[The best lesson learned from an experience is rarely the one you sign up for.]
As I knelt in the pebbly substrate along the north shore of Castle Island in Lough Hyne, I tried to imagine how my experience here might be different if this were still an isolated, freshwater lough. As I learned from Terri Kearney’s book--Lough Hyne: From Prehistory to the Present—sediment core analysis carried out by Dr. Jenny Buzer showed that Lough Hyne was entirely freshwater until about 2000 B.C., when rising sea levels pushed saltwater in through Barloge Creek. Instead of attempting to physically remove the invasive Sargassum muticum from the Lough’s waters, would we be worrying about Hydrilla verticillata? Instead of counting the number of invasive Japanese oyster Crassostrea gigas, would we be estimating the abundance of the zebra mussel Dreissena polymorpha? However, the intrigue of the task at hand quickly brought me back to reality: crawling around in a wetsuit, turning over rocks to reveal sea stars, anemones, scallops, and many other species. I was then informed this particular site had among the lowest diversity of the rock-turning monitoring sites.
The impression I was getting from this place was much better articulated during a conversation later in the evening with Emeritus Professor John Davenport. While explaining work he and a colleague had done using hydroacoustics to monitor fish shoaling behavior in sprat (Sprattus sprattus), he pointed out how effectively impossible this type of experiment would have been if attempted in the open ocean. Finding a school of fish would be no trivial matter, and trying to follow it would be no easier. But if you place them in an semi-enclosed saltwater lough hardly a half of a square kilometer, the experiment becomes much more feasible. In other words, Lough Hyne is like Drosophila melanogaster or Caenorhabditis elegans for marine ecosystems—a model system.
I’m already feeling as though realizations like this one will be some of the most important sentiments I take away from the program. By focusing on my personal research here, I’ll learn about how algae and varying oxygen conditions affect fish communities. By also helping others with their projects and listening to the stories of people like John Davenport, I’ll start to uncover patterns that illustrate larger themes and lessons applicable far beyond a five-week ecology internship. Just like in the ecological sense, doing research at Lough Hyne—willing oneself through cold-water snorkeling surveys, turning over heavy rocks, facing various other challenges—can serve as a model system for many seemingly unrelated experiences in life. Now all that remains is to truly get going with the experiment.
Until next time,
Ryan Jiorle
As I knelt in the pebbly substrate along the north shore of Castle Island in Lough Hyne, I tried to imagine how my experience here might be different if this were still an isolated, freshwater lough. As I learned from Terri Kearney’s book--Lough Hyne: From Prehistory to the Present—sediment core analysis carried out by Dr. Jenny Buzer showed that Lough Hyne was entirely freshwater until about 2000 B.C., when rising sea levels pushed saltwater in through Barloge Creek. Instead of attempting to physically remove the invasive Sargassum muticum from the Lough’s waters, would we be worrying about Hydrilla verticillata? Instead of counting the number of invasive Japanese oyster Crassostrea gigas, would we be estimating the abundance of the zebra mussel Dreissena polymorpha? However, the intrigue of the task at hand quickly brought me back to reality: crawling around in a wetsuit, turning over rocks to reveal sea stars, anemones, scallops, and many other species. I was then informed this particular site had among the lowest diversity of the rock-turning monitoring sites.
The impression I was getting from this place was much better articulated during a conversation later in the evening with Emeritus Professor John Davenport. While explaining work he and a colleague had done using hydroacoustics to monitor fish shoaling behavior in sprat (Sprattus sprattus), he pointed out how effectively impossible this type of experiment would have been if attempted in the open ocean. Finding a school of fish would be no trivial matter, and trying to follow it would be no easier. But if you place them in an semi-enclosed saltwater lough hardly a half of a square kilometer, the experiment becomes much more feasible. In other words, Lough Hyne is like Drosophila melanogaster or Caenorhabditis elegans for marine ecosystems—a model system.
I’m already feeling as though realizations like this one will be some of the most important sentiments I take away from the program. By focusing on my personal research here, I’ll learn about how algae and varying oxygen conditions affect fish communities. By also helping others with their projects and listening to the stories of people like John Davenport, I’ll start to uncover patterns that illustrate larger themes and lessons applicable far beyond a five-week ecology internship. Just like in the ecological sense, doing research at Lough Hyne—willing oneself through cold-water snorkeling surveys, turning over heavy rocks, facing various other challenges—can serve as a model system for many seemingly unrelated experiences in life. Now all that remains is to truly get going with the experiment.
Until next time,
Ryan Jiorle