The Loch Ness Monster of Copepods: the mythos of scientific method
In 1911, Robert Esterly wrote a paper called Calenoid Copepoda from the Bermuda Islands. In 1933, Alex Campbell wrote an article for The Inverness Courier and used the word “monster” to describe a creature that a couple had allegedly seen crossing a road into the Loch Ness. While these two pieces might not seem at all similar on their face, to me they hold the same weight. Both writings catalyzed the search for an animal which, due to its highly localized nature in a relatively small body of water, should theoretically not be difficult to find. And yet, both searches have failed to produce the scientific evidence necessary to bring a creature out of the darkness of myth and into the light of scientific knowledge.
Unlike the throngs of curious monster hunters searching for Nessie, I am not looking for a giant beast in the murky depths. I am halfway through my research time at the Bermuda Institute of Ocean Sciences and the animal I seek, Acartia bermudensis, as described by Esterly in 1911 as being endemic to Bermuda coastal waters, continues to evade me. The species in question is a type of copepod, one of many animals to make up oceanic plankton, or animals which cannot swim against the current. Measuring in on average around one millimeter or less, copepods, though small, are the most numerous multi-celled animals in aquatic environments. They have been found in virtually every spot of water on the planet. In fact, Loch Ness monster hunters probably don’t even know that, if all the copepods in the loch moved together en masse, they would have a real monster!
Even though copepods do not swarm to create shadowy figures in the water which could be mistaken for monsters, they have nonetheless unwittingly moved into the forefront of cultural myth through the popular cartoon Spongebob Squarepants. Audiences love to watch as “Plankton’s” plots are foiled on an episodic basis. The tiny, one-eyed villain is actually modeled as a generic copepod. So distinctive is the trait of having one eye, that there is an entire taxonomic order called Cyclopoids. The reference to the ancient mythological creature cyclops in this nomenclature demonstrates the already present ties between science, society, and story. Although this is my first foray into scientific research, I am already experiencing firsthand, the surprising formation of those ties.
I have completed five plankton tows and I have yet to see even one individual from the genus Acartia, much less the bermudensis species. A taxonomic order called the Harpacticoids dominate the near-shore tows. I have combed literature, trying to find clues about why this species is nowhere to be found. The literature search for anything more than Esterly’s original description and sketch turned up only one source from the seventies which questioned the species’ taxonomic classification and whose tone seemed dubious as to the species’ very existence. The fact that nobody really knows what to think of this animal only fuels my curiosity. Having been captivated by Moby Dick as a child, a whimsy now surrounds this creature and an animal smaller than a grain of rice now seems, to me, bigger than Ahab’s whale.
My project didn’t start out this way. Before each tow, I knew exactly what I was looking for in the sample and how I was going to proceed once the tow was hauled in. Then, each tow produced the same results: the target genus was not present. Hours of work with no results is discouraging, especially when the reality of scientific work sets in and the outcome of that work needs to be a tangible project with real results. So naturally, my thoughts turn away from the discouraging outcomes and back toward the thrill of possible discovery. My mind has been wrought with the internal conflict of following my child-like curiosity and producing results.
Then, the question came to mind: should this conflict be able to exist? Isn’t curiosity supposed to be the driving force behind the results? Does the real mythos of science lie not in the undiscovered “what,” but in the “how” of the discovery? Is there a disparity between what we think the scientific method should be and what it actually is? We usually think of the scientific method as starting with one, easily testable question with a few, discrete steps toward the goal of a definitive answer. The reality is that science is a continuous process of observation and testing. If there is an answer to the original question, it often transforms into a hydra, producing more questions, sometimes even more daunting to test than the original.
Once at an impasse with a hydra, scientists can either give up or, just like mythic heroes, can enlist two powerful tools to be able to move forward: creativity and sidekicks. Two common misconceptions of scientists are that they are purely logical, “left-brained” thinkers, and that they are eccentric, loner geniuses, confined to a lab. Science is, in its simplest form, answering questions and solving problems. Scientists must be highly curious and creative to think of the many possible outcomes to a question or to think of all the possible ways to solve a problem. In the case that they need some ideas, they do not hesitate to ask their lab group or colleagues. Because scientific questions are often interdisciplinary or extensive or both, most scientific problems are solved by collaborations. In these epic scientific quests, the scientist becomes the hydra, putting many heads together to get to the crux of the research.
If all else fails, it is best to try to remember that all of science is, in and of itself, a journey, bigger than any one question. The answer to one question will always unlock more questions because that is how we progress. That seemingly slow progression is just as important to the eventual answer. It is what composes the story. Just as you wouldn’t start The Odyssey in an English class and skip right to the end, you wouldn’t start a microbiology class with current research before learning about Leeuwenhoek and Pasteur. It is clear that we place great value on the “how” of discovery leading up to the present. It just becomes easy to forget about it once you get to the cliffhanger on the last page: the “what” that needs to be discovered. Human curiosity kicks in; we have to know how the story ends, but transferring the “how” from the page through the filter of our minds turns it into something more rigid. The cerebral battle between “what” and “how” is born.
As long as we can prevent the “how” from being molded by cultural and societal expectations, the story is in our control and our curiosity can roam (almost) freely.
The scientific method is, ultimately, a tool. An important tool that keeps monsters of the loch out of the annals of recorded science, but a tool nonetheless. It can be used to recognize how you got to where you are but it is also key to understand that a few bumps along the way doesn’t mean “the process” is failing. I’m trying to remember that mantra as I search for Acartia among the masses of Cyclopoids and Harpacticoids. After all, The answer to your scientific story wouldn’t be as epic if you didn’t encounter a cyclops or some harpies along the way.
