Zen and the Art of Biological Field Work
I’m sitting in the boat with Don and Tom when the wind changes directions and a cloud of no-see-ums swarms the boat. I twitch and flinch and brush the tiny biting gnats away as quickly as I can, swearing at them silently. I remember them with a special sort of hatred from my Cape Lookout adventure last summer, when my friends and I smoked our clothes, bathed in bug spray and slept with everything but our noses covered in a completely futile effort to deter the horrid insects. I spit out an errant gnat and notice that while Tom is grimacing and slapping at his arms like me, Don seems completely unfazed.
“How,” Tom grits out, “are you doing that? Did you put on spray?”
“Nope,” Don says. “Just not letting them bother me.” A no-see-um lands on his nose.
“Is this some kind of research Zen?” I ask, continuing to wave bugs away from my face.
“More or less. See,” Don continues, “the quicker you can develop the right attitude for fieldwork, the happier you’ll be.”
“And what’s that?”
Don folds up his legs and sits up straight in the bottom of the boat, hands in the classic lotus position, a monk in a bright orange life vest.
“F--- it,” he says, smiling serenely. Despite the risk of inhaling bugs, Tom and I can’t help but laugh.
“How,” Tom grits out, “are you doing that? Did you put on spray?”
“Nope,” Don says. “Just not letting them bother me.” A no-see-um lands on his nose.
“Is this some kind of research Zen?” I ask, continuing to wave bugs away from my face.
“More or less. See,” Don continues, “the quicker you can develop the right attitude for fieldwork, the happier you’ll be.”
“And what’s that?”
Don folds up his legs and sits up straight in the bottom of the boat, hands in the classic lotus position, a monk in a bright orange life vest.
“F--- it,” he says, smiling serenely. Despite the risk of inhaling bugs, Tom and I can’t help but laugh.