The Ocean Institute Bioluminescence Sleep Over
Due to the dearth of women in science, Ilse has become gung-ho about immersing our CHICKS in any cool science related experiences she can find. And as noted before, Ilse is a professional finder of cool things to do. I keep telling her she'd make a million at it if she'd only put her cool hunting services out there for hire. But she prefers to keep her monkish devotion to the arts and sciences for her family alone. We benefit greatly from her genius and largess.
"Get to the boat part," she prods. The script for the whole experience reads very well: You and a handful of likeminded parents get to head down in the afternoon to the Ocean Institute at Dana Point along the tony beach headlands of Orange County in Southern California. Just as the little aquarium is closing you go in through the back door. With a docent you get the museum to yourselves.

Your focus is on bio-luminescence. You get to dissect a cow eyeball and learn all about the glowing green tipedum lucidum that shows up in flash photos of dogs at the backs of their eyes and allows seals to hunt the dark depths of the ocean floor.

You get to dig the amazing jellyfish tanks, where you see them at all stages from seedlings to a swarm of haunting balloons.

There's small sharks in bubble eye'd tanks and a host of marine biology experiments for the kids to do, like putting on whale blubber gloves and immersing their hands in ice water or studying the many faces of florescence under magic of the black light.

Then you have campfire pizza with all your new friends and ready yourself as night falls to board the research vessel for a ride out into the inky waters of the Pacific.
Sounds great, right? A return to summer camp for us big kids while our children tag along. But, almost hilariously, it doesn't turn out like that. You haul your sleeping bags up into the big kahuna room that you'll be sleeping in with all these Gidget-looking Orange County moms and you see the surf board shaped sleeping mats that'll be used to comfort you against the cold cement floor and in the maw of surf kitsch the feeling you're overcome with, alongside claustrophobia, is, "I'm going to fart tonight and all these people are going to pretend they didn't hear it." But we'll all be friends by then, right? Except the woman who's doing the introduction doesn't bother to do any introductions, no welcome-to-summer-camp get-to-know-you pleasantries to break the ice and make us all feel involved together. Just, Here's the room where you'll be farting together.

Then in the museum our docent, though a nice enough old guy, proved to be totally fluffing his way through all the presentations. While he was as colorful as a character out of Doc Ricket's circle of Cannery Row cronies, he was neither a scientist nor much of an instructor. Tipedum Lucidum was the biggest word he knew and he kept coming back to it, for its erudition alone. He never successfully explained what it was though and he used it in so many different contexts and oblique references we couldn't figure out if he was dim witted, stoned or just chewing up time till we could all get on the boat. Having gone down and paid up with the intention of getting some Science immersion it was a bit disheartening, until we focused back on our daughters who were as happy as lamp rays having the little museum to themselves and running amok in it.
And then things got really cool.

We got on the boat as darkness fell. The head of the program took over at this point and he's obviously a real marine biologist so the whole thing took on more of the air of some serious field work. Turns out you can come down on most new moons for just this part of the package and skip the sleep over all together. As the boat headed out of the harbor and into the night we found ourselves all packed into the long bowsprit hanging onto the gunwales and onto our children, and sometimes other's children as they dashed around and leaned way out. The communal vibe began to set in as the wonder of darkness and big black ocean enveloped us. The ocean began to glow green. It starts with the foaming wash as the boat crashes forward. Faint at first, the ghost of white water is somehow tinged, yes, you can just make it out, but it's definitely glowing green. Before you know it, you're watching a plume so brightly verdant it can't possibly be real. And then something darts by, going faster than the boat, like a glow stick racing about on its own just beneath the surface. And then more! They're barracuda shooting ahead of the boat seen only by the fiery green trail they leave behind. The moonless night is so dark and the luminescent phytoplankton so plentiful that anything moving in the water creates it's own wake of light. It's unearthly and completely mesmerizing, really something to see in this lifetime.

The boat finally hauls up in some very deep water and they drop a net down several leagues to the bottom.

They also drag a bottle along the surface. From both of these they bring aboard all sorts of microscopic living creatures that they put in observation tanks for the kids to play with. "Look Mom! The tip of my finger's glowing!" Science immersion has been achieved. Off the other side of the boat they shine a bright light directly into the water and we go over to sit mesmerized by the chaotic silver shrapnel dance of a school of fish pocked through with glowing pink squid. All the fish instantly become one rigid body facing the exact same direction as a glowing dolphin goes zooming by. These are the miracles we had hoped to find for our daughters and as we ride back to the harbor all snuggled together the outing has proven to be a great and memorable family adventure. Now there's just the bit about camping with strangers that we have to either overcome or skip and drive home late. But we always overcome, as a family, as an adventure team. We sneak out onto the balcony and sleep out in the cool salty air, lulled by the sound of the waves, just our little nest with our CHICKS safe in it, just like always when we strike out on the road.
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