We embarked on a day aboard a weathered research vessel in Miami, a mission built as much on aspiration as on science: to tag sharks, sample their biology, and train a new generation of ocean researchers in an inclusive, hands-on setting. The day was as much about people and culture as it was about fish. What began as a dream to democratize field science—turning a rustic boat into a full-fledged research platform—unfolded into a practical classroom at sea. Across the day, a diverse group of volunteers, students, and industry partners learned the ropes of drum-line fishing, sampling protocols, and real-time collaboration with professional scientists. This story isn’t only about the sharks or the technique; it’s about how a small team reframed the culture of marine science around openness, mentorship, and accountability, all anchored by a motto and a mission that would echo beyond the day’s catch.
Origins and a vow: from wrecks to inclusive field science
The vessel at the center of this mission—the Garvin—wasn’t originally a research ship. Its earliest life was as a dive boat that ferried people to wreck sites along the East Coast, exposing passengers to underwater worlds that many could only dream of exploring. Its later chapter involved community uplift: when Hank Garvin owned the boat, he used it to reach low-income students in New York City, offering them scuba certification and experiential training in diving. It was a powerful, tangible commitment to making ocean education accessible to those who might otherwise be priced out of opportunities to learn.
But life is unpredictable, and when Garvin died, the family faced a practical problem: the boat, no longer in prime condition, needed to go to market. A thousand miles away in Florida, Catherine MacDonald was navigating a different set of priorities. She was coordinating a summer internship program at the University of Miami and pursuing a PhD, and she found herself confronting a stubborn reality across scientific fieldwork: it’s easy for an environment to feel unwelcoming, exclusive, and even hostile. The problem isn’t simply about conduct in a lab or on a boat; it’s a broader dynamic that shapes who stays, who leaves, and who eventually contributes to real-world science.
In an interview with Ars, MacDonald and her colleagues—Christian Pankow, Jake Jerome, Nick Perni, and Julia Wester, among others—described a systemic issue: field science, and especially work involving charismatic megafauna—the large, beloved creatures like sharks—existed in a culture that could be harsh, competitive, and exclusionary. David Shiffman, the author of Why Sharks Matter and a friend from graduate school to MacDonald, described the tension succinctly: field science’s reputation for inclusivity is poor, and when the field concentrates on high-demand species, the stakes—and the stress—appear to rise. The consequence, he suggested, is that talented individuals leave when they’re treated poorly, and the field loses potential contributors.
Against this backdrop, MacDonald and her colleagues made a deliberate choice to confront the problem head-on. They committed to building an environment where fieldwork was conducted with support, respect, and genuine practice. They began with a simple, stubborn symbol—a Post-it note labeled “no assholes” that MacDonald carried into this venture. That note became more than a quip; it became a mission statement that the team frames today as a core value. The idea was clear: create inclusive, accessible marine science that didn’t sacrifice rigor or accountability. If they couldn’t build a successful program around that premise, they argued, the venture would fail for the right reasons.
To achieve the ambition, they needed a vessel that could serve as a stable, reliable platform for learning and research. Money, however, was a hurdle. The team used personal means, borrowing from friends and family and even taking out a house loan to fund the project, recognizing that the line between hobby and professional enterprise was thin. Their goal was not merely to purchase a vessel; it was to transform it into a tool of education, research, and social impact. The gamble paid off in a surprising way when the Garvin’s value aligned with the mission of inclusive field science. The family behind Garvin agreed to a bold yet pragmatic plan: they would sell the boat to a project that would honor the founder’s legacy, and the team would name the vessel after him, creating a living tribute to the man who started the journey decades earlier.
This partnership with Garvin’s family wasn’t a simple handoff. It required a storytelling of purpose and a practical demonstration of capacity: the Field School—which MacDonald and her colleagues helped shape—needed a ship capable of steady operation, navigation, navigation safety, and the ability to meet Coast Guard certification requirements for a Research Vessel designation. The team didn’t just rely on luck or philanthropy; they marshaled expertise from within and beyond their circle. They leaned on a network of professionals—boat surveyors, welders, paint specialists, transmissions experts, and mechanical engineers—who were willing to volunteer or contribute pro bono or at reduced costs. The spirit of collaboration became a centerpiece of the project; it wasn’t about owning a vessel so much as creating an evolving platform that could train, test, and teach.
In the end, the transformation of the Garvin was as much about people as it was about hardware. The Field School’s founders soberly recognized that the best way to create an inclusive, rigorous field environment was to invest in the people who would run it, mentor it, and participate in it. The phrase “no assholes” captured a behavioral standard that would shape interactions on deck and in the lab aboard the Garvin. The ethos wasn’t a marketing line; it was a watchword for how the community would operate, how it would welcome newcomers, and how it would insist on accountability when tensions rose or mistakes were made. It would become a frame through which all decisions—funding, outreach, training, and partnerships—would be filtered.
The funding story was equally telling. The team’s early capital was personal, but the broader model depended on a mix of revenue and mission-driven commitments. They leaned on community generosity, but they also built a business model around practical experiences that could be purchased by organizations seeking team-building experiences or by schools and nonprofits seeking real-world science exposure for students. The fundraiser rate—an arrangement that offered reduced costs for educational groups with the aim of subsidizing future outreach for under-resourced cohorts—became a cornerstone of the Field School’s approach. In doing so, they were not merely charging admission to a field trip; they were cross-subsidizing access to science for groups that might otherwise go unserved.
This approach extended beyond the core training programs. Georgetown undergraduates, for example, joined spring break expeditions that included fieldwork aboard the Garvin, mangrove explorations, drone-enabled research, snorkeling, and Everglades excursions. The Field School’s outreach included not only college students but also one-day experiences for local high schools, broadening exposure to marine science and showing that research is not a privilege of advanced students alone. The model emphasized openness and variety, with a mix of paid training, outreach modules, and free or subsidized experiences that could widen participation while maintaining a sustainable financial base.
In reimagining a research platform through community-backed funding, the Field School created a legible pathway for future scientists—while also offering a tangible reminder that science can be humane, supportive, and accessible. The “no assholes” banner wasn’t a bureaucratic slogan. It was the scaffolding for a culture in which people could learn quickly and work together with less fear of belittlement, more emphasis on skill-building, safety, and shared discovery. The result wasn’t just a day on the water; it was a blueprint for how to run field labs that nurture curiosity, resilience, and responsibility.
Refurbishment and readiness: building a capable at-sea classroom
This transformation required more than motivation; it demanded work. The Garvin, while structurally sound enough to navigate to Florida, needed substantial refurbishment before it could carry the Coast Guard’s Research Vessel designation. The team recognized early on that the limits of budget would not excuse corner-cutting when real safety, reliability, and regulatory compliance were at stake. Because the project relied on a mix of donated services, volunteer labor, and selective professional help, the team leaned into the problem with a pragmatic sense of how to fill gaps. The process became a collaborative apprenticeship in itself: the Field School learned from the people who knew what to fix, and those professionals in turn learned about how a nonprofit approach could operate with integrity and accountability.
One of the most telling aspects of this rebuild was the crew’s ability to turn a weakness into an opportunity to learn. A friend who happened to be a boat surveyor introduced a network of specialists who could guide the team toward the correct alignments of propellers, the right set of paints for the hull, and the right transmissions for the rebuilding process. It was a chain of mentorships and referrals that turned a series of problems into a coherent plan. MacDonald, describing the process, joked that they might be the best PhD-holding fiberglassers in Miami. It was a humorous line, but it captured something deeper: the project thrived on a can-do ethos, a willingness to learn, and a sense of shared purpose that transcended traditional professional hierarchies.
The team didn’t just want a boat that looked seaworthy; they needed a craft that could safely support ten drum lines, in-water sampling teams, equipment like portable centrifuges, DNA samplers, and tagging gear, all while maintaining structural integrity under the variable conditions of Biscayne Bay. They needed room to train novices and space to store gear, plus reliable power and communication systems for remote data collection and real-time coordination. In practical terms, this meant reworking the deck plan, reinforcing the stern platform, and ensuring the ship could tolerate scientific instrumentation and the rigors of field operations. The refurbishment was also about ensuring that the boat could be a stable classroom. The objective extended beyond making the ship seaworthy; it was about curating an environment where novices could acquire real-life field skills under the supervision of seasoned educators and researchers.
The Field School’s approach to refurbishment also reflected its broader teaching philosophy. Rather than rely solely on paid specialists, the team compactly shared knowledge with participants, turning the refurbishment into a living training ground. In some instances, the team improvised—inventing temporary fixings, sourcing affordable alternatives, and adapting workshops to the ship’s evolving capabilities. The line between maintenance and education blurred as the project progressed. The team’s language captured this spirit: they were “phD-holding fiberglassers” who could handle a spectrum of technical tasks—from welding to wiring, from hull painting to propeller alignment—while balancing the demands of running training programs in parallel. It was a balancing act between engineering precision and pedagogical flexibility, and it became a core feature of how the Garvin would operate as a research vessel and a classroom.
The refurbishing journey also highlighted the social dimension of the project. The field crew learned how to communicate with a broad set of participants who came from different backgrounds and levels of expertise. They had to translate complex technical details into accessible instructions for volunteers who might be new to fieldwork. They had to enforce safety protocols without dampening curiosity. They had to manage expectations about how much time it would take to finish repairs and how much money would be needed to complete different phases. All these dynamics formed the undercurrents of the day’s activities and would continue to shape future expeditions. In retrospect, the refurbishment was not only a process of improving a boat but a process of building a learning ecosystem with a ship as its nucleus. The Garvin emerged as a fully functioning, safety-conscious, research-capable platform ready to host field trips, training modules, and outreach activities across the year.
The result of that work was a vessel that could not only carry scientists and students to offshore and coastal zones but also function as a robust platform for conducting training in situ. The process itself became a demonstration of what is possible when a community comes together: a ship that looks seaworthy on the surface, but also houses a pedagogy, a network, and a philosophy of inclusive science that could be carried outward into classrooms, laboratories, and coastal communities far beyond Biscayne Bay. The team’s belief that a strong vessel, combined with a strong culture, could change the practice of field science—to make it more accessible, more equitable, and more rigorous—was validated by the day’s events at sea and the days that followed.
Drum lines at sea: the method, the teamwork, and the first catches
With the Garvin refurbished and ready, the Field School began its memorable exercise in drum-line fishing—a method chosen for its efficiency in targeting large, mobile predators while enabling controlled interactions with the catch. The core setup consisted of a 16-kilogram (35-pound) weight attached to floats via a heavy cord, forming the weight at the end of a long snagline. The line itself was a robust 800-pound-test monofilament, designed to withstand significant force without snapping, with a hook at the end designed to minimize post-capture damage to the shark and facilitate easier handling during release. The science behind drum-line fishing included balancing the necessity of enticing sharks to the bait against the ethical and welfare considerations of the animals themselves. The buoy networks and bait arrangement were designed to optimize the chances of a successful encounter, while maintaining a safe and controlled environment for both the participants and the wildlife.
To attract sharks, each float carried a small metal cage housing fish chunks that released scentants into the water. A larger piece—such as a head or a cross-section from the trunk of a roughly one-foot-long fish—was affixed to the hook, providing a strong attractant. The deployment process was meticulous and highly organized: the group would lower the drum from a stern platform to the water’s edge in Biscayne Bay, with one volunteer guiding the drop while another tracked GPS coordinates. The actual release of the monofilament line was performed slowly and deliberately from a handheld spool, ensuring a controlled approach that reduced the risk of entanglement or misfires. The set-up required careful choreography: from right to left, the floats, the weights, and the bait all had to be guided into the water in a coordinated sequence to maintain line integrity and ensure consistent deployment across the entire line.
As each drum was deployed, the participants learned the sequence of steps necessary to prepare for capture and sampling. The crew placed ten drums in a long, straight line near one of the Bay’s exits, then began the reverse process: retrieving each float, pulling in the drum via the line, and handing the spool and bait bucket to a Field School participant for the next hip-swinging cycle of the deployment. The day extended from morning into afternoon as the team methodically moved along the drum line, checking for bites, re-baiting, and re-deploying as needed. The routine gradually became less electrifying for volunteers who were unfamiliar with the work but continued to serve as a valuable, hands-on introduction to the practicalities of field research. The group’s focus shifted as conversations blossomed among participants and Field School mentors; while the science remained central, the fishing activity functioned as a catalyst for learning and social bonding.
Then, in a moment that underscored the day’s unpredictability, one line went tight, and a large brown shape emerged near the surface. Momentum shifted from the systematic workflow to the immediacy of a real-life capture. The group’s attention moved from the routine to the thrill and seriousness of handling a living predator in a controlled setting. The moment was a reminder of the stakes: these animals were not placeholders in a classroom; they were living beings whose welfare and survival would be affected by how carefully the team managed the process. The team quickly confirmed the presence of a shark and initiated the sequence that would lead to a capture, measurement, tagging, and sampling protocol that would later feed into broader research programs.
Observations about the day’s catch highlighted both the challenges and the learning opportunities. The process demonstrated why hands-on, field-based training matters: it’s one thing to study data in a lab, another entirely to manage a living organism in a dynamic marine environment. This approach required both precision and adaptability. Team members who joined without formal field research experience were guided by seasoned mentors who walked through each step—lowering the line, handling equipment, guiding participants on where to stand, and explaining roles as they were activated. The collaboration among volunteers, Field School staff, and scientific mentors created a living framework for experiential education. The experience of deploying, managing, and retrieving drum lines provided the participants with practical skills in marine operations, safety protocols, sample handling, and the rudiments of scientific fieldwork—skills that would be useful across a spectrum of oceanographic activities beyond this single day’s mission.
The sampling sequence that followed captured much more than a single moment of discovery. Once a shark was brought to the vessel, participants learned how to support a multi-disciplinary sampling workflow that included careful handling of a living animal, a suite of measurements and observations, and immediate steps to preserve samples for downstream analysis. Basic measurements—length, girth, and various morphometrics—became one of the day’s first tasks. A dedicated team scanned the shark for parasites and placed specimens into labeled sample jars for later taxonomic and genetic work. A separate team collected a small fin clip for DNA analysis, while another group inserted a dorsal fin tag to enable future identification. A scientist attached a tag with a unique identifier that would carry through future recaptures, enabling longitudinal tracking of growth rates, migrations, and population dynamics. Blood samples were drawn with care, using a syringe to obtain a small quantity for centrifugation on board or in transit back to the laboratory.
The onboard flow included a careful sequence of steps designed to minimize distress and maximize data quality. While the primary handlers worked on the animal, the Field School staff monitored welfare and safety, ensuring that the shark remained calm enough to permit data collection without resorting to unnecessary force or prolonged restraint. The team used a system of PVC tubes to direct seawater through the shark’s gills, maintaining oxygenation during processing. They also controlled the shark’s position on a stern platform to maintain stable handling conditions. In some cases, larger sharks required partial submersion to allow comfortable access to measurements while ensuring the animal’s ability to breathe during the procedure; smaller sharks could be managed from the deck with similar safety considerations. Each action—from measurements to blood collection to tissue sampling—was logged on paper at sea and later archived into a digital spreadsheet to support collaborative data sharing with researchers around the country.
The first shark’s ordeal—nicknamed UM00229—became a focal point of the day. After the data had been collected and the samples secured, the animal was released back into the sea with minimal disruption to its natural behavior. The team then proceeded with another catch: a meter-long blacktip shark, brought aboard and prepared with the same care and precision. A minor mishap occurred when a volunteer’s finger brushed against the shark’s rough skin, resulting in a small abrasion and a blood trace, a reminder that even carefully controlled fieldwork carries risk. The day’s final phase was a countdown to complete the day’s three-team cycle, with the final group taking their place on the platform to continue the work. The structure and workflow helped ensure that even volunteers with limited prior experience could meaningfully contribute as scientists in training, while experienced mentors remained central to safe and compliant practice.
The broader significance of the drum-line exercise was not simply about capturing sharks; it was about how this approach could be leveraged to collect diverse data for multiple research threads. The Field School’s structure allowed researchers to extract samples for dozens of projects across different institutions and investigators. The method was adaptable; depending on what was captured and what partnerships existed, samples could support a broad array of analyses—genetic work, parasite surveys, biometrics, and more. The day’s captures thus fed into a network of collaborations across the nation, enabling a distributed research framework that could draw on the resources and expertise of a wide community of scientists. The practical takeaway for participants was that they were doing more than a day’s fieldwork; they were contributing to a larger ecosystem of science in which field time, sampling protocols, and cross-institution collaboration formed a meaningful, real-world workflow. It’s a model of how to balance hands-on skills with rigorous science, ensuring that the time at sea serves as both education and empirical contribution.
Field support and a sustainable model: funding, outreach, and ongoing learning
The Field School’s financial approach is as much a lesson in strategy as it is in science. Mortgaging a home to fund a venture is not a sustainable template for most organizations, but it signaled the team’s commitment to a longer-term mission. The model that emerged blends paid training, outreach activities, and mission-driven subsidies that underwrite future opportunities for groups that could not otherwise participate. A core feature of the model is the idea that most participants who come to learn aboard the Garvin pay the costs for their time on the ship. This structure ensures that the program maintains a revenue stream while remaining accessible to a broad audience of learners. The balance between paid experiences and subsidized outreach is deliberate: the revenue from formal training programs helps cover the non-billable costs that are necessary to provide community outreach and to support under-resourced groups who may benefit most from exposure to field science.
The Field School’s outreach is robust and varied. It includes one-day field trips for local high schools, extended programs for undergraduates, and multi-day excursions that are designed for a broader audience that could include nonprofit organizations, corporate groups, and other educational partners. The day’s narrative also highlights the role of fieldwork in professional development: Shiffman describes how mentoring and guided field experiences provide undergraduates and other participants with exposures to real research processes. Georgetown undergraduates, for example, took spring-break trips to Miami to learn about mangroves, snorkeling, research drones, and Everglades ecosystems in addition to shark tagging. These programs illustrate how field opportunities can be integrated into broader education and training objectives, enabling students to gain tangible research experience and to apply classroom knowledge to real-world contexts.
The fundraising model also carries an element of social responsibility. The fundraising rate is intentionally designed to cover the cost of enabling future opportunities for low-income groups to participate. The program aims to ensure that today’s participants do not exhaust tomorrow’s capabilities by merely exploiting a one-off fundraising stint. The approach supports a cycle of access: today’s participants may become tomorrow’s funders or mentors, helping to sustain the pipeline of young scientists who can contribute to long-running projects and collaborations. This approach is not only about fairness; it is a recognition that science at scale benefits from sustained diversity and inclusion—people from different backgrounds bring fresh perspectives, help identify biases, and contribute to more robust research outcomes.
Beyond training programs, the Garvin serves as a hub for collaborations with organizations seeking to foster teamwork, science education, and a hands-on approach to problem-solving. Greenpeace groups, for example, and corporate teams have participated in a fundraiser-style model that combines experiential learning with team-building objectives. The fundraiser rate addresses not only the costs of running the field sessions but also the cost of offering future experiences at no charge to underserved communities. In this sense, the Field School uses its sea-based programs not merely as a revenue source but as a social investment in community education, sustainability, and scientific literacy.
The Field School’s funding approach also recognizes the value of informally organized groups of enthusiasts who come together around a shared interest in sharks, marine biology, or science more broadly. The Garvin’s deck becomes a meeting ground for these enthusiasts, who form small clusters, each anchored by a lead—often a Field School mentor or a dedicated science communicator—who coordinates the day’s activities and invites friends or family to join. The dynamic is diffuse, but the impact is palpable: a broad, expanding network of people who have participated in at least a day of field science, each contributing to a culture of curiosity, learning, and civic engagement with science.
From a strategic standpoint, the Field School’s funding and outreach approach demonstrates a practical template for sustainable, mission-driven science education. It combines experiential learning, public engagement, and financial pragmatism, showing that it is possible to create meaningful, impactful field experiences without sacrificing scientific integrity or long-term viability. The program’s success rests on the ability to maintain a learning-centric ethos while building a robust network of partners, sponsors, and participants who share the goal of making marine science accessible to a broader audience. The Garvin’s story thus becomes a case study in how to build, fund, and sustain a living platform for field science that is as much about people as it is about sharks.
The science on deck: data, sampling, and the culture of learning
Once the day’s teams were established, the practical science commenced in earnest. The Field School’s approach to data collection and sample handling placed participants in the center of the research workflow, turning them from spectators into contributors to real-world science. The process began almost immediately after leaving the marina: teams prepared for an animal encounter by coordinating roles and ensuring that instruments and documentation were in place. A typical sequence involved a team dedicated to measuring the shark’s dimensions; another team scanned for parasites and preserved those tissues in sample jars for later analysis; a third team took a small fin clip to extract DNA, while a fourth team inserted a dorsal fin tag using a specialized, hollow-awl-like tool. Throughout, a sixth team member managed the blood sample, using a syringe to collect a small amount for on-board preliminary processing.
The animal care and handling protocol was explicit and carefully engineered to minimize stress or harm. The staff from Field School held the shark during procedures, and the larger individuals—like the nurse sharks that could reach over 2 meters in length—remained partially submerged on the stern platform to facilitate breathing and safety. Staff members used PVC tubes to circulate seawater through the gills, providing an ongoing source of oxygen and reducing the risk of distress during sampling. Additional team members protected the animal during the more sensitive steps, holding the “slappy end” and providing physical support to prevent injury or escape. This choreography of restraint, sampling, and release demonstrated the delicate balance researchers must maintain between collecting high-quality data and ensuring animal welfare.
The day’s data collection produced a variety of outputs. On the data front, measurements, locations, time stamps, and other details were recorded by hand, then transferred to a spreadsheet for analysis and sharing with collaborators. The on-board centrifuge enabled rapid preliminary processing of blood samples, allowing the team to begin downstream analyses before the vessel returned to shore. Tissue samples collected for DNA analyses offered opportunities to contribute to broader genomic studies, while parasite scans informed health assessments and ecological relationships. Each shark presented a unique combination of biological data that could feed into different research streams, and the Field School’s flexible approach meant that the vessel’s passengers could participate in several projects across a spectrum of investigative angles.
The day’s most dramatic moments, of course, came with each capture. The nurse shark—the first of the day’s major catches—presented as “pure muscle and rage,” in Shiffman’s description, yet also provided a productive learning experience about handling formidable, powerful animals. The nursing shark’s length and its subsequent handling on the platform required teamwork and careful judgment. The team quickly demonstrated effective sequencing: restraining the shark, securing it to the platform, performing measurements, taking tissue samples, and ensuring that the animal could breathe as it was processed. Even the handling of a newly tagged blacktip shark highlighted the careful observation and data collection that define field-based science: the team performed basic measurements, documented the data, and prepared the animal for release. Throughout, the process reinforced an important theme: the scientific value of fieldwork emerges not only from the data collected but also from the careful, ethical, and collaborative way in which the work is conducted.
In addition to the technical tasks, the day’s narrative touched on the crew’s sense of purpose and the broader mission. The participants were not simply learning to perform maneuvers or collect samples; they were exposed to a way of working that emphasized teamwork, safety, and the responsibility of researchers to minimize harm to wildlife and to the surrounding ecosystem. The Field School’s mentors repeatedly underscored that science, at its core, is a collaborative, iterative, and humane enterprise. The experience demonstrated that even novices could contribute meaningfully to a research program when guided by skilled mentors who valued both knowledge and character. The day’s outcomes—14 sharks captured the next day, according to Shiffman’s later communication—reflected not only the day’s initial success but also the ongoing potential of a community-driven model that scales with interest, resources, and partnerships.
The cultural dimension of this science day was palpable. The participants left not only with data and souvenirs but with a deeper understanding of the practices that shape modern marine biology. They learned how the practice of fieldwork can act as a channel for mentorship, collaborative problem solving, and the development of professional identities that emphasize curiosity, patience, and respect for living beings. The day’s experiences, as recounted by those involved, revealed a science that is as much about people as about sharks—and that the culture surrounding science plays a pivotal role in shaping discoveries, trust, and the future of scientific inquiry.
The culture beyond science: people, purpose, and the future of field work
What emerged from this day at sea was more than a collection of data points or a demonstration of technique. It was a case study in how a science community can intentionally build a culture that improves both the experience of scientists and the quality of science. The Field School’s founders argued that by creating a more inclusive, supportive, and accountable environment, science would not only become more welcoming but also produce better outcomes. The goal, as MacDonald articulated, extended beyond training future scientists to training future people: a broader moral aspiration that science education and practice should elevate facial empathy, collaborative engagement, and social responsibility.
This perspective matters for the culture of science because it reframes what counts as success. It is not only about the number of papers published or sharks tagged but about the way people are treated, the opportunities created for underrepresented groups, and the degree to which the process models the behavior scientists hope to see in their students and colleagues. The Field School’s approach posits that positive culture changes can ripple outward, improving not only how science is taught but how it is viewed by the public. If students witness a professional ecosystem that values inclusivity, transparency, and constructive feedback, they may carry those values into any field they pursue. If future scientists learn to treat colleagues, mentors, and even challenging animals with respect, the field as a whole stands a better chance of retaining talent and producing robust, ethical science.
From this vantage point, the day’s outcomes become more than a tally of sharks caught or data collected. They become a narrative about how to transform the incentives of field science: how to reward collaboration rather than competition, how to foreground safety and welfare alongside discovery, and how to ensure that field experiences do not become a barrier to entry for motivated learners who happen to come from different backgrounds. The Field School’s founders argue that when scientists and educators model better behavior—and when institutions support those demonstrations with practical resources and inclusive policies—there is potential to shift the culture of science across disciplines and contexts. This perspective invites readers to consider how science education is designed, funded, and practiced, and how it might be improved not only for the sake of better research but for the broader health of society.
The narrative also reflects a practical framework for growing this model into a scalable, sustainable network. The Garvin’s role as a mobile field classroom has proven that with the right support, even a modest vessel can become a hub for education, research collaboration, and community engagement. The Marine Institute’s spirit—of openness, mentorship, and accountability—offers a template for other institutions seeking to secularize access to field science and to provide meaningful research experiences that do not require years of prior training. By connecting undergraduates, high school students, Greenpeace chapters, and corporate partners with real fieldwork, the Field School demonstrates a pathway for broader participation in science while maintaining the rigor, safety, and data integrity necessary for credible research.
In the weeks following the day at sea, those involved reflected on what might be possible if more groups adopted a similar approach. The prospect of expanding this model to other regions, other environments, and other species represents a compelling avenue for building a more inclusive, robust, and impactful field science ecosystem. The field’s future could hinge on the degree to which programs like the Field School are replicated and scaled—on whether other communities are willing to invest in a vessel, in the people who operate it, and in the ethical, educational framework that makes field science accessible to a broader range of participants. For those who sought to push the limits of knowledge, this day offered a reminder that the most important discovery may lie not in what we catch or measure, but in how we conduct the work: with humility, curiosity, and a steadfast commitment to making science a more welcoming, supportive, and meaningful pursuit for all who wish to participate.
Conclusion
The Field School’s voyage aboard the Garvin stands as a powerful reminder that science is a human enterprise as much as a technical one. From the boat’s modest origins to its role as a dynamic, education-focused platform, the project demonstrates how a small team can reshape the culture of field research by weaving inclusion, mentorship, and accountability into every activity. The day’s drum-line fishing, shark handling, and sampling served not only as a practical exercise in marine biology but as a living demonstration of how to train future scientists and future citizens alike. By naming the ship after Hank Garvin and by embracing the no-assholes ethos, the project framed a broader ethical commitment: science should be accessible, respectful, and capable of changing lives while advancing knowledge. The broader implications extend far beyond the day’s catches, offering a blueprint for sustainable funding, inclusive outreach, and rigorous, humane research that preserves both the health of marine ecosystems and the integrity of the scientists who study them. The Garvin’s story is a call to action for communities, institutions, and individuals who believe that science can and should be a force for good—built not on exclusivity or intimidation, but on opportunity, teamwork, and a genuine love for learning at sea.