Born and raised in Puget Sound’s foothills, I was immersed in a childhood that had me on or near the region’s largest bodies of water, yearning to understand its power from a young age. The beauty, wonder, and serenity of the ocean’s ebb and flow, triumphant roll, and raw power was something I found myself connected to. When I wasn’t exploring the rocky coastline, camping in the state’s forested peninsulas, or plunging into the icy waters of the Salish Sea, I was lucky enough to spend time as a child with my grandmother along the shores of Maui.

For 30 foundational years, my grandma would not only help me explore her home state, but also share what made it special to her. After many two-week summer trips to my favorite place with my favorite person, I gradually felt a deep pull to the power of the ocean. I spent many of these years along Sugar Beach, exploring and diving beneath the waves in search of the species who called those salty ecosystems home. I was captivated by green sea turtles resting and sunning themselves along the sandy shore, colorful parrot fish scraping and strengthening critical Hawaiian reef systems, and playful spinner dolphins porpoising through the waves and performing intricate aerial shows. I know, I know, asking most budding marine biologists and conservationists what propelled them towards a career on the sea will yield responses echoing these ocean animal adoration sentiments. And to me, it is nothing but the truth. These experiences – spending the late summer with my family along the Washington coast watching seabirds soar or learning to hold my breath and dive deep under the waves while snorkeling in Hawaii with my grandma – were what launched my career. Transfixed by the Pacific’s beauty and power, I wanted to learn everything I could.

Clichés aside, one marine species lifted and empowered my career in environmental conservation. While I visited my grandma primarily during my summer breaks, wintertime in Hawaii was the most special to me. Winter in Maui brings a stampede of large, 35-ton, barnacle-encrusted giants: enter, the humpback whale. Humpbacks are the most vocal of all whales and can be heard squealing, groaning, or “singing;” divers, myself included, have been able to hear their intricate songs from miles away.

My grandma used to say, “You know, Lise, you could walk across water with how many whales are out there” – and she was right. Each fall, the North Pacific humpback whale population journeys from the productive waters of the North Pacific, exploding with rich phytoplankton, to the warm and safe bays of the Hawaiian archipelago. Slapping, fluking, and breaching, for the next three to four months, this acrobatic population stays to give birth and mate before beginning their annual migration back north toward Alaska’s chilly waters.

This migration pattern, which is one of the longest of any mammal on the planet, is pretty extraordinary when you think about the challenges these animals must face through their journey. While up north, mothers and their calves must avoid predation from killer whales, and often join with other adults in the act of bubble feeding to maximize their feeding potential. After their 3,000-mile trek south, pregnant females will give birth in shallow bays, care for their young, and mate. While I will never migrate as far as these whales, and don’t typically bubble feed before winter, I found myself reflecting on the parallels of their journey and my journey to SMEA.

My journey to SMEA, much like the arduous migrations of humpback whales across the Pacific, has included challenges I was forced to overcome. And like these whales who often prolong their migration and stop in Puget Sound to feed in the Salish Sea’s nutrient-rich waters, my journey to SMEA also took the long way. While my passion for marine science began at a young age and never wavered, my career in marine science had a few interruptions. Upon the completion of my undergraduate degree, I found myself pursuing a career in communications and public relations, interfacing with the public and storytelling for parts of Seattle’s tourism industry for just over six years. As COVID-19 spread through Seattle and the world, I shouldn’t have been surprised that I, sitting “securely” in my tourism-oriented career, would be among those who unexpectedly lost their jobs. Even though my career stopped in its tracks, and I no longer felt in control of the outcome, I realized that something I was still in control of was my ability to persevere, learn and grow. While jumping back into a career in communications felt like the logical choice, I chose instead to continue my journey in marine science.

Perseverance looks different in these two stories. While the North Pacific humpback whale population perseveres annually through the ocean’s many biological and anthropogenic challenges, I also found myself humbly persevering on a much smaller scale. I re-took STEM classes that had once challenged me, volunteered and spoke outwardly to the public despite my shyness, and spent my personal time exploring all the Seattle marine community had to offer. Despite my previous hesitations and expectations of what the Seattle whale watching industry may be like, I worked aboard a local whale watching vessel, learning the ins and outs of boating while helping to educate the public on the importance of these same humpback whales. Here, I also saw myself persevere, be challenged, and grow as I experienced a more educational and positive side of whale watching than I had expected. Like the whales who left the confinement of Puget Sound and continued south on their migration, my journey would mirror this continuation as I left that period of career uncertainty and enrolled in SMEA last fall.

As I’ve embarked on my graduate school journey and have a vague idea of what I want my career to actually look like, my post-graduation aspirations have continued to evolve. My quarterly journey has been shaped by professors and their rich expertise, colleagues and their lived experiences, and my preconceived notions of what I can and will do. Once a humpback female has given birth in the shallow, turquoise waters of Hawaii, it becomes mother to a calf in need of support and care. After an 11-month gestation period, calves are born ranging from about 13 to 16 feet long along shallow reef systems and will remain with their mothers for about one year before weaning. Swimming closely and often touching pectoral fins, mothers will care for their young throughout their entire journey north to Alaska where they will help them feed, protect them from predators with their large bodies, and show them the humpback way. These acts, such as bubble feeding, social skills, and migration routes, are passed from animal to animal, mother to calf, to prepare the younger generation for their annual journey.

Again, while I don’t know if I’ll ever find myself socially slapping my fluke fin or running from a pod of hungry killer whales, I found myself relating to this desire to teach the next generation of ocean lovers. Having spent the last four years volunteering with local community and educational organizations, I knew I wanted to take my new SMEA knowledge and apply it to community education and engagement. Like older humpbacks who teach their young to bubble feed in groups, I wanted to teach the next wave of scientists to work collaboratively and solve problems. Like humpbacks who act as sentinel species for ecosystem changes, I want to challenge and educate younger students to be a voice and speak up for their environment and communities, while creating space for those who historically haven’t had a chance to do so. Like these humpback adults who are shaping the lives and teaching juvenile calves, I knew I wanted to graduate from SMEA and do my part to teach younger generations to channel their love for the ocean that I too share.

This reflection motivates me through my first year at SMEA, figuring out my role in marine conservation, while Hawaii’s humpback whales are setting out on their journey to Alaska’s chilly and krill-y waters where they will spend the summer teaching, learning, and feeding. While they say, “it takes a village…” I truly believe it. This “village” encouraged the journey from my childhood to where I currently stand within my marine career and has been a concert of experiences, opportunities, and role models who have helped push me in the right direction. I had my family who taught me to experience and care about the natural world, teachers who introduced me to outdoor adventure and restoring our environment, and experiences that had me learning from and within the ocean itself. Like my grandmother and those throughout my childhood who helped shape my dreams and future, young humpback whales are introduced by their elders to the intricate art of bubble feeding and the migration route they will spend their lives swimming. While I now search for ways to learn and grow so that I can be a better mentor to aspiring marine scientists, adult humpback whales are watching over their young, preparing the next generation for life’s greatest journey and biggest steps. While I’m not sure what this educational journey will look like and still have one more year to figure it out, I see the need to work right alongside younger generations and motivate my new and old village to help shape and conserve the future of our natural world. So, like the North Pacific humpback whales who migrate together through the oceans, and like my family, professors, and colleagues who learn from each other and continue to grow together, it truly will “take a village” to conserve and protect these blue spaces which mean the most to us.