Finding Neutral Buoyancy: An Intersection of Ecology and Feminism through Innovative Pedagogy

Zooxanthellae. A musically scientific term. Zoh–ZAN–thelly. It's one of the few words my students are required to learn to spell.

A photosynthetic algae, zooxanthellae are the physical rainbow of the coral reef. They reside inside coral polyps, providing oxygen and nutrients to the coral. A colorful example of a symbiotic relationship between algae and animal.

A few coral species have colored skeletons—some red corals of the Mediterranean and black corals of the deep. These are the corals of jewelry, tiny branching specimens hung on necklace chains for good luck. But most corals are actually bright white, and when the sea temperature gets too high or the coral finds itself otherwise stressed, they eject the zooxanthellae. Hence, a bleached coral reef.

This is one of the many mysteries of the sea, one of the almost inexplicable relationships between species that give rise to astonishing biodiversity and productivity. When I speak of coral reefs with my students, I can't help but resort to using poetry. I find marine ecosystems magical.

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I used to be a marine ecologist, training volunteers to monitor the health of coral reefs in the Florida Keys and, later, studying ways to restore reefs that had been damaged by ship groundings. I logged many, many hours underwater, armed with a clipboard and a special pen that worked in salt water, trailing a measuring tape over long fingers of reef. I identified and counted fish and tallied percent cover of dead and diseased coral. I learned to pause, to float quietly above the reef, looking carefully in crevices and under ledges for camouflaged octopuses. I hauled heavy air tanks and scuba gear up and over the transom of boats both big and small. I was young and in love with the blue-green tropical sea.

My enthusiasm was useful for my job, a bit contagious for the older, retired volunteers who had the time and resources to spend days diving alongside me. But when I began my graduate research, I had to quickly develop a new toughness, the ability to carefully and quickly collect specimens of sponge larvae, the familiarity for using power drills and UV glass to create experimental plates for growing baby sponges, and the physical strength to operate both my scuba and research equipment. I also had to get used to being the only woman on a boat full of men, who casually joked with each other, jockeyed for control of the steering wheel, and mostly ignored my presence except to eye my tight wetsuit. Research like this wasn't about monitoring the health of the reefs. To me, it seemed solely about finding something, anything, to proclaim about the science of coral reefs that would get us published.

Perhaps not surprisingly, I didn't make it in the field of marine science. Although I developed a series of research questions while diving on coral reefs, I actually answered those questions in the tattered remnants of urban forests nearer to my home. The ocean, it seemed, was not for me.

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A decade later, I was invited to join an Explorers Club expedition to the Jardines de la Reina, the "Gardens of the Queen," in Cuba. The family of one of my students extended this invitation, excited to have someone who worked on coral reefs on board. I felt like an imposter—I am not a real coral reef ecologist. But I had been following coral reef science advances and did know that Cuba provided an interesting opportunity to consider what other more damaged Caribbean coral reefs might have looked like. Decades of protection, from both fishing and tourists, have left these reefs in much better condition than their neighbors.

Our group included CEOs, environmental advocates, photographers, and a TV personality. We spent a week aboard the Avalon, a luxury liveaboard boat anchored about sixty miles off the southern coast of Cuba. I got to know my student and her father and admired their ease in the water. They were great at spotting feather worms, small nudibranchs, and other treasures on the...