Welcome to ze undehrzea world. . .

. . . as the late Mr. Cousteau would say.

Those who know me well may recall a time when I was obsessed with sharks, dolphins, and the rest of the underwater world. It peaked when I was in Junior High, so around ages 11 to 13. When I was much younger, as soon as I was able to think about what an astronaut was, I wanted to be one. The idea of exploring the universe, and helping to expand humanity outward into the unknown was exciting to me. In 1986, the space shuttle Challenger exploded, and America's manned space program did a nose dive in terms of popularity and public confidence. As a six year old, my interest turned to frontiers of exploration that didn't involve the risk of dying in a ball of fire. I decided I wanted to be an Oceanographer. Like many children, I was interested in dolphins because I had heard they had intelligence that was comparable to our own, and because they were cute enough to be considered non-threatening and friendly. Perhaps unlike many children, I was also very interested in sharks.

If dolphins could be thought of as the friendly guides and helpers of the undersea world, then sharks fit the profile as villains. But they also had a mystery to them that attracted my interest. I used every opportunity to learn more about them, use them as a subject of a report in school, read every caption in the shark encounter at sea world, etc. I learned all about how sharks had been given a bad reputation in the public mind by movies like Jaws and by general ignorance and common misconceptions. They are wild animals, of course, and have the physical ability to overpower and kill humans. But so do many other life forms in nature. Why are sharks regarded with even more fear than other animals that cause more human injuries and deaths per unit time than sharks?

I think part of it is because the ocean is a place where we humans are out of our element. If you think about it, exploring the ocean really is like exploring a different world. The simple fact that the ocean's fluid (liquid water) is much more dense than the atmosphere's fluid (air) means that more life forms in the ocean can move in 3 dimensions (east-west, north-south, and up-down) than can easily do so on land. Shark's have had their physical form perfected by 300 million years of natural selection, and so can move much more efficiently underwater than humans can.

The first time I went Scuba diving, I knew it was something I was going to love. It literally exposes you to an entirely different world; one where you are free to move in all three dimensions. When you're diving, you can fly, move upside down, levitate, and move in pretty much any way you can think of.

While pusuing space science as a career, I've finally found a sustainable way to pursue diving/oceanography as a hobby. I've recently qualified as a volunteer diver at the Long Beach Aquarium of the Pacific. As a lowly exhibit diver, I enter the larger exhibits (Blue Cavern, a Baja California Pacific exhibit, and Tropical Lagoon, an exhibit with creatures found in tropical waters) to feed the fish and clean the false coral. On my second shift, I was told it was time I learn to feed "the puppies". To my diving teammates, "the puppies" are the leopard sharks.

Now, leopard sharks are certainly nothing to fear. They don't really have teeth, per se. They usually just inhale their food like a ray does. They can be found at petting pools with bat rays and sting rays, where people can pet them without fear of being bitten. All the same, I had been told that the Aquarium's leopard sharks could be fairly aggressive at feeding time. People had been known to have their fingers nibbled while feeding a shark, or having them caught in the shark's mouth when it sucks in a piece of squid or a sardine, with the shark shaking its head like a terrier. Again, they don't have teeth like a great white shark's, so the key is to remain calm and just wait till the "puppy" lets go. The worst it could do was do give you a hickey (as had happened to other divers in the past) or a bruise. Still, there is a stigma about sharks in general, and several divers are simply unwilling to feed them, opting for other assignments instead.

So with a thorough briefing from an experienced diver, I entered the Blue Cavern exhibit with my bucket of sardines and squid, and dropped to my knees on the cobblestone bottom, about 28 feet below the surface. The puppies found me immediately, and knew it was time to be fed. They did all they could to try and get into the bucket, whose contents were protected by a neoprene cover. The other fish in the exhibit (sheepheads, barracuda, yellowtail, sea bass) were also very interested, and swarmed around me as well. It was all I could do to make sure that the leopard sharks got the sardines and squid instead of all the other fish. The leopard sharks were fun, though. They came up from underneath, down over my shoulder, through my Scuba hoses. . . One almost knocked my mask off my face! I reminded myself that they could do me no real harm, and did my best to give them their lunch. A few of the morsels were snatched by other fish, but on the whole the leopard sharks ate pretty well, and I was none the worse for wear. After I was out of food, I spent the remainder of my dive blowing bubbles and doing underwater acrobatics for the children watching from the other side of the glass. They waved and giggled. Perhaps some of them are future oceanographers.

It's funny how the different things we do in life fulfill us in different ways. In my involvement in space studies, I have been fulfilling one of my interests in exploration, but I have often felt the lack of fulfillment for that part of me that wants to be an oceanographer; to be embraced by nature. Though it may seem strange, being surrounded by 3 or 4 leopard sharks all trying to be fed certainly felt like being embraced by nature. Maybe the draw of this is much simpler. Maybe it's just the thrill of trying something new. Variety is the spice of life, and hopefully the resulting flavor is happiness.

My Arch Nemesis

Who could it be? Who makes my blood boil? Who, when I approach them, knowing that only they can give me what I need, looks at me with an un-moving, in-human face, promising to make my life more difficult?

Answer: The copy machine. That diabolical contraption with hundreds of moving parts; built to help mankind, but somehow frustrates us beyond belief. The copy machine. For the past few weeks, it has been my arch nemesis.

This quarter, I am a teaching assistant for UCLA's course ESS 9: The Solar System and Planets. Every week on Thursday morning, I make 86 copies of the lab handout to give to my 86 students. Every week I put my fate in the hands of a whirring plastic-and-metal beast the size of a juvenile buffalo. And every week this beast arbitrarily decides whether to make my morning easy or difficult. More often than not, it's the latter.

I want to save paper. Save a tree!, they tell me. Ok. I will tell the copy machine to print all 4 pages of the handout onto two pieces of paper, by printing on both sides. 1 side to 2-side copying? No problem! shouts the copy machine, grinning a little too widely to be sincere, that's-a mah special-tee! 86 copies? Psh. Child's play. And here I go. . . I'm a making your copies. . . and out comes the first all nice and crisp. . . and here comes the second.. . and we're doin pretty good. . and BUZZZZZZZZ!!!!!!.

The instrument panel lights up like a christmas tree. Apparently there is something wrong with absolutely every part of the copy machine, and the LCD screen is kind enough to show me all 22 steps I need to take to un-clog the machination. Open the left cover, wind the spool to make it spit out the paper, open the internal door, careful don't touch that part because it will burn your skin off, find the paper that got crunched when the copier was trying to flip it over, rip the paper out and make sure and grab every last piece of it so it doesn't gum up the gearworks, now open the right cover. . . it just goes on like this.

Got me all unclogged? asks Mr. Copier as if it was my fault. Good, now I can continue. And here I go. . . out comes the BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!

Lather rinse repeat.

Preventative action does not seem to apply here. The copier rolls dice to decide whether or not it will malfunction. Eventually, I'm able to force out all 86 of my copies, some with unsightly ink marks, others a bit crumpled from me yanking them out of the bowels of the machine. I turn on my heal, hard won copies in hand, and step solemnly away. I am at the mercy of this beast. I will be back next week to negotiate with it. I must have it's product. Despite it's shortcomings, it is the best copy machine in the building. It knows how important it is. It toys with me because it can. It is that for which I have the utmost contempt, and the utmost respect. The copy machine: My arch nemesis.

Good Night, and Good Luck.

Reg and I went to see an interesting movie tonight. Film would be a more appropriate label, I suppose. People tend to use the term "film" to indicate that the show is worthy of a little more consideration intellectually; that it has merit beyond it's entertainment value. Good Night, and Good Luck was about the efforts of Edward R. Murrough, a newsman with CBS in the early 1950's, to expose Senator Joe McCarthy for his unjust and misleading methods of questioning those he would put in the spotlight as having ties to communism. The movie glorified Murrough for his brave decision to stand up and call Senator McCarthy out for doing something that should not be tolerated in a country where individuals rights are assured by the constitution. It reminded me of the parable about the Emperor's New Clothes, where an Emperor is convinced by a wily trickster that he is wearing the finest clothes in the land. The trickster acts as if only those truly worthy can see the clothes, and so the Emperor, not wanting to look stupid, pretends that he can see them, and his entourage follows suit. Everybody just goes along with the idea that the Emperor, actually naked, is wearing fine new clothes, until someone finally points out that it's all hogwash.

The news media certainly has its problems, but it is also vital in its influence on people's opinions (and votes) regarding major social and political issues in this country. It's nice to hope that not all people in the news media are simply after money and sensationalism, but the actual truth, and the preservation of the ideals of liberty. Since the invention of the television, and now the amplified power of the internet, the majority of the population bases their opinions on information that is presented to them by news organizations. The media have a great amount of power and responsibility when it comes to what happens in this country, and the freedom of speech is a vital part of the checks and balances that allow us to live without fear of repression. I am probably a bit of an idealist, but I like to think that people are generally good, and are motivated by either their desire to improve their own situation, or the situation of others. It may not always be a realistic view, but I can at least hope that there is a significant fraction of people working in the news organizations that are motivated by the latter.

It is interesting to me that George Clooney has written and directed this film, given that he has shown his political opinions about freedom of speech in the past. Terry Gross interviewed him on Fresh Air a few days ago, and he spoke about how he and other Hollywood celebrities were outspoken against the Iraq War in its early days, and how various politicians and news organizations referred to them as "traitors" because they (the celebrities) did not believe in the claims the Bush administration put forth about the reasons for going to war. Since September 11th, it seems that those who speak out with the cool voice of caution and reason are trumped (at least on the front page or in prime time) by those who cloak themselves in the veil of patriotism, which is used as a backstage pass for many actions that later seem a bit ridiculous. Those who don't support the Iraq War have been labeled as unpatriotic. I recall a debate between Bush and Kerry last year in which Bush said that Kerry was projecting a non-presidential attitude by implying he did not support the war. Bush was basically saying that the troops would feel betrayed if Kerry was elected, since Kerry did not support the war, and therefore did not appreciate the sacrifices they were making. Patriotism is an easy out for someone who wants the public to forego basic reasoning, and rally blindly to the flag.. . but I digress.

This film about McCarthyism may be as topical in today's political environment as Arthur Miller's The Crucible was in the McCarthy era; though it's unlikely this film will be as lasting or as well remembered.

Anyway, it was a good flick, and I thought I'd think out loud for a bit.

Good night, and good luck.

Sky rockets in flight, after-dark delight

When it comes to launching spacecraft, the U.S. federal government has two main installations. The Eastern Range is comprised of the launch pads at Cape Canaveral Air Force Station and Kennedy Space Center in Cocoa Beach, Florida. This is where they launch the space shuttle and all other manned spacecraft. Also, all interplanetary spacecraft and any Earth-orbiting satellite with an inclination (angle the satellite's trajectory makes with the equator) less than 57 degrees launches from the Eastern Range. These spacecraft take off toward the east or northeast, taking advantage of the fact that the Earth already rotates in that direction, giving the satellite a boost of angular momentum. The 57 degree limit (which at least applies to space shuttle launches) comes from the fact that, if a satellite launched in a direction that is more than 57 degrees toward the north, it would be launching over populated areas of the east coast. People don't appreciate it when debris from spacecraft (or the shuttle's solid rocket boosters) fall on them from the sky. The ascent stages of these rockets need to occur over unpopulated areas, and the Atlantic Ocean fits that bill. Note: not all countries have that luxury in their spaceport location. Russian rockets taking off from Plesetsk Cosmodrome in Russia, or Baikonour Cosmodrome in Kazakhstan, have been known to rain debris down over the rural plains. Farmers have been known to sell pieces of Russian spacecraft to supplement their income.

The Western Range is located at Vandenberg Air Force Base near Point Arguello, north of Santa Barbara, California. This launch site is less talked about, probably since no manned spaceflights are launched there, and no interplanetary missions either. This site specializes in polar orbitting satellites. The Eastern range can't deliver polar orbits, since there are populated areas both due north (east coast) and due south (islands of the Carribean, and South America). The Western Range, however, has a clear path over the Pacific Ocean to the south. Vandenberg also is the launch site for various military launches, including Minuteman ICBM's, which it launches (without armed warheads, of course) toward the South Pacific for test purposes.

Launches from Vandenberg can be visible by residents of much of the southwest United States, depending on the lighting conditions. Last night, Thursday September 22nd, there was an especially cool launch. At 7:24 pm Pacific Daylight Time, not long after sunset, a Minotaur rocket launched the "Streak" satellite (a DARPA - Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency project) into a polar orbit. Since the sun had set for southern California, it was nice and dark on the ground. As the rocket gained altitude, it re-entered sunlight. This resulted in the rocket's exhaust being illuminated by the sun, while the rest of the sky was dark. A beautiful sight. I took a few snapshots from the roof of my apartment building in Sherman Oaks. You can see the other snapshots at: http://www.kodakgallery.com/I.jsp?c=l18zr2p.a18pmpx&x=0&y=nehon4. While Vandenberg launches something once every month or so, a nice, visible, dusk launch like this is a bit more rare, occurring every few years or so.

Having grown up in San Diego, I had seen the remnant exhaust trails of such launches before, but I'd never watched one while it was actually happening. It was beautiful! It looked like a giant comet shooting skyward.
For more infor on Vandenberg's rocket launches, and other space events relevant to the southern California area, check out SpaceArchive: http://www.spacearchive.info/index.htm

David Galvan and the Half-Blood Donation

I think Samuel L. Jackson said it best in the fine piece of film de cinema, The Negotiator, when he screamed at the police helicopters, "You want my blood?! TAKE MY BLOOD!"

In the spirit of Mr. Jackson's enthusiastic endorsement of blood donation, I headed down to the UCLA Blood and Platelet Center in Westwood this morning to make one myself. A little background is in order here. The first time I donated blood was a little less than a year ago. It arose from two motivations: 1.) guilt for not having donated before, and 2.) the desire to overcome fear.

As to the first motivation, I do not mean that anyone should be meant to feel guilty for not donating blood. Such a donation is a very personal and heartfelt act (so to speak), and each person has their own reasons for doing it or not. Everybody certainly has the right to decide what to do with their own body, afterall. But, for me personally, I felt a little guilty. Many times in college, when working in Houston, and now in grad school, I had seen advertisements and solicitations to participate in blood drives. I had watched others come back from giving blood, knowing that there was no physical reason why I could not do the same. I also knew that blood donations were essential to helping people in need.

The reason I didn't donate is because I felt an aversion to the actual process. I don't have a problem with needles used for injection. Give me a tetanus shot or an innoculation any time. But there is something about sliding a needle into one of my veins and seeing my lifeblood flow slowly out of my body through a winding tube that gives me the creeps, even though I know it is completely safe for me. The fact that I felt this psychological aversion to the process, and that it was keeping me from doing something that could help other people, led me to feel guilty. That, in turn, led me to the second motivation.

Back in my days as a Boy Scout, I learned a definition for bravery, which is a part of the Scout Law. ("A Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent.”) Bravery is not the lack of fear. It is the ability to take action and do what is right, despite the fear. I felt that the fear I had of donating blood was not well founded, and even a little selfish. So I decided to make a blood donation in order to overcome that fear.

My first donation went fine. I was sort of nervous going in, I tried not to look at my blood flowing through the tube, and I felt a little light headed afterwards, but other than that it was a success. I walked out feeling triumphant and manly. (. . . while munching my cookie. . . and sipping my Juicy Juice. . . out of a bendy straw. Ahem.)

My second attempt at a donation didn’t go as well. Five minutes or so into the donation, the nurse noticed that my blood was flowing rather slowly. This could be a problem since, the slower the blood moves, the more likely it is to clot at the needle, which would slow it down even more. She told me to clench the squeezy toy in my hand more often, to help pump the blood out, but it was no use. After a short time, the blood had essentially slowed to a stop. What’s more, they told me they would not be able to use the blood already in the collection bag. I asked why, and this is the answer I got: the collection bags have a certain amount of anti-coagulant in them to keep the blood from clotting while it’s being collected (the bag is rocked back and forth on a machine, to help with this as well.) The amount of anti-coagulant is based on the volume of blood the bag can hold (these ones expect a donation of ~400- 450 mL). If there is not enough blood in the bag, the ratio of anti-coagulant to blood will be off, which will somehow render the blood unusable for donation purposes. The nurse suggested that perhaps I had not been hydrated enough, making my blood was unusually thick. She said I should try to drink a lot of water next time. I left disappointed, but determined to try again.

Which brings us to this morning. I spent all week making sure I was drinking ~8 glasses of water a day, loaded up on fluids this morning, and walked into the donation center to make my great comeback. I warned my nurse about what happened last time, told her how I’d been drinking lots of water, and she made preparations to better coax out my blood. If you’ve ever held my hands, you know that they are typically pretty cold. I think I have poor circulation in my extremities due to low blood pressure, small arteries/veins, or something. Heat should help keep the veins from constricting too much, so I’m told, so the nurse gave me a microwaved bag of fluid to hold in my hand, instead of a squeezy toy. Aside from hydration, blood pressure (mine is a tad lower than average, but not by all that much), and heat, another factor that could affect the flow rate is the placement of the IV needle. My nurse clearly had many years of experience doing this, and she expertly slid the needle in place. It was quick and almost painless. She monitored the flow closely.

Things were going fine for a while. Then, about halfway through the donation, my blood decided to slack off again. She piled on more warm bags of fluid, did something to the tube that was supposed to help move the blood along, rubbed my arm, even gently changed the needle’s orientation a little, all to no avail. A couple of other nurses came over and puzzled over the problem, suggesting different things to one another as to how to get my blood flowing better. Everything seemed to have been tried. Again, we had to abort. I had not quite filled the collection bag halfway. The nurses shrugged and apologized that my donation hadn’t worked out, and I apologized that my blood was so lazy. The only other thing they could think to suggest is that I try to use a vein in my other arm (all three attempts so far have been using my left arm). As I walked out, nurses were still shaking their heads: “. . . never seen that happen two times in a row!” Great.

It occurs to me that I am not a physically impressive specimen of humankind. My visual acuity is 20/400, I recently learned that I have flat feet, and apparently I can’t even bleed right. What am I, some sort of mummy? At least I know I’m not very likely to bleed to death.

I do intend to try again. This is something small I can do to try and help other people. Besides, its personal now. What, my blood isn’t good enough for you? You want my blood? TAKE MY BLOOD!