Marcelina Martynek

It’s been about two weeks since I returned from Lizard Island, and I’m still processing the experience. I’ve been to the Great Barrier Reef once before, but this time was different. The word that comes to mind is colorful. Every night I went to sleep with visions of vivid coral colonies swirling behind my eyes, and every morning I woke up eager to see them again. Nature was fully on display as I swam over the reef: each coral wore a different color—brick red, cotton-candy pink, fluorescent green, deep sapphire blue. I would bring my face close to the corals, watching the tiny polyp tentacles dance in the current. There was a quiet challenge in every swim: could I spot what the reef was hiding? The reef could see me—but could I see it?
Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of purple and red crabs tucked into Pocillopora branches. Other times, an octopus or cuttlefish would materialize from camouflage among Acropora outcrops. Pipefish clung motionless to their rocks, while fish of every color darted between coral bommies. I often hovered over the enormous mouths of giant clams—iridescent blues and purples swirling like galaxies. These ancient mollusks felt like sentinels of the reef, quietly watching time pass in slow, measured breaths.

Lizard Island also offered a rare kind of solitude. With limited connection to the outside world, I found myself with time—to think, to read, to simply be immersed in the landscape. That immersion wasn’t just metaphorical; it was physical. Shoes were discouraged (to keep sand out of the research buildings, though it was a losing battle), so I was constantly barefoot. My body was in direct contact with the sand, the sea, and the sun. I felt grounded in every sense of the word. We hiked to Cook’s Look, the island’s highest point, and I found myself wondering what Captain Cook must have seen from up there. Did he view the reef with awe, or as an obstacle to be escaped in his wooden ship? I imagine the reefs were even more immense, more colorful back then.

I had the opportunity to conduct an independent research project during the trip—one that let me engage with the reef in a more personal and curious way. I focused on the striking blue staghorn Acropora that dotted the reefs. Their vivid, almost electric blue caught my eye from the start, and I wondered if their pigmentation changed across depths. Using a waterproof camera, I photographed colonies at different depths and later analyzed the color intensity of the blue pigment. I hypothesized that the pigment would be darker in shallow water, where corals are exposed to higher levels of UV radiation. Since blue pigments in corals often function as UV-absorbing compounds, it made sense that colonies closer to the surface might need more of this “sunscreen.” My hypothesis proved to be correct. Not only was it exciting to see the results match my expectations, but it felt validating to apply what I’ve learned—about coral physiology, reef function, and experimental design—in a setting as dynamic and real as the reef itself. It reminded me that asking simple questions, grounded in observation, can lead to meaningful insights.

I said this trip was different, and it truly was. For the first time in my scientific training, I didn’t feel like an outsider. I didn’t feel like a guest—I felt like I was returning to an old friend. That feeling didn’t come from nowhere. It’s a testament to the years of learning, practice, and training I’ve undergone. On this trip, I noticed the difference. I could swim through the reef and recognize coral genera by sight, whispering their names in my head as I passed: Acropora, Porites, Echinopora, Montipora, Lobophyllia, Goniopora, Turbinaria, Psammocora, Pocillopora… I noticed patterns. I noticed when something looked odd or exciting. I felt connected to the landscape in a way that only comes from familiarity and care. I felt more like a reef scientist than I ever had before.

Thank you, Lizard Island, and thank you, NSF-IRES, for the opportunity to grow.