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Just as ocean organisms have evolved their acoustic communication systems to be dependent upon the promise of a silent sea, I had evolved my knowledge about marine bioacoustics on the expectation of quiet readings of scientific papers. After all, in the bustling rhythm of Harvard, there is relatively little time for my peers to listen to me squeal over the rhythm of sperm whale vocalizations.
There was the one fall afternoon in Widener Library, when I had read the paper that made a convincing claim that North Atlantic Right Whales improve and refine their calls as they continue to age—suggesting that the oldest right whales have the most sophisticated calls: I felt like I had been let in on a little known secret. This was an example of elders having the most refined knowledge, cultivated over time—a phenomenon apparently not exclusive to mankind. Excitement compelled me to pace through the library... but who could I run to, exclaiming this new knowledge? No one in the hall knew of bioacoustics. I sat back down and packaged my energy into the written words of a grant proposal, but I yearned to one day share in my passion for vocalizations.
And then the opportunity came to me this August: as a Seminar Leader for HSYLC at the Hangzhou, China site, I was afforded the chance to design my own six-day seminar for the highest performing high schoolers in China. This would be the first chance in a formal academic setting that I could specifically teach marine bioacoustics; in this liberation of my voice—this chance to finally talk about all of the science I had hoped one day to animate for an audience—I found a freedom to liberate the voices of the ocean.
We often veer toward describing the beauty of oceanic environments through detailed imagery— vibrant fish amidst colorful coral reefs—but through education, my students would instead learn to perceive the sea through sound, which can serve as an indicator for ecosystem health. When coral reefs are healthy, they are abound with noise, spanning several frequencies. When they are bleached, however, they are not only devoid of color, but also barren in sound.
Bottlenose dolphins learn their own signature whistles—akin to a name—as they grow older, and use it as a means of self-identification to conspecifics in their pods. Sperm whales live in distinct matrilineal family units of up to seven whales, bound together by a common dialect. Different pilot whale pods represent the region of the ocean they live in through vocalization nuances. And humpback whales are composers of their own song, even adopting different riffs and variations in an exchange between western and eastern populations during migration.
I looked to language, evoking words such as “culture” and “music,” to describe this behavior of whales, challenging my students to redefine their preconceptions. Culture and music are dear to us, and by using these words, perhaps society will begin to develop a more nuanced understanding of how familiar the lives of these seemingly alien species are.
There was the one fall afternoon in Widener Library, when I had read the paper that made a convincing claim that North Atlantic Right Whales improve and refine their calls as they continue to age—suggesting that the oldest right whales have the most sophisticated calls: I felt like I had been let in on a little known secret. This was an example of elders having the most refined knowledge, cultivated over time—a phenomenon apparently not exclusive to mankind. Excitement compelled me to pace through the library... but who could I run to, exclaiming this new knowledge? No one in the hall knew of bioacoustics. I sat back down and packaged my energy into the written words of a grant proposal, but I yearned to one day share in my passion for vocalizations.
And then the opportunity came to me this August: as a Seminar Leader for HSYLC at the Hangzhou, China site, I was afforded the chance to design my own six-day seminar for the highest performing high schoolers in China. This would be the first chance in a formal academic setting that I could specifically teach marine bioacoustics; in this liberation of my voice—this chance to finally talk about all of the science I had hoped one day to animate for an audience—I found a freedom to liberate the voices of the ocean.
We often veer toward describing the beauty of oceanic environments through detailed imagery— vibrant fish amidst colorful coral reefs—but through education, my students would instead learn to perceive the sea through sound, which can serve as an indicator for ecosystem health. When coral reefs are healthy, they are abound with noise, spanning several frequencies. When they are bleached, however, they are not only devoid of color, but also barren in sound.
Bottlenose dolphins learn their own signature whistles—akin to a name—as they grow older, and use it as a means of self-identification to conspecifics in their pods. Sperm whales live in distinct matrilineal family units of up to seven whales, bound together by a common dialect. Different pilot whale pods represent the region of the ocean they live in through vocalization nuances. And humpback whales are composers of their own song, even adopting different riffs and variations in an exchange between western and eastern populations during migration.
I looked to language, evoking words such as “culture” and “music,” to describe this behavior of whales, challenging my students to redefine their preconceptions. Culture and music are dear to us, and by using these words, perhaps society will begin to develop a more nuanced understanding of how familiar the lives of these seemingly alien species are.
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With the support of Cornell University’s Lab of Ornithology and Macaulay Library, I was able to substantiate my course with several spectrograms of marine life recordings. I was empowered to be a science educator after spending most of my summer in Cornell’s Bioacoustics Research Program—my first experience walking into an office full of researchers dedicated to questions about the sounds of wildlife. I researched the North Atlantic Right Whale—the very same species that piqued my curiosity in Widener Library. The conservation of right whales is pressing, with their population now numbering fewer than 411. To best understand how to reduce right whale deaths by human-induced influences such as entanglement and vessel strikes—which caused three calf deaths just this past year—we must develop a better understanding of where this species lives. We can accomplish this through listening to their vocalizations. Through this framework, policymakers will be better educated about how to reroute shipping lanes and how to establish and enforce speed limits, especially in regions of high right whale density.
I refuse to concede to the possibility that the recordings I study may be the final documentations of the right whale’s vocalizations. Instead of these recordings becoming an archive of the biodiversity that once was, I strive to utilize these recordings as a way to conserve.
I refuse to concede to the possibility that the recordings I study may be the final documentations of the right whale’s vocalizations. Instead of these recordings becoming an archive of the biodiversity that once was, I strive to utilize these recordings as a way to conserve.
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