LITMIR.BIZ

      First Torrey House Press Edition, May 2016

      Copyright © 2016 by Charlene D’Avanzo

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by any means without the written consent of the publisher.

      Published by Torrey House Press

      Salt Lake City, Utah

       www.torreyhouse.com

      E-book ISBN: 978-1-937226-62-6

      Library of Congress Control Number: 2015946056

      Author photo by Derek Fowles Photography

      Cover design by Rick Whipple, Sky Island Studio

      Interior design by Russel Davis, Gray Dog Press

      Distributed to the trade by Consortium Book Sales and Distribution

      This book is dedicated to scientists struggling to

      understand extraordinarily complex phenomena

      associated with climate change. I was motivated to

      write Cold Blood, Hot Sea by stories of researchers

      maliciously targeted by climate change deniers.

       I want to get out in the water. I want to see fish, real fish, not fish in a laboratory.

      —Sylvia Earle, oceanographer and author

      Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Acknowledgements

      About Charlene D’Avanzo

       1

      MY FATHER ONCE SAID, “WHEN you step aboard a ship, you leave solid behind for that vast unseen.”

      I rounded Maine Oceanographic’s biology building at a trot—and stopped dead mid-stride. Goddamn, she was regal. Royal blue against the blood-orange April sky, hundred-fifty-foot research vessel Intrepid waited patiently for us, her mooring lines slack over yellow pilings.

      Skirting a cart loaded with long skinny bottles, I all but skipped up the gangway and stepped aboard. Intrepid swayed with the incoming tide. My leg muscles tensed, and I checked the nausea patch behind my ear.

      Yeah, I’m an oceanographer who gets seasick. Dreadfully, embarrassingly seasick.

      With her new red offshore racing jacket and blond hair, Harvey Allison was easy to spot on the stern deck. She peered up at an orange buoy that looked like a gaudy mushroom lying on its side—a ten-foot-tall, thousand-pound one.

      I backed down the ladder to join her. My slippery old sou’wester made shouldering my duffel awkward.

      “Dr. Mara Tusconi,” she teased. “Good morning.”

      “Dr. Harvina Allison.”

      Harvey reached up and ran her hand across bold black letters—MOI—Maine Oceanographic Institution. “It’s almost as if the buoys can’t wait to be released into the sea.”

      I patted the instrument. “Just like we’ve waited all winter for the temperature data these babies will collect.”

      Last year, ocean waters off Maine were the hottest in a hundred fifty years. Suddenly everyone who sold marine critters—lobsters, shrimp, eels—demanded to know what the hell was going on.

      “Now maybe we’re more than nerdy scientists, Harv.”

      “The future of Maine fishing? That’s high profile. Could be dangerous.”

      “What—?” Intrepid’s engines came to life and drowned me out.

      Atop roiling water, the ship pushed seawater aside. Soon we’d depart. Legs wide for balance, I made my way to the port side and grabbed a handrail crusted with salt. I licked a bit from my palm and grinned.

      Salt. My mother always said there was extra salt in my blood, because both my parents were ocean scientists. I looked toward MOI. If they were alive, Mom and Dad would be on the pier waving good-bye. They’d be proud of me. But they never knew I followed in their footsteps.

      The ship surged forward and pulled away from Spruce Harbor’s pier.

      Harvey put her hand on my shoulder and interrupted my reverie. “Looks like a Winslow Homer painting from out here, don’t you think? You know, wooden piers around the bay, lobster buoys, tree-covered hills.”

      The harbor blackened beneath a purple cloud. “Whoa,” I said. “Mr. Homer’s pissed off.”

      Harvey stared at the darkening sky. In profile her perfect features—high cheekbones, classic nose, large eyes—were even more evident. Who’d guess she drove a truck, had a rifle on her gun rack, and loved to shoot bear?

      “Harvey, what did you mean danger—?”

      The ship lurched. I heard a groan, and turned in time to catch a glimpse of bright orange shift behind a hydraulic crane. It looked as if the buoy might roll straight toward the starboard railing, an enormous toy top. Three guys jumped like fleas on a hot plate to stop it.

      “Secure the lines!” someone yelled.

      Crewmen scrambled to get the buoy back into position and secured it with stainless-steel cables.

      “Bizarre,” I said. “Gear that heavy not fastened tight?”

      “Damn right. I’m first on the list to deploy,” Harvey said. “Mine better not be that contrary buoy. Let’s head down to our cabin.”

      Between us and the lower-deck staterooms were two sets of steep, narrow ladders. I faced each one and clambered down. The rhythmic drone of the ship’s engine got louder and the stink of oil got stronger. By the time we reached our stateroom, diesel bouquet coated my tongue.

      I threw my ratty duffel on the tiny desk

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