, D.C., American Geophysical Union, 1994: 79-87.  79 Ronald Rainger explains that before 1941 Scripps did not have the ability to do deep-sea research, “Patronage and Science: Roger Revelle, the Navy, and Oceanography at the Scripps Institution,” Earth Sciences History: Journal of the History of the Earth Sciences Society 19, no. 1 (2000): 58-89, pp. 29.  80 In the 1950s, Scripps found financial allies in many forms. Only one third of the Institution’s operational budget came from traditional and permanent University endowments. The remainder was supplied by a combination of project-based contracts with the state of California’s Marine Biology Commission, private industry, the U. S. Navy and Naval Electronics Laboratory, the U. S. Army, the U. S. Air Force, the National Science Foundation, the Atomic Energy Commission, and miscellaneous contracts with the U. S. Federal Government. Scripps also operated in collaboration with the U. S. Fish and Wildlife Service and the Inter-American Tropical Tuna Commission. Later in the decade the Institution took advantage of other kinds of international programs, such as the International Geophysical Year. With all of these allies and financial contributions, Scripps operated, in the words of Director Revelle, as a “Western Center of Research” focused on scientific understanding of the entire Pacific Basin. In this period, oceanographic institutions, especially Scripps, centralized defense research and benefited from oceanographers that had been appointed to serve in Washington, Eric Mills, Biological Oceanography, 321-322. Roger Revelle was a primary influence in these activities. He worked to gain national support for oceanography through organizations such as the National Academy of Sciences and programs like the IGY, Judith and Neil Morgan, Roger, page 51. The IGY proved particularly useful in further putting ocean science onto the world stage, Jacob Darwin Hamblin, Oceanographers and the Cold War, 99.  56 While oceanographers went to sea to gather measurements, samples, and observations, the endeavor was equally conceptualized as solving the great mysteries of the deep sea. Additionally, lived experience at sea took significant tolls on the mind and body, and oceanographers coped with that by taking part in many kinds of communal adventures along the way, including the excitement of catching giant sea turtles and outwitting the rare blue lobster as Revelle’s story tells. Men were sick from ocean waves and amoebic dysentery, sleep-deprived, and continually covered in salt water. They visited foreign ports and experienced far away lands and people first hand. Being out there on those ships on the open ocean was a deeply personal experience.  During this period, expedition planners built their expedition practices on the successes and failures of previous expeditions.81 Revelle’s Sea Search story alludes to this sort of influence past expeditions had on current ones: “Stories of past cruises, weather the little ships have gone through, discoveries and explorations they have undergone during the cruises, and contemplation of what is in store for them during this trip hold them through dinner and until time to bunk down for the first night out.” Each expedition, including Downwind, worked to map further the intricate details of the major phenomena in the Pacific, which were mostly already known to exist. Scripps had also already established a strong sense of important research questions around three major areas: sea floor geophysics, oceanic currents and circulation, and species distribution.82                                                  81 By 1957, the year Downwind took place, Scripps had already established a tradition of expedition travel aimed at providing a synoptic picture of the Pacific sea floor that required exchanges with scientists based in the locations Scripps travelled to. Scripps was involved, for example, with intimate international relations and consultations with the Peruvian government regarding fisheries, including overlapping interactions with the International American Tropical Tuna Commission, as early as 1950. Peru hired temporary contractors, such as Scripps’ prominent oceanographer, Warren Wooster, to provide their research institutions with advice about methodology, technique, and garnering funding. Sometimes Peruvians left their home country on a semi-permanent basis for work at Scripps: for instance, up and coming Peruvian marine scientist, Enrique Ávila, secured an assistantship at Scripps in 1955. See: Section Title: “The Triumph of Big Oceanographic Science, p.p. 466-475, of Chapter 7, “Engineering the Fishmeal Boom,” in Gregory Cushman, diss., “The Lords of Guano: Science and the Management of Peru’s Marine Environment, 1800-1973, University of Texas at Austin, 2003. Also see Cushman’s book Guano and the Opening of the Pacific World: A Global Ecological History, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014. 82 In addition, oceanographers referenced previous expeditions when contacting ports to request permission for scientific work in foreign waters or permission to dock, resupply, and meet with diplomats and dignitaries. They used   57 The research vessels that took the oceanographers to sea were crucial to ocean research in this period. On one of these two ships, seven of the eight major expeditions and dozens of much smaller trips ventured to sea each year. On half of these major expeditions the ships worked together. Only the Naga expedition in 1959 did not include one of them.83 Horizon and Baird were the 1950s version of Ritter’s 1892 portable tent: they were the portable laboratories without which ocean studies as defined at that time could not have taken place. In an application to the National Science Foundation for the construction of ships designed specifically for oceanographic purposes, William Nierenberg wrote that over the course of the 1950s, the work of the Scripps research vessel fleet had come to reflect “the total program of the institution.”84  On expeditions at sea, scientists and staff worked on a particular ship for a specific section of the expedition. Downwind had four legs: San Diego to Tahiti; Tahiti to Valparaíso; Valparaíso to Callao; and Callao back home to San Diego (with a stop at Easter Island).85 Horizon and Baird carried scientists and Navy personnel. Geologist Menard acted as expedition leader on the first half of the expedition from San Diego to Valparaíso. Geologist Bob Fisher did the same on the second half, from Valparaíso to San Diego. Menard led the first half, and Fisher, the second half. Each was in charge of almost anything that came up regarding the science, including managing the laboratory watch schedule, resolving disputes onboard, overseeing use of instrumentation, assisting with                                                                                                                                                        mostly the same oceanographic instruments that required heavy maintenance and attention for proper use. There was not a lot of technological advance over the 1950s in oceanographic sampling and measuring. Data from one expedition often shaped the goals of subsequent expeditions in research focus and in location throughout the world’s oceans, especially in regards to the Pacific where Scripps most often travelled. Oceanographers continually negotiated with their greatest patron, the Navy, for logistical supplies, more money, and in work and life aboard the vessels at sea.  83 Chapter 3, “The Ship,” explains this phasing out of Horizon and Baird at the end of the decade and their decommission in the 1960s. 84 William Nierenberg, Dean and Director, Scripps Institution of Oceanography, UCSD-1924, 26 September, 1966, “Proposal to National Science Foundation – Design and Construction of a Vessel to replace R/V Horizon,” SIO Subject Files, AC 6, Box 55, Folder 7: Ships, 56-59, page 3.  85 Preliminary Report on Downwind, “Narrative,” pp. 3-16.  58 oceanographic sampling, communicating with people back at Scripps regarding expedition progress, and many other tasks.  Horizon and Baird also carried a formal scientific party, about ten men on each ship, who conducted their research. These scientists were primarily geologists, but also chemists and biologists who conducted the work for their specialty. The work meant for professional publication in scientific journal articles took priority. But each one also participated in the hydrographic, photographic, and temperature work related to the deep-sea currents. The reason these men were out there, their major goals, changed dramatically depending on who described the goals and to whom they described them.86 Oceanographers, then, did not demonstrate one single unified goal or even set of goals around their expeditions. Each came to an expedition with a professional agenda that typically related only to the goals of the individuals on the ship working directly on the same project or set of questions. Intellectual foci varied widely, and the expeditions consisted of a mosaic of people working on a diverse set of problems. Social bonds also formed during the completion of research tasks amongst non-scientists, engineers, Navy crew, oceanographers, medical doctors, foreign scientists, and any others who worked on ocean science at sea.                                                   86 Menard and Raitt’s June 1956 “Application for Research Project for the U. S. International Geophysical Year,” requested money for “seismic refraction and reflection observations,” but also stated that: “The expedition will be a cooperative undertaking involving several oceanographic and geophysical investigations, the detailed plans have not yet been worked out, and their execution will undoubtedly be modified in the course of the exploration:” Russell Raitt Papers 1922-1996, Box 1, Folder: Correspondence. On 12 October 1957, Roger Revelle distributed a memo to the University of California and the Scripps campuses announcing that on 21 October the ships Horizon and Baird “will sail on a four and one-half month expedition…as part of our International Geophysical Year Program. The primary purpose Downwind expedition is a study of the deep circulation of [the southeaster Pacific]: SIO Subject Files, AC 6, Box 23, Folder 9, Expedition Downwind October 1957-Feb 1958. In July 1958, Geologist Menard wrote to Revelle to correct some of the things he had been saying to the press about the scientific contributions of Downwind. Revelle had been putting in official IGY reports that Downwind discovered “a great mountain range in the Pacific,” but Menard corrected that “only minor or local changes in the contours of the whole southeastern Pacific” had been determined by the expedition. As Menard saw it, Downwind’s contribution was to “make detailed surveys of geological importance in critical areas,”: SIO Subject Files, AC 6, Box 23, Folder 12: Downwind. The IGY Preliminary Report, submitted in August, 1958, about five months after Downwind completed, describes three “principal aims” in this order: 1) determine characteristics of deep waters and circulation, 2) determine areal distribution of carbon dioxide in atmosphere near sea surface, and 3) make geological and geophysical studies of the structure of the Pacific basin: Preliminary Report on Downwind, pg. 1. A 1964 “IGY Terminal Report” (which matches the original IGY application describing “Project 11.9 – Seismic Sea Exploration of the Southeast Pacific) focuses solely on “seismic refraction studies of areas of geological interest,” Russell Raitt Papers, Box 6, Folder 7: IGY Terminal Report 1964.   59 Within this context a legacy of storytelling continued during expedition practices at sea. The men who went on these expeditions, whether employed by Scripps or otherwise, created and mobilized personal stories in multiple narrative forms conveying that it was a time of adventure aimed at solving the great mysteries of the deep ocean through hard but fun, dangerous but exciting personal lived experience onboard research vessels. Revelle was just one of many of these story tellers, and he prolifically transferred this tradition of heuristic narration from expedition work to his administrative and leadership responsibilities. But there were many others that mobilized story telling as part of their participation in Sea Search at Scripps, and through their stories these narrators shaped the scientific culture that conducted and supported oceanographic research.  1. A Diary Story   As he travelled with the Downwind expedition, visiting ocean geologist Bob Norris of the University of California, Santa Barbara hand-wrote a personal diary. His account began on December 24, 1957 and continued through February 27, 1958. As a chronological recording of events, the first 16 pages described Norris’ journey by airline to South America, where he met Scripps ships in Valparaíso, Chile during a port of call.87 On December 28, Norris boarded the research vessel Baird, which took him and his companions on the remainder of the expedition alongside the other ship, Horizon. Onboard, Norris acquainted himself with his bunkmate, Erwin Schweigger, a Peruvian oceanographer on international exchange.88 Throughout the next 25 pages and corresponding 18 days, these two men conversed periodically about Peru, oceanography, and family. Norris also recorded in the diary dredging, coring, and seismic work as conducted onboard the ships. He became part of the regular rotation in the laboratory watch schedule. He admitted that at times tensions arose between the ship Captain and scientists, usually over the use of the limited                                                 87 A section of the diary I take up in Chapter 2.  88 Schweigger was German by birth but made his career as an oceanographer in Peru.   60 space on the ship, and also between the oceanographers themselves as they negotiated which forms of sampling and measuring should receive the most attention. The men troubleshot equipment problems, enjoyed swimming parties overboard, and continued to measure and sample the Pacific Ocean. On January 15,89 the ships arrived in Callao, Peru where the men went ashore for a reception organized by Peruvian scientists. Many also enjoyed the amenities of Lima and embarked on land-tours of the surrounding countryside. There, Schweigger departed the expedition, leaving Norris a new bunkmate, Jatinder Nanda from India. On January 18,90 the ships left port in Callao and headed back out to sea. This next leg of the journey resulted in one of the few publications from Downwind as Norris collaborated with expedition leader and geologist Bob Fisher.  On January 31st (page 89), the research vessel Baird made near-shore surveys of the islet of Sala y Gomez, which lies just about 400km northeast of Easter Island. While the ship conducted this survey, a crew of five men went ashore led by Norris and Fisher. These two men worked closely together in 1950 when Fisher joined Norris as a graduate student at Scripps under Francis P. Shepherd.91 Norris had left Scripps in 1952 for a faculty position at UC Santa Barbara, and Downwind was an opportunity for them to rekindle their relationship. The two became re-acquainted over the course of the previous days at sea, and this adventure on Sala y Gomez sparked a stronger bond between the scientists than they had previously. Their intention in going ashore was not to publish their findings. In fact, before they set foot on the islet, Norris joked that “Tomorrow is Sala y Gomez day when…[we] will go ashore and act like geologists.”92 He was likely, at least in part, referring to the fact that the land-based surveys were not the typical domain of deep-sea oceanographers. Yet, the seven hours Baird spent surveying the islet and the hour or so these five                                                 89 Page 42. 90 Page 55.  91 17 January 2007 Robert L. Fisher Oral History, 22. Both men participated in the joint program operating at the time under which students conducted their research out of Scripps’ La Jolla campus but actually earned their degree from the University of California, Los Angeles.  92 Bob Norris Diary, 68.   61 men spent onshore clearly was not a priority for the expedition.93 His joke also stemmed from the fact that their stop was originally not a serious layer of the expedition’s work. The men spent time there out of a general curiosity to explore a small piece of land not many people had ever visited.94 Since there was no place for the ship to dock on the rocky slab of land, the shore survey members had to swim. They jumped in the ocean after Bob Fisher and soaked all of their clothing and equipment. To actually get onshore, they had to climb hand and foot over slippery rocks. It was a daunting task, and Norris worried that he would not execute it. Once ashore the men observed flora, fauna, and paid most attention to rocks, volcanic flows, and boulder fields. There was no time to do more than observe the presence of many tide pools. After about an hour, the men jumped back in the water and swam to their ship. When they came aboard, they realized they had just swum through a school of tuna being pursued by a hundred or so sharks.  These events certainly marked a memorable adventure in Norris’ time on Downwind. However, as he wrote them down in his diary he recorded how communal freestyle swimming, scaling algae and urchin-covered rocks, weathering a rainsquall, and surviving the swim back to Baird, through a field of sharks, became part of the process of collecting viable scientific evidence about this little-known and isolated islet. These are not the sorts of activities typically included when scientists and historians alike think about the process of conducting science at sea. Norris, however, wrote: “…purple sea urchins grew on the rocks and it was doubtless lucky that I didn’t crawl over any getting up the slippery rocks. ” His narrative suggests that successfully navigating that task (and others like it) was the mechanism by which they came to understand that “The island is nearly all volcanic. The older flow is scoriaceous and varies from red to black in color.” The adventure of                                                 93 Norris diary says this shore survey lasted “about an hour,” pp. 73, while the Preliminary Report on Downwind says it lasted “two hours,” pp. 13.  94 The IGY Preliminary Report on Downwind, written near the expedition’s end, reports the Sala y Gomez survey, pp. 12-13, but lists only current studies, seismic profiles, and carbon dioxide monitoring as the official goals of the expedition. Page 24-25 and Figures 9 & 12 of the IGY Report briefly describes the scientific findings of the survey.   62 getting to and from Sala y Gomez and walking around it once there provided the oceanographers with access to first-hand observations of the islet’s conditions and specimens, but for Norris, the experience sparked his desire to record something of it in his diary. The process of transcribing this lived experience into written form was the first change for this geological oceanographer to compile the scientific information that solidified how his one-hour onshore was not merely an instance of “acting” like a geologist. He, in fact, decided that during this time he was being a shore-surveying geologist of an environment very closely linked to oceanic processes, and he did so together with expedition leader and colleague Bob Fisher. As a team they collected enough evidence to turn their adventure into a short journal article. Their publication echoed Norris’ diary. The text stated: “Sala y Gomez…is a low volcanic islet…[with] vesicular red to dark-gray andesitic olivine basalt.”95 The diary was not just an account of adventure nor was it merely an informal and preliminary log for data and observations. It worked for Norris as a place to grapple with his lived experiences. As he narrated events he came to the understanding of the Sala y Gomez adventure as the field research stage of a professional collaboration between him and Fisher. By telling this story, arguably only to himself in his private diary, Norris came to realize that he and Fisher had successfully conducted a shore-based survey and systematically collected rock samples on par with the scope and quality required for professional publication. Indeed, they justified their article to the audience of the Bulletin of the Geological Society of America in their first paragraph by explaining that no one had made a shore survey since the islet’s discovery in 1793.96 Making the survey and writing about it turned the adventure from an hour-long, potentially insignificant walk on the islet to a formative foot survey of a Pacific Ocean volcanic structure worthy of a peer-reviewed publication. This transformation was                                                 95 Robert L. Fisher and Robert M. Norris, “Bathymetry and Geology of Sala y Gomez, Southeast Pacific,” Bulletin of the Geological Society of America 71 (April 1960): 497-502, pp. 497 and 501.  96 Ibid., 497.   63 not a result of the walk in and of itself, but highly determined by a shift in Norris’ perception of his relationship with Bob Fisher.  In the days leading up to arrival at the islet, he mentioned his other travel companions, sometimes using friendly nicknames: “Wump and I will go ashore [on Sala y Gomez] while divers investigate the bottom and the ship will survey the bathymetry around the island.”97 When describing their arrival in the small boat they used to get closer to the islet’s shore, he listed survey participants by first and last name and mentioned what each was responsible for. But once the men jumped in the water and began making their swim to the shore, Norris turned all of his narrative attention to the observations and activities of himself and Bob Fisher. It is possible that this adjustment merely indicated that Norris saw the shore party as a crew who worked as a unit. He did write “we” when describing certain activities, such as getting to and from the islet and when generally referencing the act of doing a survey. Also possible is that he saw no value in recording the activities of the survey assistants and thus turned his narrative attention to himself and Fisher. Perhaps he and Fisher alone conducted what Norris deemed to be relevant scientific activities. Tellingly, the final publication with Fisher also did not mention the names of any participant in this shore survey aside from Norris and Fisher themselves, just like the observational portions of the diary. The first paragraph of the article admits that “Three geologists and two seamen landed to collect rocks…” but nowhere, not even the acknowledgements, do readers learn the identities of that third geologist and two seamen.98 This practice of omitting the exact names of oceanographic assistants and subordinates was common throughout the 1950s, even outside of oceanography, although doing science depended intricately on their work.                                                  97 Bob Norris Diary, 67. “Wump” would have referred to either Fisher or Richard von Herzen, the other geologist that went ashore.  98 Fisher and Norris (1960), pp. 497.   64 I argue that in this particular situation the pair of omissions, first in the diary and repeated in the journal article, actually reveals Norris’ writing process as a means of experiencing social transitions, communal breaks, and alliances as he felt them happening during expedition work and adventure. Getting from the ship to Sala y Gomez was a group effort. Once he realized this event as significant to science, it became a collaboration between him and Fisher, who bonded over what they found and the questions their survey aroused and assisted by three others who participated only tangentially. The two primary oceanographers pondered whether they had any means of determining the islet’s greatest elevation, puzzled together over the lack of volcanic vents on a volcanic islet, and concluded that the peak must have a submarine origin.99 The act of acknowledging the growing importance of this emergent connection between him and Fisher in his diary signals that Norris used the text to begin giving material form to a collaboration that later resulted in an intellectual contribution to oceanography in publication.   Norris rooted his text in his experience. The narrative weaves together social realities and scientific data: the social realities behind the collaboration; the underlying social message that Fisher and Norris were the ones on Sala y Gomez conducting science, not the third oceanographer and two seamen; the social realities of a strengthening of the professional scientific collaboration made public through peer-reviewed publication; and the compilation of enough descriptive data to warrant professional distribution of their knowledge of Sala y Gomez. In this case, Norris did not think through the value of this experience before writing the diary. Rather, he came to realize the intellectual significance of his day spent surveying the islet by means of writing about it. As literary scholars have demonstrated, texts can sometimes act as “thinking machines” – entities constantly involved in transformations with and because of the surrounding environment – which develop                                                 99 Ibid., 497-501.   65 through ongoing engagement with the world.100 I argue that Norris’ private account of this shore-based survey of Sala y Gomez was this kind of thinking machine. He used the diary as a tool to work out discursive codes he experienced between people themselves, people and data, and people and the environment of Sala y Gomez. Subsequently, he and Fisher unwrapped those codes and data from personal experience by transforming them into the form of a professional publication. In this case, the intellectual contribution to oceanography – a journal article that systematically and scientifically described Sala y Gomez for the first time in the 20th century – resulted from a close working relationship between Norris and Fisher. I am not, however, pointing to the mere fact of collaboration alone. The publication was the result of an accidental scientific survey that the participants interpreted as an adventure as they lived it. The survey and the publication were a happenstance product of a quickly developed yet relatively close tie that came to link these men as they travelled from Valparaíso, Chile to Sala y Gomez. The relationship developed only in the 34 days prior to landing on the islet. Their involvement on Downwind emerged in a historical instant, but as the decision to go ashore with one another took fruition, the men experienced the adventure of swimming to the islet, discovering what was there, and returning to the ship through a swarm of sharks. On this expedition, the intimate nature of living and working onboard led Norris and Fisher to one another as companions. The adventure of visiting Sala y Gomez inspired Norris’ diary entries where he puzzled out his purposes in relation to Fisher and scientific knowledge. The Sala y Gomez journal article was the product of a social bond that built the conditions of possibility for and thereby preceded the production of knowledge. The social connection between these two men opened the possibility for the science to occur in the first place and turned an unplanned survey into a data set relevant to the greater oceanographic community.                                                  100 See Laura Dassow Walls’ discussion of the ways that literature can work in science, including her attention to the work of Maxim Waldstein in Laura Dassow Walls, “Of Atoms, Oaks, and Cannibals; or, More Things That Talk,” Isis 101 (2010): pp. 591.   66 2. A Memorandum Story  John A. Knauss’ memorandum story also constructed a social foundation for oceanographic research at sea, but instead of building a platform for collaboration, this narrative provided the author an opportunity for upward mobility in the oceanographic hierarchy. On January 12, 1956, Knauss, a fifth-year doctoral student at Scripps sent a memo to the Institution’s Marine Operations Committee.101 In it, he responded to his experience on Eastropic expedition from October to December 1955, which utilized both ships Horizon and Baird.102 At first glance, the textual form is that of an official memorandum typical of the period. Right justified, the institution name and date are offset at the top of the page by the phrase, “MEMORANDUM,” which is left justified. Underneath that phrase are the recipient names, and below those, the main text begins. Knauss breaks the body of the memo up into thematic paragraphs used to highlight his opinion on several issues pertinent to life on oceanographic ships at sea. But within this memo Knauss embeds a series of vignettes that convey a story about work at sea. He recounts specific events that took place on the expedition in order to bring out issues he deems important regarding shipboard life, work, and community. He uses the following headings to frame the narration: “Berthing,” “Equipment,” “Scientific Equipment,” “Maintenance of Scientific Electronic Equipment,” “Ship Maintenance,” and “Ship Personnel.” Each section details individual instances of malfunction and breakdown involving the ships themselves and the scientific instruments used on the ships. As a whole, these vignettes combine to form a story of Knauss’ experiences on the Eastropic expedition that involved                                                 101 Knauss took 8 years to complete his PhD because he also worked periodically for the Office of Naval Research in the geophysics branch under Gordon Lill. For more details of his life see Margaret Leinen, “John Knauss: 50 Years of Service to Oceanography,” Oceanography 14, no. 2 (2001).   102 Eastropic also used the ship Hugh M. Smith, owned by the Bureau of Commercial Fisheries and operated by Scripps from 1943-1959. For details on the Eastropic cruise see online document titled, “Oceanographic research cruises in the eastern tropical Pacific Ocean,” National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, (no date), https://swfsc.noaa.gov/uploadedFiles/Divisions/PRD/Programs/Ecology/ETPacCruises.pdf, accessed, June 19, 2014. For details on ownership and operation of Scripps vessels see SIO Subject Files, AC 6, Records, 1890-1981, Box 62, Folder 21 Horizon 1957-1963, “UCSD-1924, 26 September, 1966, Proposal to National Science Foundation,” RE: construction of new oceanographic ships, page 13, Table 1. “Historical List of SIO Ships.”  67 ships and their instruments that did not work satisfactorily. However, the memo is not just one of complaint. The unlabeled opening and closing paragraphs declare the beneficial nature of Horizon and stand in contrast to the messages of malfunction contained under the above headings. The depth of the contrast is curious. In opening, he writes: “Horizon is presently the most efficient open ocean research ship in this country; and I suspect from what little I have heard, read, and seen that she is the most efficient in the world.” However, he continues in the body of the memo to say: “Life was one long series of open condensers and smoking transformers…The mid-water trawl is a potential killer…[and] the GEK [is a] bastard rig on the Baird.”  In writing this way, Knauss pushed to persuade those in charge of ship maintenance to make changes by acknowledging the privilege associated with Scripps’ possession of these ships while simultaneously calling out a long series of crucial malfunctions. It is the development of this contradiction, serious and extensive complaints sandwiched between great appreciation and acknowledgement, that Knauss used as a tool to influence, without offending, administrators to alter ship design, mechanics, and function.   Knauss came to Scripps in 1951103 with a B. S. in meteorology from MIT and an M. S. in Physics from the University of Michigan.104 He took eight years to complete the PhD at Scripps, so in 1956 when he wrote this memo, he had been a student and also employed as a “Junior Research Oceanographer” for five years.105 But his academic attention had not always been focused on science. As a master’s student at the University of Michigan, Knauss fed his interest in the liberal arts by taking English and playwriting courses and participating in writing programs.106 In 1953, he                                                 103 Arrival date determined from: Document: “SIO Students Table – Science & Engineering Library, students-1.xlsx,” downloaded from Scripps Online Archive document search, search term: “students-1.xlsx,” June 24, 2014.  104 Degrees prior to Scripps including dates determined from Laura Harkewicz, “Oral History of John Atkinson Knauss,” 1 November 2005, SIO online archive, accessed June 24, 2014.  105 11 October 1956 University of California SIO Officers of the Institution, pp. 3, SIO online archive, accessed June 24, 2014.  106 His oral history states that he received “honorable mention” for his participation in a national playwriting program. It does not say which one, and I have not tracked it down specifically. However, it may have been the Armed Services recreation program as indicated by the accession register at the University of Michigan online archives, which associated   68 wrote a play fictionalizing the nature of planning a deep-sea expedition (this is the play discussed in the Introduction to this dissertation).107 The play indicates some of the problems and tensions of the early 1950s in going to sea, and includes a humorous depiction of Director Revelle’s sometimes (self-admitted and well-documented by others who knew him) absentminded lack of attention to bureaucratic details – in the play he forgets to ask the university Regents for permission to go on the expedition until the ships are already at sea. The plot also documents the darker context of McCarthyism under which some oceanographers faced pressure to sign a loyalty oath, explores the tensions that arose between oceanographers and their wives who were left at home for weeks or months on end, and imagines encounters with mermaids.108 Act I, Scene 4 offers a humorous commentary on some of the very real tensions that existed between practicing oceanographers and the Regents who held power over many of the resources needed: Scene 4 (REGENTS MEETING They are a group of nice ineffectual men and women seated around a table with President Sproul [President of the University of California])  1st REGENT Pre. Sproul we are here to discuss things of importance…Wilbur, what are you doing? (Wilbur had been looking under the table. In fact he was almost completely under the table.)  WILBUR I thought I saw one.  2nd REGENT Really, where. (He gets under table too.) 1st REGENT Don’t be silly. We got rid of all those people in 1950. There are no more left. They have all signed loyalty oaths.  WILBUR I know, but I never saw one…Do they look like Machiavelli? 3rd REGENT Who’s Machiavelli? Is he on our faculty?  1st REGENT (Turning to Sproul) Is he, Pres. Sproul? (Pres. Sproul just gives a Sproul laugh.)                                                                                                                                                        Knuass’ name with a list of students whose plays, scenarios, and radio scripts were submitted in coursework for the university. Rowe, Kenneth Thorpe, 1900-, “Student Play Collection, 1928-1970,” http://beta.worldcat.org/archivegrid/data/68796471, accessed June 24, 2014.  107 Script reproduced in Peter Sargent, The Sea Acorn: Scripps Institution of Oceanography: The People and the Place, 1936-1942, pp. 250, “Note for ‘Endless Holiday’ 1953 (May 1979): http://scilib.ucsd.edu/sio/biogr/gc29s27.pdf, accessed June 24, 2014. 108 This play is discussed in many sources from the Scripps archive including: Margaret Leinen, “John Knauss: 50 Years of Service to Oceanography,” National Science Foundation, Arlington, Virginia, Oceanography 14, no. 2 (Feb 2001): 5-10; Laura Harkewicz, “Oral History of John Atkinson Knauss,” 1 November 2005, SIO online archive, accessed June 24, 2014; Peter Sargent, The Sea Acorn: Scripps Institution of Oceanography: The People and the Place, 1936-1942, pp. 250, “Note for ‘Endless Holiday’ 1953 (May 1977), pp. 250 highlights the theme of the loyalty oath.   69 2ns REGENT What is the first order of business today?  1st REGENT …we now have a request in for approval of the purchase and installation of electric lights and fixtures… 5th REGENT Do we vote on the whole request, or on each section separately?... 2nd REGENT Let’s vote on how we should vote… …[They vote on how they should vote and then vote to turn down the purchase of electric light fixtures] 1st REGENT Well, Gentlemen, shall we now take up the matter of the installation of the electric lights?... 5th REGENT Pardon me, but I wonder if there is much point in voting for the installation if we have already turned down the purchase of the lights… 1st REGENT  (After considering matter) That is true, but we bound ourselves by our first vote to take votes on both parts of the request. We’ll just have to go through with it gentlemen.  6TH REGENT But what shall we do, if after considering the merits, we vote for approval of the installation, but have disallowed the purchase? 1ST REGENT We’ll consider that when we come to it… [The Regents continue conversing about the issue of the electric lights until someone suggests that those requesting them don’t really need them anyway and they should just ask the Office of Naval Research to supply them.] 1ST REGENT …Let’s see, what’s the next order of business?...Oh yes, the Scripps Institution of Oceanography.  3RD REGENT Do we own that too? 1ST REGENT Of course. They request… 3RD REGENT I’m tired. Let’s go home.  4TH REGENT Me too.  5TH REGENT We can’t make our best decisions when we’re tired.  6TH REGENT That’s what it is, all meeting long – decisions, decisions… [The Regents sing a song together with lines, such as: “We manage each college, Unhampered by knowledge By playing on Faculty fears.” The song ends with: “We spend all your taxes, And brother, the fact is – We’re in red tape up to our knees.”] End Scene  Knauss’ literary strategy used humor as a form of commentary on the real tensions between oceanographers who went to sea and the administrators and Regents who stayed back on land. The Regents appear impractically dedicated to bureaucratic process and all too willing to suggest oceanographers get what they need from the Office of Naval Research instead of the University of California. The play circulated primarily among the oceanographers themselves and was performed only twice: once in the 1950s in Director Roger Revelle’s living room for his 50th birthday party and  70 a second time in 2003 as part of Scripps’ Centennial celebration.109 Still, two things about this play can help us contextualize Knauss’ memo about the ships: first, the play highlights the particular set of tensions that existed between the oceanographic community and university administrators around replacing and repairing equipment, and second, the play demonstrates Knauss’ skill in constructing purpose-built narratives.   Standing alone, Knauss’ memo might simply appear as a document created to suggest improvements to Scripps’ ships, perhaps as anyone invested in the operation of any technology or instrument might do. However, this document is not a single instance of suggestion, a point that matters in understanding what purpose it served for its author. Knauss wrote it within a discourse ongoing throughout the 1950s centered on the functionality, maintenance, and repairs of Horizon and Baird that included a diverse set of individuals, committees, and organizations involved in Scripps’ oceanographic practices. These people were: oceanographers themselves; various engineers, who were typically professors from other University of California campuses who traveled as visiting professors on Scripps expeditions; ship captains; Director Roger Revelle and various Assistant Directors; the Vice President of Business Affairs; the Marine Operations Committee; various Marine Superintendents as the individual changed throughout the decade; the Navy Electronics Laboratory; the Marine Physical Laboratory; various Regents and the President of the University of California, Gordon Sproul (who Knauss included as characters in his play); Director of the Institute of Marine Resources, Charles Wheelock; the Division of Radiation Safety of the University of California; the U.S. Coast Guard; the Office of Naval Research; and the Maritime Commission.110 Within this                                                 109 Laura Harkewicz, “Oral History of John Atkinson Knauss,” 1 November 2005, SIO online archive, accessed June 24, 2014, pp. 8.  110 Extensive correspondence documenting the involvement of these people and organizations can be found in the SIO Subject Files, 1890-1981: Box 55, Folder 7: Ships ’56-’59; Box 56, Folder 2: Design of a vessel to replace Horizon (which includes Scripps attention to the National Science Foundation as a potential funding source for building the ship New Horizon); Box 62, Folder 19: Ships Horizon 1952-1956; Box 62, Folder 21: Horizon 1957-63; Box 66, Folder 17: Baird 1951-52, ’54-’59.    71 context of intense attention on and concern over the function of Horizon and Baird, graduate student John Knauss took it upon himself to submit a memorandum each year throughout his tenure at the Institution to Scripps’ Marine Operations Committee.111 Over this decade, his concerns shifted to and from different aspects of the ships from year to year but a state of concern over functionality remained throughout.  Telling a story was a common thing to do when writing to administrators. Stories came packaged as a series of vignettes in seemingly formal documents, such as professional letters and memorandums. Knauss, however operated from a particular position within the Scripps community, and using narrative meant something significant to him. He was a graduate student who had been at Scripps since 1951, but a student with relatively junior status nonetheless. His participation in the dialogue regarding ship operations meant inserting his thoughts and opinions into a very powerful group of institutional advisers, administrators, and organizations. While he likely was not aware of every detail and every conversation involving all of the people and organizations I mentioned in the previous paragraph, the debates around how well these ships did and did not work was common knowledge at Scripps, especially among those who actually went to sea on them. Virtually everyone, for example, who cared to think about it knew that when Baird was prohibited from sailing on the open ocean and restricted to lakes, bays, and sounds in January of 1957, the regulation came down from U.S. Coast Guard.112 It was obvious that although these ships existed as part of Scripps’ fleet, they w