Beneath the Surface in Catalina

By Sari Goldberg

Somewhere across the San Pedro Channel, the Coliseum was roaring to life with cheers that rattled the chests of everyone in the stands. I thought I would miss the noise, the chaos of a game day, but instead I found myself feeling quietly content in the gentle rhythm of the ocean. The world was silent around me, and everything felt impossibly still. My limbs relaxed as I adjusted to the crisp, freezing water. I let myself sink deeper into this peaceful abyss. I felt my mind go soft, the constant ticking of tasks and obligations seemingly floating away in the underwater breeze. With my mind unrecognizably quiet, I began exploring the coves and reefs that surrounded the Wrigley Institute on Catalina Island.

I swam further down into a grotto where the strong sun illuminated a small world unfolding beneath me. It appeared complete unto itself, this hidden ecosystem. Schools of fish darted in and out of crevices, eating the algae that clung to the rock. Sea urchins were nestled away from the sun, as anemone-like plants swayed as if caught by a breeze. Everything these animals needed to survive was right here, spread across three rocks that held a subtle but vital purpose.

Above the surface, another quiet purpose unfolded. The Wrigley Institute functions much like the grotto it sits atop: a self-sufficient ecosystem where resources circulate through a closed loop, waste is minimized, and every element of the campus serves a role in sustaining the rest.

Beyond modeling sustainable living, the institute also functions as a research hub, studying sea-level rise, carbon capture, and environmental DNA to understand how systems adapt and how society can live more responsibly. But another purpose exists deep below the surface.

As I made my way around the bend of jutted-out rocks, a structure tethered to the sandy bottom came into view–a stoic framework of engineered metal. The harshness of the material sat sharply juxtaposed against the serenity around it, an intrusion that should have felt out of place. Yet, the fish seemed to adapt around it, using it to their advantage, weaving through its beams, and folding it seamlessly into the rhythm of their underwater world. I watched with intrigue as these creatures did not resist the change; instead, they reorganized themselves around it, absorbing something new without losing balance and transforming the foreign entity into something functional.

I later learned that the mysterious underwater structure was a long-term NASA research project, where astronauts and scientists used the lessons of the ocean to study the challenges of space exploration. Suddenly, the fish weaving through the framework felt like a small, earthly version of the same dilemma. Just as the underwater world was acclimating to an unfamiliar object, the researchers above the surface were preparing for the day when humans would need to adapt to environments wholly unknown.

This parallel stayed with me as I sat atop the hills of Catalina Island. If an ecosystem as delicate as the one being protected here could accommodate something so incongruous without losing its equilibrium, then perhaps humans could achieve this same balance: one where human progress enters gently, respectfully, and in harmony with the systems that sustain life. As my contemplation descended deeper, I thought of NASA’s work, and a spark of curiosity filled my head. I wondered whether the same ingenuity sending us into space might also guide us toward a more sustainable, symbiotic life here on earth.