The Ph-demon

Contributed by Raeanne Miller 

Thesis oh thesis I hate you, you stink!
I wish I could wash you down the kitchen sink!
I feel like I’ve been writing for ages – so long!
But now with corrections, it seems its all wrong.

I write and I write and spill all my thoughts
but it turns out that others think I’m perpetually lost,
for while I type and as I spout in profusion,
it seems that I’m always met with confusion.

“It’s garbled and messy and doesn’t make sense!”
“And why is it all written in the past tense?”
“Why are your figures coloured just so?”
“And really, what is it you’re intending to show?”

My life’s work! my blood! my sweat and my tears!
(Ok, I guess it’s only taken three years)
My glorious findings, of novelty and fact,
are what I’d hoped to convey with enthusiasm and rapt!

More comments in red, they come, and they come,
I try and I try to rectify some,
but the more I read and the more I think,
the more I smell some awful foul stink.

 

Could it be…
me?
Am I the imposter?
No…
it’s something darker that my fears do foster…

The Ph-demon.
He comes and he creeps,
invading your thoughts and entering your sleep.
Full of seething and loathing, he grows and he grows,
slowly at first, but then teeth start to show…

And bite softly at first, gently sinking in,
but all of a sudden, you’ve lost your big grin.
The demons grip strengthens, it’s all a lost cause!
Or that’s what you tell yourself whenever you pause

To wonder how you got into this ridiculous mess,
Which will never ever bring fruition or success.
The end, the finish line, feels so far away,
Why do I bother keeping going, anyway?

But somewhere inside, there’s a little voice,
that tells you that ultimately, it’s your very own choice,
it whispers “you’re stubborn, you can’t give up now”,
And you reply in anguish “but I don’t see how!”

“Just listen to me, and ignore that great beast,
for your insecurities are his favourite feast,
with every worry, he gets bigger and bigger,
until he seems quite a monstrous figure.”

“But I can’t – it’s so hard!”, you cry to yourself,
stuck on this vast plateau, this never-ending shelf,
“I’ll never escape, I’ll never be ‘doctor’,
my mother will never be proud of her daughter!”

“Now hush!” says the voice, “you know that’s not true,
now your self-effacing attitude is annoying me too!”
“Ok…     ok…      ok…
maybe you’re right,
and you know, I guess the end is sort of in sight.”

And demon, he shrinks, at these positive words,
it’s like acid to him, what he has just heard.
He gets out his claws, for a scratch at your pride,
but you know what, that’s it, you’ve come to decide…

“I’ll do the work, slowly if I must,
maybe not in one big epic thrust,
and it will take time, and there will be lows,
and the Ph-demon and I will come to more blows.”

But you know that in the end you’ll come out on top,
and one day you’ll walk up to the postbox and drop
in your finished thesis, full of satisfaction and pride,
free from your Ph-demon inside.

All at ‘C’ – Conferences, Courses and Cruises

Contributed by Neil Clark

Get it? All at ‘C’?! I’m not even sorry for that one.

So I’ve already written a blog piece to tell you all about what it is I do as a PhD student at SAMS (remember the methane ditty?). What better, then, to follow up with than a wee blog explaining what I get up to as a PhD student away from SAMS?

This is the exciting bit; we’re talking travel, learning, presenting and networking here. To me, the very term ‘networking’ is enigmatic. I’ve been to plenty of networking ‘events’, focussed upon meeting as many people in as short a time as possible. From my viewpoint, these tend to digress into endless streams of people trying their best to confound me with all the knowledge in the universe, never pausing to listen for questions, or even to breathe. I’m starting to wonder if there is a school of scientists specialising in ‘circular breathing’ (Fig. 1) to this end. I have a rule called ‘The Five Word Wonder’, which proceeds as follows when someone asks what my PhD is about:

Figure 1: Circular breathing is analogous to drinking from a drinking fountain whilst taking a breath. It is useful for playing the digeridoo, and for discharging the intricacies of your PhD over someone in approximately 42 seconds. Picture: didgeridoostore.com

1) Summarise PhD broadly in five words or less, for example ‘Methane from plankton faeces’
2) Await questions.
3) Answer questions in more detail. It is important to converse in the same language as the recipient.
4) Discuss what interests you both.

I appreciate that sometimes it is tempting when meeting other scientists to show your intellect by using large words in the absence of a badge saying ‘I’ve submitted a paper to Nature’; on the other end of the scale, when confronted with a confident individual actually wearing that badge, it is easy to translate your nerves into words. However, if a thought is not spared for the scientist who probably works in a distinctly different field to you, he/she is more than likely to remember nothing from your brief discourse other than how shiny your teeth were. For fleeting interactions, stick to ‘The Five Word Wonder’.

In general, face-to-face networking that leads somewhere is either kickstarted by one of these chance encounters leading to a mutually beneficial conversation, either personally or academically, or through making a point of meeting individuals in your field whose name you know either directly though their work, or having been tipped off by a mutual acquaintance (this is where networking well with someone outwith your field can really pay off). For me, this is where attending conferences, courses and cruises come into their own, as a relaxed, academic atmosphere to play verbal Pong with your ideas. However, there are distinct differences between the type of interactions you will experience from each, so here is a brief guide of what a junior scientist can expect:

Conferences

Conferences are a mixed bunch: they can be small and accessible, or they can be mind blowingly huge (think tens of thousands of scientists). They can also be very niche, meaning that you need to make no effort to find people in your field, or very general, so you could spend 90% of your time negotiating nutters who would rather talk about baking copepod cakes (Fig. 2). There are, however, three likely outcomes:

Figure 2: Copepod cakes – science and art finally converge.

1) You will meet your scientific heroes. Those names on key papers you have never put a face to, but have superhuman appearance in your mind’s eye. When you meet them, think a less athletic Batman, wearing fewer offensive weapons and capes – but really smart. And occasionally with a cracking beard. The beauty of science is that the more senior people become, the more approachable and helpful they seem to be. Don’t be scared – they may have been looking forward to meeting you just as much as you them.

2) You will present your work, normally in the form of an oral presentation or a poster. The former activity would be described by most prior to their talk as ‘worse than attempting to use a crocodiles jaw as a nutcracker’, but fifteen minutes later as ‘a scintillating and rewarding experience’. This is an opportunity to show your face to people and give them a taster of your work, not to try and explain everything you know. A decent proportion of the crowd will have seen your subject and specially come to see you, and you can expect folk to remember and approach you later on in the conference with their thoughts and advice. Don’t expect, but be prepared for know-it-alls trying to trip you up at question time – the majority of the audience will empathise with you in that case. The latter form of presentation, showing a poster, is a much more informal affair with no time limit, as such. This lack of pressure, combined with the fact that nearly everyone who sees your poster will have made a point of visiting it can lead to some really free-flowing, unforced exchanges of ideas. Let the images on your poster support any words, which should predominately be coming from your mouth rather than the paper.

Figure 3: An inspirational grin, unless you are a penguin. Photo: thetravelingrichters.com

3) You will have a random intellectual epiphany. Picture the scene, hungover from the conference dinner the previous evening and recovering in a gentle presentation about Leopard Seals. Hang on, did Ms Leopard Seal just say ‘turbulence’? What if I incorporate turbulence into my plankton experiments… Cue an hour of frantic scribbling and the intricate and insightful planning of two experiments; more than you could hope for in a week at home. Thank you Leopard Seals, you cheery chaps (Fig. 3).

All in all, you should leave a conference feeling mixed emotions between ‘not many people in the world actually know as much about my subject as I do’, and ‘the few people who know about my subject know so much more than me it’s rather distressing’. Above all, you will have made contacts, friends and learnt a lot. Isn’t that wonderfully wholesome?

Courses

When I’m talking about courses here, I’m really referring to residential training courses that last a couple of weeks, and are frequently held somewhere terrible such as Bermuda. First and foremost, these courses are about learning and practicing techniques. In the UK, PhD students do not receive lectures, and the only formal educational lab sessions they are involved in they normally blunder through run for undergrads. This is exactly what you get on a course, intensively. Attend everything, and you can return to your institute a barely-recognisable scientific behemoth, an effect that is more liable to persist if you take good notes.

Since you are living and working within a small group, social dynamics are important. You are stuck with these people, and will all rely upon each other at some point. Thus, it is important to be sensitive to individuals within the group’s needs, both academically and personally. You will specialise in some areas that are new to others, and so will all become the ‘teacher’ at some point. Furthermore, international attendees will have cultural differences. Respect the British girl hankering for a cup of tea (woe betide he who points out she is holding a recently-drained mug), and tolerate the Californian man’s compulsion to be topless as soon as the sun comes out.

Figure 4: Worth exceeding your baggage allowance for? From: perpetualkid.com

Despite the intense schedule of challenging work, there will be periods for time off. Unwind and explore the area – not many people can be working 24/7, and I get the impression that the fantastic scientists running the courses look forward to attending as much as you do, so make the most of this. ‘Networking’ opportunities can be memorable as you see the more human side of those around you, and great friends/collaborators made that you will look forward to seeing at future events. Relationships may be cemented over a beach BBQ, or over a Students V Professors game of foosball, the former team attempting to enforce a ‘drink every time you concede’ rule (Fig. 4). Something I would never dream of doing.

Fig. 5: The NERC research vessel, the RRS James Cook, equipped with everything the marine scientist could need. Even a ‘bulbous bow’. Picture: etelive.org

Cruises

The pièce de résistance, and a marine scientist’s speciality. That’s the thing about the ocean: studying it is a little hard in the absence of gills or a thick layer of blubber. Taking field samples requires a heck of a lot of effort and planning, and so cruises are really important events for research. Never think a scientific cruise is anything like a pleasure cruise: in fact, you would be sensible to book time off for a holiday to recover afterwards.
On your boat (Fig. 5), there is nothing to do but work, work, and eat. With a dash of sleep. It is very rare that the boat’s course will be tailored specifically for your own research, so if it stops an hour into your sleep following an eight hour shift, you get out of bed and deal with it. The end result, after weeks of this, is that you can turn snooker loopy, so here are my top tips for cruise survival:

• Promptly make friends with the chef. He is the single most important person on the boat for your happiness, and the food is normally restaurant standard. A friendly chef will not only sneak you seconds, but also save you portions if you need to sleep through meal times.

• Experimenting with the food available can be fun and rewarding. On a cruise I discovered ice cream and melon are great together: flushed with success, I next learnt that ice cream and blue cheese do not, despite what others may say (I admit I made a ‘deconstructed’ version).

• Speak to the crew. They all have fascinating stories, and may even give you an engine room tour. You’ll feel like a kid in a Concorde’s cockpit.

• Cabin fever is a real thing. Everyone’s personalities intensify when there are only a handful of you stuck together on a confined vessel for six weeks, and the way someone clinks their spoon on their mug whilst making coffee could inexplicably turn you into a seething pool of rage. If you have the misfortune to notice at the start that you have landed on a cruise with a genuinely abrasive individual, just avoid them in as professional a manner as possible, because they’re only going to get worse. In general, however, people are great company, interesting, helpful and the atmosphere is positively jovial.

• Expect to adopt a pet. Most cruises will have an exhausted, lost bird land upon them. It’s good for your mental wellbeing to give it shelter and food to nurse it back to health and let it leave in its own time. It’s bad for your mental wellbeing to give it a name like ‘Calanus’, and throw it overboard after a hug, yelling ‘fly pretty Calanus, fly’ – only for it to plop into the Atlantic.

• Landsickness. Take a bearing and oscillate down your lab corridor back on dry land for a week or so. The end result is that you may eventually end up where you intended, or your colleagues learn very quickly and painfully to give you a wide berth.

• Above all, cruises are a special opportunity to see how other scientists undertake their research. Watch them, offer to help, and you will not only learn new or more efficient techniques, but you may eventually be shown the mystical ways of the Duct Tape/Cable Tie Elite…

A few things that I have learnt

Contributed by Marie Porter

Firstly, I will apologise for any grammar and spelling mistakes. As you will see these have been the bane of my life for the past 4 years!

I guess I’m technically no longer a postgraduate student at SAMS. Last week I passed my viva, but hopefully I’m welcome on this blog until at least after my graduation. My PhD was a multidisciplinary look at temperate glaciers, using oceanography, meteorology and glaciology. However, this isn’t what I want to talk about. I want to talk about some things that I have learnt over the last few months of something that has taken me four years.

Like many PhD students I ran over my three year deadline and have spent the last year in a panic about running out of time and money. I am so impressed by anyone capable of getting this thing done in three years, but with the difficulty that I have in making myself understood in writing it was always going to take me longer than that.

I have narrowed this down the three things that I really didn’t know about myself.

1. I can take so much more criticism than I thought I could.

By their own admission my supervisors were strict with my written work. In retrospect I am very pleased that they were. My writing was awful this time last year. It may not be perfect now, but it is much improved. I completed a first full draft of my thesis in January and wasn’t allowed to hand it in until September. Over these 9 months, each time I got work back with negative comments it broke my heart a little, but surprise, surprise the comments were right. I toughened up and got on with them and cried a little in the process. In the end it was worth it though.

2. I need to take breaks, even when there is no time to have them.

I spent months working myself into a ground. Whilst this is inescapable in the last few months of a PhD there needs to be a limit. After staring at something for so long that you can’t see it anymore, or being able to do nothing but cry or get defensive every time you think about work, it’s time for a couple of days off. It probably sounds obvious to anyone that isn’t in this type of situation but doing something that had me completely absorbed for a couple of days (or even hours) was one of the most positive things I could do for making progress.

3. When I’m stressed, I need my friends.

My automatic response to stress is to withdraw and to hide any evidence of it from people when I do see them. I will never be able to change this and we all have our own ways of coping. The crucial thing is that everyone finds this a stressful experience and we do need people to talk to every now and then. I would rarely go out of my way to talk to people about what’s getting to me, but I am very lucky and have people around me that can draw it out. The cups of tea brought to me when I hadn’t left my desk for hours, the cards and chocolate that people left just to say keep going and that they are thinking of me, the people that dragged me out of the house and distracted me enough to let me think of things other than work, these were the things that let me finish. Even though I did my best to hide my struggle from people, my friends still saw what I needed and provided. Please keep an eye out for others in these situations and try and keep each other going, their difficulties might not be obvious to you, but they will be there.

If you are writing a Phd right now, good luck! It really is worth the difficulties. No one can take it away once you have it!

 

Yesterday was a bad day. But today is better.

Contributed by Raeanne Miller

Such is the existence of a PhD student. Sometimes things go well, and sometimes they don’t. And sometimes you are hit by a blow which can magnify these feelings. Yesterday, for me, was a bad day. Today is better.

My father passed away on June 20th, this year. He was staying at a very nice hotel en route to meeting up with an old friend to play a round of golf, and simply did not wake up in the morning. We don’t really know why. Now though, it is not the shock that I felt, nor the numbness, nor the tears that I shed in the days following which I want to discuss here. It is the process of dealing with a loss, a shock, sadness, a perceived failure, severe stress, or any other difficulties which I want to talk about. Why some days are good days, and some days are worse. In the past few months, I have read much about the process of bereavement, as well as how to deal with uncertainty, stress, depression, and all of the symptoms which come with it. While hopefully very few PhD students will be faced with the loss of a loved one, or another stressful event, during their studies, I wanted to share some of what I experienced to encourage anyone else who might be feeling the same.

Being a scientist, I wanted to know why I was feeling this way, and the answer ‘because you are a bit depressed’, or ‘because you are sad’, or ‘because it is a stressful time’ didn’t really seem good enough – it certainly wouldn’t stand up to peer review! So I did a bit of reading, some science, and some not science, and I found quite a few interesting things.

First, depression can be caused by a sudden, severe loss or traumatic event, but it can also be caused by long-term high stress levels. PhD students, I guess, are predisposed to the latter, by the nature of what we do, but a particularly traumatic event (whatever it might be), could be enough to exacerbate this. Box ticked – this was the beginning of what I was looking for. These sorts of events can alter brain chemistry in a number of ways, affecting our neurotransmitter systems, and levels of other chemicals including serotonin and dopamine (Kalia, 2005), though much of this is in need of more research. This is why symptoms include changes in sleep patterns, decreases in concentration and attention span, low energy levels, and declining interest in relationships.

Why mention this? I think most of us would agree that a certain, good amount of sleep is important for daily functioning in the lab (though we might not always get it after a good night out at the pub!). Energy and good relationships with the students and others around are always helpful – they make tackling a PhD much easier. But to me, being able to concentrate on something for a long period of time is probably the most important. While it’s already difficult to focus on a single task in an information-heavy world, anything else which depletes your attnetion span can make lab work, programming, statistical analysis, or writing documents significantly more difficult, painful, or nearly impossible.

While I wouldn’t say that I am ‘depressed’, I would say that I have certainly have experienced some of the above in the past few months, and have felt a host of other emotions (shock, emptiness, loss, loneliness), though not all at the same time, and now much more infrequently. Yes, this has probably affected my progress on my PhD, and sometimes I feel angry about it, or that it isn’t fair, but I know now that it isn’t completely my fault. People cope and adapt to stressful situations in different ways, and we are often frightened or unsure about how to ask for help, or how to help those we think might be suffering. Sometimes I want to tell everyone about what this is like (perhaps this is one of those days!), so that they might understand, or feel more comforted if the same were to happen to them. Other times I feel that nobody would want to know, and that is ok too.

For anyone else, PhD student or otherwise, who is feeling sad or unhappy, anger or grief, or stress or anxiety, please know that there is a lot of information and support out there, whether you feel like speaking to someone you know, someone anonymous, or whether you would rather not speak to anyone at all. At SAMS, we have a fantastic welfare support team who can support, discuss, or just point you in the direction of other sources of help (with total confidentiality). I have listed a few other sources of help or information which I have found in my searches at the bottom of this blog post, and there are many more out there.

To come full circle, it has now been nearly 5 months since I lost my father. He was the person who encouraged me to be a scientist from an early age, be it trips to the beach or science museum, help with science projects, taking me to visit the engineers and geologists at his work, or more recently, sending me articles about barnacles or renewable energy. Today is a better day, and when I submit my thesis in a couple of months, I know who it is going to be dedicated to, which is a happy thought.

I have wanted to write this blog for several months, but it has taken me a while to be able to put my thoughts together, and transcribe them. I think this has been helpful for me, but I hope it might offer an insight to anyone else who might also be feeling ‘not quite right’, or ‘not themselves’, for whatever the reason.

A few sources of information:

The SAMS Welfare Support Officers (confidential support, information, and guidance): Nicola Longman and David Hughes (for staff and postgratuates), Polly Crooks, and Fiona Wallace (for students)

For help or support with a bereavement:

http://www.crusebereavementcare.org.uk/

UHI’s help and support website:

http://www.uhi.ac.uk/en/students/support/getting-help-at-uhi

University of Aberdeen’s Student Support Services:

http://www.abdn.ac.uk/student-support/

Breathing Space – provide a safe, supportive space by listening, offering advice, and information for people experiencing low mood, depression, or anxiety

www.breathingspacescotland.co.uk

Samaritans – provide confidential non-judgemental emotional support, 24 hours aday for people experiencing feelings of distress or despair

www.samaritans.org

And finally, a brilliant cartoon, which in its truth, made me laugh when I needed it: http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.co.uk/2011/10/adventures-in-depression.html

References:

Kalia, M. (2005). Neurobiological basis of depression: an update. Metabolism, 54:5, 24-27.

Should I stay or should I go?

Contributed by Karen Alexander

At a recent meeting I was asked what I was going to do after my PhD. I replied that I had been lucky to secure a post-doc position at SAMS (the same place I have done my PhD).  At the end of that discussion, we were given the advice that early career scientists should seek jobs at alternative locations; they should be academically mobile.  I must admit, I was a little put out – I had been really chuffed that I had actually managed to get a job!

Although I have heard this concept of ‘academic mobility’ (although not in these words) bandied about over the last three years, I never really gave too much thought to it and was never really sure why we needed to move around.  However, a few minutes on Google brought me into the light by supplying the following reasons to move institution: it shows independence as a researcher – you are not just doing more work on your PhD or further work for the same PI; it demonstrates an ability to establish yourself in a new academic environment; it broadens your network of academic contacts and potential future collaborators; and it exposes you to different research or teaching techniques.  It would appear that conventional wisdom errs towards the opinion that stay = bad.

In some countries, it is even necessary to move around in order to obtain tenure.  As noted in this Nature article which discusses academic mobility, German university tenure rules require scientists to change labs during the course of their postdoc or graduate education and trips abroad to the United States or elsewhere are all but expected.  Moreover in many countries, recruiters and funding agencies see changing labs as key to a scientists’ professional success.

I’m not sure how much I agree with all this.  To me it seems a bit like moving for the sake of moving.  I believe that by conducting international collaborations and attending conferences it is possible to broaden networks, be exposed to different techniques, and importantly to keep your ideas fresh.  I think the advice to leave actually raises many questions.  Not long ago, a friend told me about someone she had met recently:  a fish biologist who had been working behind a Tesco fish counter for a year because he was unable to get a job in academia.  This makes me wonder, in the current economic climate, with on-going reductions in science funding, can we early career scientists afford to be so picky as to ensure that we move to another institute?  Although, I guess it could also be argued that in the current economic recession research funding has become the main trigger of international mobility in academia.

Nevertheless, what if your area of research isn’t really ‘happening’ elsewhere?  As a colleague mentioned to me earlier, how can you really build a solid foundation in your science if you move from institute to institute every couple of years?  What about pensions?  Moreover, what if you have other reasons for staying in the area e.g. family or lifestyle choice?

So what does this mean for me, and for all the other students who are due to wrap up their thesis in the near future?  Well, to be honest, I think it is a person specific decision – but I sure plan to buck the trend, at least for now…

The Art of Baking and the PhD Student

Contributed by Peter Taylor

It seems a strange premise on which to write a blog entry, but I feel that it’s high time we had a light hearted look at this most important of learning tasks for PhD students.

Firstly, I have to admit that, although I am partial to a bit of cake, biscuit, flapjack or, well, anything to nibble, I am not so great at making them. In fact, prior to starting my PhD on the biogeochemical impact of a sub seafloor release of carbon dioxide, my baking experience was limited to a few slices of semi edible shortbread baked in a Home Economics class in high school. Nearly 20 years ago. If I had fancied any shortbread since then I would purchase a box of the stuff, usually decorated in a tartan so pervasive, it can almost be described as “shortbread red”. You know the one, red, with black, yellow and white.

Anyway, there I was, a budding PhD student, keen as mustard and starting my studies a few weeks before the official start date. I had been an undergraduate here at SAMS and therefore knew a lot of the faces in the PhD office, but was entirely unaware of the Tuesday Morning Cake Ritual.

“Why had I not turned up for cake?” was the question from a friend and colleague, at midday on Tuesday. To which the only possible response was “What cake?”. She explained, patiently, that every Tuesday there is free cake in the PhD office. Any and all PhD students can turn up and eat some delightful cake, biscuit, flapjack or nibble. They are almost always home-made, with loving care, universally very tasty and free. Yes, Free. However, I was informed that this is only part of the ritual in the PhD office.

There is a rota. A real, official, type written rota. It is posted on the office wall (and available in various electronic formats for added convenience). It informs all observers who is responsible for cake on what date for the next few months. Each person has a date upon which they are expected to provide cake, biscuit, nibbles, flapjack or any other goody that they care to think of.

And it gets worse! As a new PhD student I was confronted with a weekly succession of high quality home-made produce. Some were great. Some were really, really good. The banter was fun, the cake was high quality and slowly the life of a PhD student seduced me.

Until The Big Week arrived. Yes, my name was on the rota. Out of a sense of sympathy, politeness and social kindness, I had been placed, along with other new PhD students, at the end of the rota such that it was a few months (and many cakes) before I had my chance to shine (or not, as the case may be).

The weekend prior to my cake Tuesday was one I will not quickly forget. There had been so many great cakes and now it was my turn. I can cook. I would even say that I am an OK cook, thanks to an Italian flatmate many years ago, who took pity on my culinary skills and only slightly forcefully taught me how to cook something with real vegetables in it.

However, my baking skills were limited to that short session in cookery classes 20 years ago, for 1 hour 20 minutes every Monday morning in first year at high school. I hadn’t enjoyed it back then. I hadn’t really listened to anything (who does, first thing on a Monday morning, especially when it’s your Aunt doing the teaching, you know it’s not going to be marked and as long as you look interested you won’t get into trouble).

The pressure was on. I just needed to make something anything that would be edible. That was my first goal. Secondly, it would be nice if it was nice. Thirdly, if no-one became ill afterwards that would be a real bonus. I needed practice. I found a recipe book that had a section of deserts at the end.

Step one accomplished. I needed something, anything, that I could cook (preferably bake, I thought that may be the technical term for what I wanted to do – you know how scientists like our jargon). It needed to be simple, as I didn’t want to jump in with both feet and then make a complete mess. It needed to be cheap too. This was for the simple reason that I needed to practice. I needed to try the recipe, test it, try it again to make sure I didn’t screw it up and then, only then, proceed to the real, final, cake day batch of shortbread.

I tried to remember my 1 hour and 20 minutes of shortbread cooking from two decades ago. I remember making some, but that was all. No handy hints were forthcoming. I made shortbread which I tentatively fed to my flatmate. She didn’t throw up, neither did her boyfriend. I tried it and it wasn’t too bad. Success was mine! Woohoo! I made another batch, just to be sure that it was the same. It was, and no-one had been taken to hospital. I started to convince myself that I might, just might, be able to pull this one off.

The big day arrived and I slowly realised that I had been so completely neurotic – perhaps I had been worrying over nothing? Probably not, but was I worrying too much over something that wasn’t going to kill me? Perhaps. This was meant to be fun. The cake was a relaxed friendly ritual, not deserving of apprehension, worry and dread. It was just meant to be some cake, given to friends in the spirit of kindness. In fact, since they were friends they might even just say it was good, whether it was or not…hopefully.

It seemed to go well enough. All the shortbread went. All the crumbs went. No-one went to be sick, well, not that I ever discovered. I realised that one of the greatest triumphs of my PhD career so far is that I can now bake as well as cook. I can follow a recipe and end up with something that looks not dissimilar from the picture in the book. Possibly on the next cake day I will feel less worried than I did last time, as nothing breeds contempt like familiarity.

 

What does doctor of philosophy really mean for society?

Contributed by Adrian Macleod

What I put forward is one person’s ‘uneducated’ and caffeinated opinion on the evolution of ideas and the importance of natural variation in opinions whether they are current ecological theory or political ideologies. Every person alive possesses within them the ability to form opinions on how the world functions and how the people within interact. The ideas form the backbone of a person’s morality, their view of the world and their place in it. I was reminded recently about a lecture I attended on a subject far outside my chosen field. The lecturers name was Ian Hamilton, a man who lives not far from my own academic institution, who became revered for his political ideas. In his presentation he chose to discuss the original ideas driving the installation of academic institutions in Scotland. A better society makes education free to all those who chose to partake in what can only be described as a journey of personal growth. From what I gather of his presentation the key message was personal growth. Education should not be seen as a way to better your economic situation in future life but rather to be a part of a wider system by which society develops, shares and ultimately benefits from new ideas. Sitting writing my PhD on a rainy Sunday afternoon it is easy to forget the cornerstone of what it is we are trying to achieve. I personally worry too much about less altruistic reasons for being here. Will I get a job after this?

Academic institutions are now seen as the economic engines, producing ideas which will later be used for economic prosperity. This is in no way a bad thing. Academic institutions are also the sources of ideas which hopefully one day may find technical solutions to one of our greatest future challenges, the over exploitation of natural resources. However, going back to basics, academic institutions should play a key role in society by being centres for everybody to produce, share and tailor ideas to make a better world. The ideas of somebody without a degree or PhD are just as important within these centres of learning because without their acceptance of a good idea it will remain only an idea. The letters in front of your name only signify that you have at some time in your life made it your business to listen to the ideas of others and contributed perhaps to the current ones. We are all playing our part in a kind of evolutionary process constantly changing and being modified.

So let me continue on this current theme. Being dyslexic I soon learnt that the best way to remember ideas was to draw mind maps connecting similar concepts together so they would be easily attainable. I also learnt that the genesis of ideas through the brainstorming process requires an initial non-logical step where ideas no matter how wacky are proposed regardless of their suitability. These ideas would then be subjected to more logical scrutiny before being tailored to what would hopefully be a novel idea to address the initial problem. It might be argued that having a wealth of prior knowledge on a given subject can in many cases hinder this process by confusing the division between random generation and the logical culling of less suitable ideas. It might also be argued that people with letters in front of their name are on average no more intellectually gifted than any member of society. They have in fact, benefited from a system that has allowed them to indulge in learning their subject of choice and gain academic merit in doing so. Assuming enthusiasm for a chosen subject could be similar throughout society. Anyone wishing to do so, could, with focussed effort, produce useful randomly generated ideas from which interesting ideas and perhaps novel solutions could be generated. The utilisation of this great natural variation in opinions and ideas can be likened to the ecological process of sexual reproduction, a potentially risky and energetic strategy, that produces random variation to which populations may evolve to changing conditions. Conversely, using an academic institution for personal economic gain, focussing on regurgitating the ideas of others is more akin to the asexual reproduction of scholars.

I want to reinforce the ideas shared by Ian Hamilton and loosely understood by myself. See your purpose as a scholar (PhD candidate) to generate ideas with not only your academic peers but with all society. You have made it your mission to develop ideas and the letters in fount of your name honour that decision only. You are lucky, and yet unlucky enough, to be too close to your chosen subject. Find enthusiastic people outside your institution and share ideas about any topic of your choice and remember why you hang about your given academic institution.

To illustrate this point about using ‘uneducated’ ideas, take the current political system characteristic of most capitalist countries. I know little about politics as no one can make it their business to thoroughly understand all subjects. Perhaps I am endowed with a below average understanding of political issues. No matter, I have equal rights in my ability to govern my country regardless of my level of knowledge. Similarly, ecological ideas I might generate throughout my studies as to how best manage marine resources are equally vulnerable to the ideas and motives of others in society. To my knowledge, one of the key limitations of current politics is that people in power want to stay in power. Perhaps the urgently required establishment of long term altruistic goals, for example, more sustainable use of resources, may never feature highly in the political agenda of parties that in the short term aim to be elected again. It’s the classic case of the people who are in power maybe should not be in power. Having little relevant knowledge in this area I propose a different system, where the average needs of the population are not represented by a political party but are represented by a randomly selected number of the population who would likely be closer to the needs of society than many current political parties. This group of randomly chosen subjects may better represent the average ideals of a population for a small period of time before being replaced by another randomly chosen group to continue governance. The power of this system may be that on average people would relish the opportunity to make real changes, being motivated by the issues they believe are important rather than maintaining the personal egos every human being has the challenge of controlling. They might source the views and ideas of anyone from society, scholarly or otherwise. This might create a governance system that would more likely produce responsible decisions, ensuring the governance of their country has a greater balance between the short term needs and longer term goals. It’s an idea, so why not share it. I’m sure there could be hours of debate as to how such a system could be implemented or even work. It highlights the importance of embracing natural variation in ideas from all walks of life being ‘well-educated’ or otherwise. Using a wider selection of ideas from society, then, in this case, using the method of averages may provide the logical culling of outlier ideas and develop a system more akin to the process of natural selection.  Academic institutions and the people who study philosophy within them play their part in a wider system, where greater integration with society as a whole would allow quicker reactions to environmental changes.

An Ode to Methane

Contributed by: Neil Clark

We all know the swamps stink,

That cows fart as they moo,

But have you ever stopped to think

Of microscopic poo?

Alright, I’ll level with you. It isn’t going to win any prizes. I’m saving my best material to describe my PhD through interpretive dance. Until that day comes around, you’re going to have to make do with this blog entry to find out more about the fascinating world of plankton poo…

I will start by posing your very self a question: what do you know about plankton? I have to say that they didn’t play a particularly vital part in the first twenty or so years of my life. However, I do vividly remember my first conscious experience of plankton.

A ctenophore, or comb jelly. Picture from Wikipedia.

I was learning to dive, out in the open sea for the very first time, on the beautiful West coast of Scotland. My instructor and I were floating on top of the water waiting for my peers to surface, all of us having scattered in various directions as newbies are wont to do. It was a deliciously sunny day, despite the frosty grasp of the Atlantic, and I decided to look across the surface of the water a couple of inches down, curious as to the visibility of the water. Right in front of my mask was a comb jelly. I had no idea what this creature was, and if it could or couldn’t sting me, but once the initial shock had passed I took a closer look, emboldened by the great big pane of glass between the two of us. I was gobsmacked. There was… A RAINBOW ON IT!! A shimmering myriad of colours danced across this transparent peanut right in front of me as its cilia beating for movement inadvertently scattered the incoming light; this is a spectacle best seen for yourself.

Cool, eh?

So, of course, I told all landlubbers who were unfortunate enough to be in contact with me about this crazy little thing I’d manage to neglect all my life, despite swimming in the sea since I was a mini-Neil. As is always the case, unfortunately, this unbridled childlike wonderment didn’t last forever – forgotten for things that were, well, easy to see. So it was with a certain nostalgia a few years later that I passed the very spot where I learned to dive when attending a PhD interview at SAMS, in Oban. This PhD was, fittingly enough, on plankton.

Now, having a background degree predominately in terrestrial concerns, this PhD made me ask myself a new question: what do we all collectively know about plankton in the current day? It turns out that the answer to that is probably the same as what went through your head at my first question: ‘naff all’. Or nowhere near as much as we could, at least.

Methane distribution in the Pacific. From Tilbrook & Karl, 1995.

The Ocean Methane Paradox

So this allows me rather seamlessly to introduce you to the brilliantly dramatic-sounding concept behind my PhD: The Ocean Methane Paradox. In a nutshell, the ocean is a source of the greenhouse gas methane to the atmosphere and we believe that plankton are at least partially responsible for this.

The Paradox (it must be denoted by a capital ‘P’, for grandeur) itself derives from the fact that the first couple of hundred of metres of the open ocean have been routinely observed to contain a lot of methane, but also a lot of oxygen (see fig.). The problem with this is that the tiny archaea that release methane when they make energy (methanogens) absolutely cannot do so in the presence of oxygen. Therein lies the Paradox – how can these little guys be producing methane in an area where they shouldn’t even exist?

There are a number of hypotheses suggesting reasons for this, but this blog post will introduce you to the one I am currently investigating: this where the plankton come into it. You may not know it, but crustaceans the size of a pin-head live by their tens, hundreds or even thousands in every square metre of surface seawater globally. They are called copepods. I am concerned with pelagic copepods, meaning those that spend their entire lives floating in the ocean, never touching solid land. They eat all sorts of things, and due to this, they defecate. You see, it is possible that right in the middle of their faeces a miniscule area exists where there is no net flux of oxygen, and so our methane-producers can thrive. To make it an even sweeter deal, the faeces can be very rich in certain compounds the methanogens love, which is likely to very dependent upon the plankton’s source of food.

Many species of copepod can be found in our oceans, some of which are remarkably beautiful. From Ernst Haeckel’s Kunstformen der Natur.

Despite the size of the individual copepods, it is very much a case of strength in numbers – they can cumulatively pack quite the punch and produce a lot of gas. You may be saying to yourself ‘the quantities we are dealing with must pale in comparison to methane produced from the sea bed’, or ‘surely submarine volcanoes produce more methane’, but the fact is that the majority of oceanic methane is rapidly oxidised for energy by methanotrophic bacteria and archaea before it can reach the atmosphere. Since our Paradoxical methane is located near the ocean-atmosphere interface, it could be possible that plankton and their associated microbes are responsible for a large part of the net flux of methane from the oceans to the atmosphere, comprising 1-4% of global methane emissions.

This is all fine justification for studying my PhD topic, but is essentially a roundabout way of saying that I’m spending years of my life obsessing over minute turds. Not even The Ocean Methane Paradox can regain me any semblance of credibility now I’ve told you that.

Hi-tech rubber ducks: drifters, gliders and Argo

Contributed by: Sam Jones

Glider at surface, waiting to be rescued!

Things are tense on board Discovery.  Suddenly everyone finds a reason to be on deck to witness our 4,000 ton ship maneuver with infinite care towards the ocean glider, now lifeless and floating on the surface.  It looks tiny against the vast backdrop of the Atlantic Ocean.  This glider has been at sea for a week; the others will continue to travel for months and cover huge distances on their minimal power requirements.

We’re coming to the end of a three-week cruise to the edge of the continental shelf, part of a study into the transition from the deep ocean to shallow shelf seas.  The gliders are an invaluable part of this research: for us, it’s like having four extra ships sampling simultaneously.  The term ‘underwater aircraft’ best describes their propulsion mechanism: they literally fly though the sea on small swept wings, to my mind a very aesthetic way to conduct marine physics.

To understand their place in ocean science, let’s step back a few decades.  When oceanography was solely conducted from the back of ships, our knowledge of the deep sea was sparse.  A glance at any major ocean on Google Earth illustrates the problem: they’re simply enormous expanses of water, too big to sample effectively using ship-borne instruments alone.  The advent of satellite imaging allowed scientists to visualise entire oceans for the first time but crucially only the ‘surface skin’ is seen from space.  The vast majority of the water column, and all of its dynamic internal currents and processes, remains invisible.

In order to work out what’s going on beneath the surface, nothing beats actually being there.  Some observations came from unexpected sources; for instance in 1992 a storm washed 30,000 plastic bath toys off a container ship in the North Pacific.  Their arrival in locations ranging from Alaska to Japan gave oceanographers the opportunity to test their models against real-life data.  Modern drifting buoys are not dissimilar: imagine a rubber duck with a GPS transmitter fitted to it.  It goes wherever the current goes, and you can track its progress remotely.  If you want to know the currents at 50 metres depth, simply attach a weighted drogue (like an underwater sail) on to 50 metres of rope, and your drifter’s trajectory now represents that of the deeper current.

A descending Argo float

The Argo project takes this concept a stage further.  Argo comprises 3,000 robotic drifting floats, scattered throughout the world’s oceans.  Each float can alter its buoyancy by inflating or deflating a bladder from an oil reservoir, allowing it to sink to 1-2 km beneath the surface.  It remains here for 10 days, traveling with deep currents which transport vast amounts of water and energy around the globe.  It then rises rapidly to the surface, measuring physical properties during its ascent.  In this way we have both a horizontal and vertical measurement from the float, which can repeat this cycle for many years without human input.

It’s hard to overstate the value of the 3,000 floats combined.  They have improved data coverage in both time and space by several orders of magnitude, providing real-time measurements from the most remote and inhospitable parts of the planet.

Applications include hurricane observation, ENSO (El Nino) forecasting, ocean dynamics and global change analysis.  They even contribute to our weather forecasts: the subsurface temperature of the Atlantic strongly influences future weather patterns over the UK.

Argo float locations in the North Atlantic on 5th July 2012. The trajectory of one float has been highlighted in red, and its temperature cross-section measured over its 5 year journey is shown.  Copyright Google, Argo.

After my Master’s degree I worked for the British Oceanographic Data Centre in Liverpool, and was fortunate enough to be involved with Argo.  To me it seemed to embody the best parts of international science; 30 countries working together towards a common goal, a classic example of a whole being greater than the sum of its parts.  My role at BODC was to maintain the data-stream from UK Argo floats, and it’s certainly interesting to find myself, having started a PhD in physical oceanography, using that data in pursuit of scientific goals.  The immediate consequence for me is that if I need physical ocean data from almost anywhere in the world in the last 10 years, chances are it will be there, and in sufficient quantities to do something useful with.

A snapshot of current speeds generated by the  Forecasting Ocean Assimilation Model, to which Argo contributes. This illustrates the complexity inherent in ocean physics! The Gulf Stream is the most prominent feature in this image.  Copyright Met Office

One drawback of Argo is that, for the most part it is a passive observing system.  If I want to take a measurement at a specific location I can’t simply tell a float to go there, any more than I could control the movements of the intrepid rubber ducks in the Pacific.

This, in a roundabout way, brings us back to gliders.  Mechanically, they resemble Argo floats but their wings and guidance system allow them to fly through the water, opening up a world of possibilities for research.  They can travel thousands of kilometres between preset waypoints or, as in our present case, continue to methodically sample the same location long after the ship has docked and we’ve all gone home.  Whilst currently used for discrete experiments it’s hoped that they will complement Argo in a future robotic ocean observation network.

Turbulence glider being recovered onto the deck of RRS Discovery

Back on board Discovery, our glider has been deftly plucked from the sea and will be checked and calibrated before its next mission.  Development is ongoing; this version has been fitted with a turbulence sensor to measure the cascade of energy from oceanic to centimetre scales.  In theory, it should be the perfect platform for turbulence measurement as it moves at a low speed with little vibration or noise.

I’ve only scraped the surface of current marine technology, but having arrived at this PhD from an engineering background I wanted to share my enthusiasm for some of the ingenious devices which not only survive in the hostile marine environment, but gather persistent, 3D ocean data which can be viewed in real time via the internet.  In my opinion, it’s an exciting time to be an oceanographer!

Argo has a Google Earth app which lets you explore the present locations and data from the fleet: http://argo.jcommops.org/argo

 At the time of writing, three FASTNEt gliders remain at sea, and you can see their live data at http://www.noc.soton.ac.uk/omf/projects/glider/data.php .  SAMS scientists also released 20 drifters from RRS Discovery in mid-June; you can follow their fate for the next year or so here: http://martech.sams.ac.uk/fastnet/map_all.php

Lightly Carbonated seawater and the Media Machine

Contributed by:  Peter Taylor

The story starts during one evening recently, when I happened to go to the local garage to fill up the car. On entering the booth to pay my dues the guy at the till said something like “Hold on to your hats, someone famous has just walked in”. OK, I paraphrase there. I looked around, but was the only person there. This left me more than a little confused – was there an Oban wide Police Alert for me? Was I in the local paper as a well deserving lottery winner? Probably not. So, what’s up?

Admittedly, it’s a lot easier to confuse me than I would like anyone to know, but calling me famous just seemed at odds with reality. A student, a scabby car full of fire-wood for the winter, a grubby shirt covered in mud from rummaging around for sticks and someone who happens to put in a reasonably regular appearance without ever having received that response before.

“Hmmm”, thought I, “where is my witty banter and swift repartee when I need it most?…drat…, missed the chance already”.

After a few blank looks, shrugs of the shoulder and a seeming age of incomprehension on my part, the guy at the till evidently took pity on me. I’d been on the TV. The BBC no less, that bastion of worldwide reporting excellence. OK, it was the Gaelic news (I don’t speak Gaelic), but that didn’t really matter, as I haven’t watched the TV for weeks – I’d been busy elsewhere. Again, that didn’t really matter, as I’d been on the BBC!!! How cool is that!?!

Apparently, I’d been doing an experiment. In a lab. With loads of wee bottles. None of which left me much the wiser. Then I remembered, with the slow dawning of memory, back in the mists of several weeks ago, that Andreas, a reporter for BBC Alba, filmed me decanting water into wee bottles. That must have been it. The lights came on.

I had never expected the film to be used for anything. Was my lab coat dirty? I seem to remember the bench being a little cluttered. Did I look unprofessional? Will my supervisor see my folly and tell me that the whole experiment is meaningless? Phew, my supervisor doesn’t speak Gaelic either… Possibly I might have just about got away with it…but, what if…

All these worries and more instantly materialised in my mind. It was only much later that I reflected on the fact that a PhD student – actually doing relevant science and conducting an experiment – had been on the BBC news. Not only that but, knowing Andreas, the news item he presented was almost certainly relevant, informative and interesting. It’s a shame I missed it. So how on Earth does that sort of thing come about?

The answer lies in the lightly carbonated sea water that we were generating hereabouts. SAMS is a partner in (and host of) an experiment co-ordinating the release of Carbon Dioxide gas into the sediments below the sea floor, for a period of 30 days (http://www.bgs.ac.uk/qics/). The idea is to simulate the impact of a leak from a CO₂ reservoir or injection facility on the sea-floor environment. One of the major applications of this research will be to inform decision makers in the government, as well as public bodies, about the level of ecosystem and environmental damage caused by a leak from Carbon Capture and Storage (CCS) infrastructure and reservoirs, whatever the chances of such a leak may be (which is another discussion for another day).

A Horizontal Directional Drilling (HDD) rig, drilling the QICS well.

The experiment has involved a great deal of work prior to the injection phase. A well had to be drilled (!) that is nearly 400m long, deviated to between 15 degrees below horizontal to 5 degrees above horizontal, steered by a team hired especially for the task. Permissions had to be sought and granted before we could even commence.

 

The drilling rig being hauled through Tralee Bay Holidays

Therefore without the co-operation of the local community we would have sunk before we even started. The drilling phase had the potential to be noisy, with heavy traffic through a caravan site and to a near-by recreational jetty – this in an area where people come on holiday for peace, quiet and a lack of traffic. The release phase and the monitoring means that we had to request fishers locally to avoid a small area of the bay, as their equipment may damage sensitive monitoring gear that we had placed on the sea floor. Just the passage of a trawl could set the experiment back to square one, even supposing it somehow missed the equipment. The CO₂ cylinders were locked in a container, but if someone wanted to disrupt the experiment we were sure that they could.

Bubbles of carbon dioxide coming out of the sea floor.

All this meant that we had to embark on an information exercise. Let everyone know what we are doing, why we are doing it and what we expect the value of this research to be. Let them know what some of us at SAMS get up to, be approachable, communicate the science so that that non-scientists would understand, put up a few posters with questions and answers, hold public meetings, hold an open day at the injection site, involve the other partners in helping to raise the profile of the experiment and other exercises. We made much of the fact that this is a world first experiment, never before conducted. We added that high profile scientists are visiting Oban from throughout the UK and as far away asJapan because there is so much to learn from this experiment. It has a global reach and a global relevance. All based near a town that in the most of the rest of Europe may be termed a village – a town with a population only slightly above 8,000.

Senior members of the project were first interviewed by the local press, then the local radio. BBC Alba conducted an interview during the drilling phase. Before I knew it, we were being discussed in the Guardian, the Daily Express, by the BBC Science and Environment correspondent as well as several bloggers. We even got a mention in the Caravan Times. A second BBC interview was conducted during the release phase and a Facebook group was set up to help inform locals about day to day issues and activities, when they would see our boats going back and forwards between the lab and the experiment site and what we were actually doing.

The end result is a generally favourable opinion of our science in the local community, with a great deal of cooperation from everyone impacted by the experiment in any way. Many people have come to realise that we are not advocating, or opposing, CCS, we are simply studying the impact of a leak from a CCS scheme. In short, whether they support CCS as a good thing, or think it is a useless waste of money, either way, our science will be unbiased and will give them information that no-one had before.

It’s been a strange experience, to be honest. I came here 9 months ago to do a PhD looking at benthic biogeochemistry – guddling around in mud. I would be working along-side a project that had been 2 years in the planning. I attended an open evening and read a few paragraphs in the local paper. I missed the interview on Oban FM (don’t tell anyone). I attempted to atone for this by setting up the Facebook group and making a few useful comments. Then, out of nowhere that I could discover, we were being talked about by national media. Recently things had seemed to quieten down a little as the release phase came to an end. I had begun to think that the frenzy was over, but apparently not. I might become famous after all.