How's the Food?

By Liz Weidner

Going out to sea for a long-term expedition is a curious prospect.  You often spend more than a year planning, a month packing, and then up to a week travelling to a lovely part of the world to pick up the ship.  Then you head for the worst part of town, because that's where the commercial docks live, get on board by gangplank, small boat, or helicopter, and all of a sudden you're in your own little world.  First your internet connection goes away, then the phone signal, and finally you find yourself sharing a small space (and a single shower) with up to three complete strangers, whether you're ready or not.

But like any collection of humans, it is, or quickly becomes, a little community.  For many of us that conduct science at sea, it's like coming home: the in-jokes (asking the Bosun for some prop wash), traditions (no hats on the mess deck), and cutting back to a simpler life (no need to get groceries, or fill the car with gas).  And like any community, we have our own greetings.  Around the world, even just in English, you'll get "g'day" in Australia, or "Kia Ora" in New Zealand; "'mornin" in the UK, or "howzit" in South Africa.  On ships it's often "how's the food?"

That's not because we're concerned that it isn't going to happen: you can usually count on there being food at the serving hatch three times a day on a regular schedule, and left-overs in the fridge on the mess deck if you get hungry in-between meals, or if you're working overnight.  No, it's mostly because for much of the expedition, the change in food is one of the only ways to tell the days apart.  Once the initial excitement and chaos of starting an expedition dies down, the equipment all gets installed and calibrated, and the data starts flowing, there's usually a very steady rhythm of life at sea.  You wake, eat, do some science, eat, do some more science, eat, meet to coordinate tomorrow, exercise, and sleep (not necessarily in that order).  And then repeat.  And repeat again.  After a remarkably short time, you lose track of what day it is (although you always know what the date is, for recording events in the log!).

So most of the time, the only thing that really changes to distinguish, say, Monday from Saturday, is the food.  And after you've been out for three or four weeks, working on the back deck all day without a weekend or a day off, or sitting in front of the sonar displays for eight hours a day, the highlight of the day - the thing that gets you through one more deployment, or another night of watch - can be what's on the mess deck table.  On Oden, for me, it's Thursday night dinner: traditional Swedish ärtsoppa (pea and ham soup) with mustard and rye crispbread, followed by pancakes with lingonberry jam and ice cream.