Oceanography emerged as a modern science in the postwar years – and the British role was key. Rob Sharp hears about those heady days of improvisation and experimentation
In the first half of the 20th century, scientists misunderstood the ocean's currents, and had only a murky understanding of plate tectonics and the fauna of the briny deep. The experts squinted through homemade cameras at ocean bottoms, thinking they were as barren as the Moon.
But our empirical techniques have evolved. Modern oceanography – that is, the chemistry, zoology and geology of 71 per cent of the world's surface – is now a cutting-edge science. Today, scientists embarking on a research project can gird themselves with an arsenal of probes, microchips and electronic microscopes to model complex currents, for example (handy when investigating oil spills, as in the Gulf of Mexico recently), or to sniff out spawning whales.
It was Britain that kick-started this revolution. In 1949, the Government funded our sceptred isle's first National Institute of Ocean-ography (NIO), based in Surrey. The institute proceeded to push back the frontiers of the discipline, until its eventual dissolution in 1973.
Its work underpins many of today's oceanographic methods, such as employing "floats", buoy-like devices equipped with sensors that measure the ocean's properties, or using tags embedded in whale blubber which can be tracked by satellite. This month, some of the organisation's former members have published a book, Of Seas and Ships and Scientists, brimming with tales of halcyon days on – and under – the ocean waves. The institute certainly holds water with contemporary scientific players. "It was a very influential era," says Nick Owen, director of the British Antarctic Survey, and also a marine biogeochemist. "In many ways it was the end of the beginning, propelling us into the integrated science we see today. Before, there were many different specialists – geologists, chemists – pulled in to work in oceans. Now, one can be an "oceanographer", and talk the same language as everyone else working within your field".
The NIO's methods were unconventional. Its first director, George Deacon, would appoint staff without seeing their CVs or resorting to recruitment boards or interviews. "When I arrived, he asked me what I wanted to do, and I replied that the UK should investigate the ocean floor with photography," remembers Anthony Laughton, a retired geophysicist. "He replied, 'Go ahead.' This was Deacon's style of recruitment in those days." Laughton had been all set to become a nuclear physicist, but was told his low white-blood-cell count made him susceptible to radiation poisoning. So his career was launched as much by luck as by aptitude.
This gung-ho attitude was useful, given its context. After the Second World War, Britain's pursuit of sea science was sinking, which was surprising, since historically many of our most famous researchers have been sea lovers.
The Independent
