Here is part 4, the final installment, of the text of a presentation Amy gave at the National Federation of the Blind Annual Convention in Orlando, Florida (#NFB24) on July 6, 2024

This experience made me realize, a little late maybe, that what I really needed to be on a level playing field with my peers in this kind of fast-paced work situation was an access assistant, a concept I recently learned about from Mona Minkara, a blind Assistant Professor at Northeastern University. Previously, a few staff members in my department were assigned on an ad hoc basis to help make data, graphics, and documents more accessible. But they had other responsibilities competing for their time and attention. As a result, I often hesitated to request access assistance when I needed it. So finally, last year, I requested that my institution support the salary for a dedicated access assistant, whose only job would be to help make inaccessible information accessible to me. I was so excited when the request for this accommodation was approved: a first at WHOI as far as I know.

Until the STEM fields have embraced independent accessibility, I believe access assistance is required for reaching one’s full potential. This dedicated access assistance has been the game-changer I imagined. No longer do I hesitate to ask for documents and graphics to be made more accessible. I feel free to be a scientist again. Without the extra burden of scrambling for access just to get to the starting line with my colleagues. I wish I could wind back the clock and repeat the last 20 years or so of my career, with an access assistant.

Over the past 20 years, I’ve spent some of my time sharing my experiences with the next generation of low-vision and blind students interested in science, to help them realize that they too can succeed in STEM careers. With Perkins School science teacher Kate Fraser, I started an outreach program called OceanInsight. With other members of my lab group, I visit Perkins and other classrooms with stories, data sonifications, and touchable oceanographic research tools. And we host an annual accessible field trip through the Perkins Outreach Program, where students can learn about all the exciting research going on at WHOI.

At the beginning of my career, the odds seemed stacked against my dream to be an oceanographer. A doctor’s advice to give up on a career as a researcher left me awash with self-doubt. There was no network of low vision or blind scientists in my field. Since I began to lose my vision as a young adult, I had no formal blindness training as a youth. I was racing all the time to adapt to constantly changing vision, the tenure clock was ticking.

In my favor was the support and encouragement of my family, an accommodating employer, and the energizing curiosity and passion to understand the inner workings of Planet Earth, or as more aptly described by Arthur C. Clark, Planet Ocean. As my network of blind scientists and other professionals grew, so did my self-confidence, my comfort level with requesting accommodations, and the realization that yes, I can do this, and yes, I do belong, as do all of you.

Here is part 3 of the text of a presentation Amy gave at the National Federation of the Blind Annual Convention in Orlando, Florida (#NFB24) on July 6, 2024

As a scientist with first low, and then almost no vision, I’ve had to navigate a sea of obstacles to be the oceanographer I wanted to be. The single most daunting obstacle probably being my own self-doubt. In the early days, not only was I a super-minority in my professional community as an oceanographer with low vision. But I was also a woman in a very male-dominated field, with just a handful of female peers. I sometimes felt like I didn’t belong in physical oceanography. I was afraid I wasn’t good enough, that I couldn’t be successful with low vision, and any day my colleagues would figure this all out. Some call this the imposter syndrome, but others have recently argued that these feelings, experienced by many, are more a sign of an unwelcoming or unaccommodating community, and not an indication of some failing or inadequacy on my part.

Anyway, from my female colleagues, I had learned that having a network of peers and mentors with similar lived experiences was just as important to a successful career as being able to write a good grant proposal. Luckily, this was just when the world wide web was taking off, so I could search beyond my immediate circle of colleagues for other blind scientists. Indeed, I was able to find and contact a few; all in other fields; but it was a start.

Around the same time, I searched for support groups for blind professionals closer to home on Cape Cod. I finally found a group in Boston, 2 hours away by bus; the closest one I could get to by public transportation. This was my first significant connection with peers facing some of the same challenges. I made more connections attending many International Ski for Light cross-country skiing events, where I met other blind and low vision outdoor enthusiasts, many of whom were also successful professionals. I started to have more hope that maybe I could not only survive but thrive in my chosen career. Others seemed to be doing it in their chosen fields, so why not me!

My network and my confidence grew even as my vision declined. But I still had to contend with the ticking tenure clock. Academics usually have only a limited number of years to build an independent research program and demonstrate that they have made a significant impact on their discipline. At the end of that time window, it’s up or out. Even with video magnifiers and screen readers, many research tasks took me longer than my sighted colleagues. Plus I had to constantly research new access technologies, and learn to use them, as my vision deteriorated. With all the extra time and energy spent adapting to ever-changing vision, I wasn’t sure I could make tenure. At that time, academic institutions were beginning to implement “slow the clock” policies, mainly as an accommodation for expecting mothers who were pursuing academic careers. It occurred to me that such an accommodation would be appropriate for someone in my situation as well. I too was experiencing a life event that impacted how quickly I could get my research program up and running, just like parents with small children. But I had to request this accommodation, and I was hesitant! As far as I knew, no one at WHOI had requested slow the clock for disability reasons.

With the encouragement of my institution’s ombudsperson, I did make this request, and to my relief, it was granted without hesitation. I earned tenure in 1999. And a few years later, I was promoted to the top rung of our promotion ladder, Senior Scientist, the first woman to achieve that rank in my department.

Over the next 20 years, I continued to grow my research program. Then in 2018, I was selected by my colleagues to be the next department chair, The first woman ever to serve in this position, and the first blind person to hold any leadership rank at WHOI. This meant I would be responsible for the professional well-being of over 100 researchers, students and administrative staff in the Physical Oceanography Department. I would also join the other department chairs, vice-presidents, and the president of WHOI to lead our world-renowned research institution of over 1000 employees.

Before I became chair, I was constantly running to keep up with my workload. Now I had to sprint to manage the huge increase in the volume of emails, reports, memos, spreadsheets, personnel concerns, budgets, and oh, by the way, WHOI’s response to a global pandemic! Many documents I had to read and digest as a department chair were not accessible, and decisions based on them sometimes had to be made quickly, often at the same time the PowerPoint or spreadsheet was being shared with me and the rest of the leadership team for the first time. Screen reader accessibility was unfamiliar to the team, so it was a big challenge for them to make their documents accessible. They were as busy and pressed for time as I was, making it challenging to find the time to improve accessibility of their documents. I had to start pushing, publicly and repeatedly, for accessible documents to be provided with time to review them, which, by the way, would be better for the whole team! This constant reminding was not comfortable, but I kept asking. After all, my department had chosen me to be their representative at the highest administrative level. I didn’t want to let them down!

In spite of my persistence, I didn’t always get access to documents at the same time as everyone else. In those cases, I had to ask a lot more questions. It wasn’t always an ideal situation by any stretch, but nonetheless, I successfully completed my 4-year term as chair two years ago.

Here is part 2 of the text of a presentation Amy gave at the National Federation of the Blind Annual Convention in Orlando, Florida (#NFB24) on July 6, 2024

So, what do oceanographers do? Many think we only study what are sometimes called, charismatic megafauna: Whales, dolphins, sharks. But Oceanography is actually a vast field of study, focused on a highly complex physical, chemical, biological and geological environment that covers 70% of Earth surface. It is intricately connected to our climate, and to all life on Earth. It is in constant motion, from waves at the surface, to slow-moving but powerful currents in the abyss. These currents creep along more slowly than walking speed, but they transport huge volumes of salty water, heat, tiny marine plants and animals, and greenhouse gases like carbon dioxide. But where do all these currents go? Are they changing as the planet warms? It’s not easy to figure this out. Below the sun-lit surface, the ocean is an inhospitable environment for both humans and the most sophisticated research tools. There is the crushing weight of the water overhead. There is the cold; About 3 degrees Celsius. There is corrosion. If not well-protected, oceanographic instruments will quickly stop working with exposure to the salt water, and it’s pitch dark. No one, sighted or not, can physically see what is going on with the currents at those depths.

So how do we measure ocean currents?

With my research team, I release hundreds of freely drifting buoys in currents more than a mile below the sea surface. We track them underwater using sound as they trace out the current pathways across entire ocean basins over months to years. Using these and other tools, we have discovered how one current can change the path of another one deeper in the ocean. We’ve learned how warm currents in the Gulf of Mexico fuel hurricanes, and how rotating features the size of Rhode Island trap salt, heat, and marine plants and animals in their swirling currents like a slow-motion tornado and transport them thousands of kilometers across the ocean.

The most thrilling aspect of being a physical oceanographer for me is going out on research ships. Just for the record, these are not like cruise ships! They have large working decks, science labs, dorm-like staterooms, cafeterias, and if you are lucky, an exercise room. I’ve sailed extensively around the Atlantic and Indian Oceans on these ships, staying at sea for up to 6 weeks at a time. After I lost most of my useful vision, I had to give up working with equipment on the open deck, but I can still lead the expedition as the primary decision-maker, or chief scientist, as we call it. I depend on some sighted assistance though, because most of the data being collected on the ship is still not accessible in real time for blind or low vision scientists.

On one such expedition in 2001, I was chief scientist on a research ship in the Indian Ocean. The currents in this remote region were a complete mystery, and we were mapping them for the first time. While on station off the coast of Somalia, we noticed a small boat approaching with six men who appeared to be wearing some kind of uniform. They didn’t contact us by radio, which would have been normal operating procedure. Instead, they circled around our ship, shouting words we couldn’t hear. Then suddenly, one of them stood up brandishing a rocket propelled grenade launcher. Immediately recognizing the danger, our captain quickly got our ship underway at top speed, which was all of 15 miles per hour. The other boat started chasing us. Everyone on our ship was ordered to their staterooms and told to lock the doors, in case what we now realized were modern-day pirates, got on board.

For about an hour, they trailed close behind us, firing rifles and grenades to try to get us to stop so they could get onboard. Our captain knew better though, and just kept us moving as fast as possible. It’s almost impossible for someone in a small boat to jump and climb up the side of a moving ship. Eventually, sea conditions forced the pirates to give up and turn back toward shore. This was one of the most frightening experiences of my life, right up there with trying to cross any street in downtown Boston. My PhD studies didn’t prepare me for this test of leadership. Even though no one nor the ship was harmed physically, everyone was traumatized to some degree. It was my responsibility, along with the captain, to maintain a sense of calm and carry on with our research, even though I myself was as rattled as everyone else.

If you are interested to learn more about modern-day piracy, oceanography, and my career through the lens of an outsider looking in, check out the book “Seven-tenths: Science, love and piracy at sea” by David Fisichella, available on Amazon and on BARD.

Here is part 1 of the text of a presentation Amy gave at the National Federation of the Blind Annual Convention in Orlando, Florida (#NFB24) on July 6, 2024

These are words you never want to hear on a ship at sea: “Attention, all personnel. Return to your staterooms immediately and lock all doors and passageways. There is a hostile vessel circling the ship”.

No textbook, no classroom, nor any advanced degree can prepare you for a pirate attack on the high seas. But this is exactly what I experienced in 2001, as an oceanographer on an unarmed research ship in the Indian Ocean. Before I tell you how this all turned out, let me rewind a few decades.

Growing up in a small coastal community north of Boston Massachusetts, I fell in love with the ocean. An insatiable curiosity had me turning over every rock at low tide to see what was hiding underneath. And wondering what lay beneath the waves. I was also curious in the classroom. I took nearly all the science and math classes offered at my small high school and found physics to be the most intriguing. So that’s what I chose for my college major. But I quickly realized that most physicists focus on the invisible particles inside atoms. I was more interested in the physical environment we all experience every day: wind and weather, ocean waves and tides, and how it all fits together to shape our planet.

Exactly how I would turn my interest in these topics into a career was uncertain, until I signed up for an off-campus college program called Sea Semester. It appealed to my adventurous spirit, sailing for 6 weeks offshore on a tall ship and learning everything about the oceans: science, history, literature and policy. There I discovered a field of science called physical oceanography: the study of the physical forces that drive motion in the ocean. Now I knew how I could combine my training in math and physics with my passion for understanding how our planet works. After all, to be good stewards of our one and only home, we need to understand what natural forces make our life aboard this celestial ship possible.

To be a physical oceanographer, I went off to graduate school for a PhD. Starting in my very first year, I was involved in research expeditions to the Gulf Stream, where I learned to use sophisticated instruments to study the three-dimensional anatomy of this massive current. I loved it. The adventure, the sense of exploration, the camaraderie that develops during remote field work like this. I was hooked.

The frequent storms I rode out with my shipmates at sea in those early graduate school years didn’t prepare me for what happened next.

At a routine eye exam during my third year of grad school, an abnormal blind spot was discovered. Shortly after that, I was diagnosed with macular degeneration and retinitis pigmentosa. Accompanying this totally unexpected diagnosis was the demoralizing advice from the ophthalmologist to change careers and consider science administration instead of research. At that time, I hadn’t heard of any scientist anywhere in any field that was blind or had low vision. In fact, I didn’t personally know anyone who was blind or had low vision. I wanted to be an oceanographer and go to sea and do research on ocean currents. Could I still do that? I was no longer sure. The uncertainty in the prognosis was as unsettling as the diagnosis itself: I was informed I would likely become fully or partially blind over some unknown number of years.

Since I’m standing here as a blind physical oceanographer with 35+years of research experience behind me, you know that I didn’t take that doctor’s advice.

Instead, I signed up to see a low-vision specialist with a positive can-do attitude. He was a sailor and understood the excitement of living and working on the ocean. He introduced me to various access technologies. I started believing that maybe I could continue graduate studies in my chosen career. And indeed, I finished my PhD, then started my professional career as a physical oceanographer at Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, or WHOI, as we call it for short, on Cape Cod in Massachusetts.