As my eyes drifted out amongst sparse clouds and the gradient warm blue of the early morning West Texas skies, I thought back to my first blog entry en route to Antarctica in which I wonder at the contents of my luggage as being some indication of preparedness for my expedition. I wrote, “It is a rather interesting experience to relate one’s moment to a collection of particular things. If my journey can be defined, or at least contextualized, by the contents of my luggage…”

Amazingly, I’m feeling rather the same as I embark on my journey to the Gulf of Mexico to be a witness to the environmental and ecological devastation that is occurring in the wake of the BP oil catastrophe. Obviously, the contents of my luggage now are radically different than what they were for Antarctica, save the extensive camera and computer equipment I’ll need for my work. Exceedingly hot and humid temperatures along the Louisiana coast this summer have my bag filled with clothing that will attempt, futilely, to keep me cool. The most poignant difference is the special gear that this journey requires. Instead of ice saws or hand warmers, I have professional organic vapor respirators (with extra cartridges), chemical resistant eye safety goggles, chemical protective gloves and Ty-Vek body suits.

And yet I know, in the depth of my soul, that all the protective clothing in the world will not, can not, prepare me for witnessing this crisis. How does one prepare for the potential loss of an entire ocean? How does one prepare for the deaths of thousands of living creatures? How does one come to terms with the extent of what is likely the worst environmental disaster of our time? In vain, I wish the contents of my luggage could help in some small way to prepare me for these things, and yet I know that nothing but the strength of my own heart will.

Landing in New Orleans, Dahr and I await the arrival of his sister, Julianna, and brother-in-law, Jack, who will be joining us for the first few days. Both Julianna and Jack are pilots, and they have arranged for us to fly along the coastal marshes and out over the oil-slicked ocean for a birds-eye view of the source of the leaking, nay gushing, from the deep wound in the earth.

With all arrived, we drove to meet our gracious hosts, Andy and Meg, who’s home will be our base for the month we are here. Pulling up to their house, the van in the driveway has a massive peace sign painted on it along with the words “Not just for hippies anymore.” Another sticker on the back says “After we are done rebuilding Iraq, can we rebuild New Orleans?” A third says “Try not to hate people.” Dahr and I looked at each other and laughed, knowing that our new friends are surely kindred spirits. Their big smiles and warm hellos were an immediate relief from the gravity of our being here, and a reminder of the immensity and generosity of the human spirit. After settling in to our new home, we went down the street for some real downhome New Orleans cooking, filling ourselves with the spicy richness of Cajun/Creole cuisine.

Drifting off to sleep, grateful for the quality of quiet and stillness the moment just before one shuts one’s eyes permits, my mind began to whirl with images and thoughts from the day and from the weeks preparing for this journey. Before I can focus on any of their enticing pull away from the calm, I fall asleep.