Noise Marine Quotes

What would you study, Percy?” “Dunno,” he admitted. “Marine science,” she suggested. “Oceanography?” “Surfing?” he asked. She laughed, and the sound sent a shock wave through the water. The wailing faded to background noise. Annabeth wondered if anyone had ever laughed in Tartarus before—just a pure, simple laugh of pleasure. She doubted it.

How can the poem and the stink and the grating noise - the quality of light, the tone, the habit and the dream - be set down alive? When you collect marine animals there are certain flat worms so delicate that they are almost impossible to capture whole, for they break and tatter under the touch. You must let them ooze and crawl of their own will onto a knife blade and then lift them gently into your bottle of sea water. And perhaps that might be the way to write this book - to open the page and let the stories crawl in by themselves.

The ice was here, the ice was there,   The ice was all around: 60   It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,   Like noises in a swound!

This is it. October 2, 2020, and the whole world watched, and history remembered. Alex waits on the South Lawn, within view of the linden trees of the Kennedy garden, where they first kissed. Marine One touches down in a cacophony of noise and wind and rotors, and Henry emerges in head-to-toe Burberry looking dramatic and windswept, like a dashing hero here to rip bodices and mend war-torn countries, and Alex has to laugh. "What?" henry shouts over the noise when he sees the look on Alex's face. "My life is cosmic joke and you're not a real person," Alex says, wheezing. "What?" Henry yells again. "I said, you look great, baby!

Since the experiment began, dead beaked whales have been discovered stranded on beaches of the Gulf of California by senior marine biologists at the National Marine Fisheries Services, including several experts in beaked whales, the impacts of noise on marine mammals, and the stranding of marine mammals. These scientists, and others who care about whales, wrote letters to the expedition’s sponsors. Columbia University failed to meaningfully respond. The National Science Foundation’s response was to write a letter stating, “There is no evidence that there is any connection between the operations of the Ewing and the reported [sic] beached whales.

Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream. Cannery Row is the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky-tonks, restaurants and whore-houses, and little crowded groceries, and laboratories and flop-houses. Its inhabitants are, as the man once said, "whores, pimps, gamblers, and sons of bitches," by which he meant Everybody. Had the man looked through another peep-hole he might have said: "Saints and angels and martyrs and holy men," and he would have meant the same thing. In the morning when the sardine fleet has made a catch, the purse-seiners waddle heavily into the bay blowing their whistles. The deep-laden boats pull in against the coast where the canneries dip their tails into the bay. The figure is advisedly chosen, for if the canneries dipped their mouths into the bay the canned sardines which emerge from the other end would be metaphorically, at least, even more horrifying. Then cannery whistles scream and all over the town men and women scramble into their clothes and come running down to the Row to go to work. Then shining cars bring the upper classes down: superintendents, accountants, owners who disappear into offices. Then from the town pour Wops and Chinamen and Polaks, men and women in trousers and rubber coats and oilcloth aprons. They come running to clean and cut and pack and cook and can the fish. The whole street rumbles and groans and screams and rattles while the silver rivers of fish pour in out of the boats and the boats rise higher and higher in the water until they are empty. The canneries rumble and rattle and squeak until the last fish is cleaned and cut and cooked and canned and then the whistles scream again and the dripping, smelly, tired Wops and Chinamen and Polaks, men and women, straggle out and droop their ways up the hill into the town and Cannery Row becomes itself again-quiet and magical. Its normal life returns. The bums who retired in disgust under the black cypress-tree come out to sit on the rusty pipes in the vacant lot. The girls from Dora's emerge for a bit of sun if there is any. Doc strolls from the Western Biological Laboratory and crosses the street to Lee Chong's grocery for two quarts of beer. Henri the painter noses like an Airedale through the junk in the grass-grown lot for some pan or piece of wood or metal he needs for the boat he is building. Then the darkness edges in and the street light comes on in front of Dora's-- the lamp which makes perpetual moonlight in Cannery Row. Callers arrive at Western Biological to see Doc, and he crosses the street to Lee Chong's for five quarts of beer. How can the poem and the stink and the grating noise-- the quality of light, the tone, the habit and the dream-- be set down alive? When you collect marine animals there are certain flat worms so delicate that they are almost impossible to capture whole, for they break and tatter under the touch. You must let them ooze and crawl of their own will on to a knife blade and then lift them gently into your bottle of sea water. And perhaps that might be the way to write this book-- to open the page and to let the stories crawl in by themselves.

Biologists have long speculated about the reasons that animals in general, and marine animals in particular, make noise. One is communication; whales are said to communicate between members of a school. Another is defense, attempting to scare away attackers. Another is location, as in the echo-ranging of porpoises. Another is sexual attraction; most fish are noisy only within a male sex. A final reason must be that it must be pleasurable for a marine animal to make noise, just as in the humming of a tune by a human being.

Pike didn’t believe he would find anything, but he had to check, so he did, ignoring her. Pike had learned this with the Marines—the one time a man didn’t clean his rifle, that’s when it jammed; the one time you didn’t tape down a buckle or secure your gear, the noise it made got you killed.

One of the first things you had to know was the difference between “In Coming” and “Out Going”.  The first loud noises or explosions we heard had everyone jumping and getting ready to run for the bunkers.  A loud voice in the darkness shouted for us to relax, it was “Out Going”.  The voice was referring to artillery fire being shot away from our location and hopefully onto a Viet Cong location.  It was normally referred to as an H&I fire (Harassing and Interdiction).  Another voice in the darkness asked, “What does in coming sound like?” The loud voice in the darkness answered, “There will be no doubt in your mind when you hear it.  If you don’t hear it, you will most likely be dead.

His hand brushed against it, for god’s sake. He saw the label as the beam of his flashlight swept across it: MORPHIUM. But he didn’t grab it. If it had said MORPHINE he would have grabbed it in a second. But it said MORPHIUM. And it wasn’t until about thirty seconds later that he realized that this was a fucking German boat and of course the words would all be different and there was about a 99 percent chance that MORPHIUM was, in fact, exactly the same stuff as MORPHINE. When he realized that he planted his feet in the passageway of the darkened U-boat and let out a deep long scream from way down in his gut. With the noise of the waves, no one heard him. Then he continued onwards and carried out his duty, handing over the stethoscope to Waterhouse. He carried out his duty because he is a Marine.

A SWELTERING EXCHANGE   She presses my lips, running her fingers across them gently, looking at my lips as though she has just kissed them for the very first time. She gently pries them apart, running her fingertips across the bottom of my lip with a curious childlike fixation.   I realize that she has been as needful for me as I am of her. I pull her left leg in crossed with mine. My lips now close around the ring of her tiny finger, tasting her and loving her. Piece by piece she lets me have every part of her. She smiles at me with a wonder that again grows into a series of sweltering exchanges. She is the one woman who literally takes my breath away.   She embraces me as I indulge myself in her the way that she indulges herself in me. She makes the kind of noise that might easily secure a carnivore to its prey. She wishfully leans into me with her lips that become free for me to cradle. I catch her lips with my entirety, giving her all of me and nothing less. She is now free of those questions that have all been answered with a single kiss. Here is where our souls unite as one for all of time–time ceasing to exist whenever we are in the company of each other. Inseparably smitten we have become, here marinating within each other’s grasp.

Two-One Alpha, ready for you. Move it. We’re in kind of a hurry to find a quieter place!” Two wounded men were hauled to the helicopter first by four of their buddies, with the rest strafing the hill to keep the Taliban heads down. The fright and panic in the eyes and faces of the soldiers were clearly visible. Their screams rose above the thundering noise of the engines as they pushed the wounded in and then took up position outside the chopper to provide covering fire for the remaining men to get in. “All in. Let’s get out of here!” Leo shouted. “Grab tight. It’s going to be a rough ride boys!” John pulled the chopper into a steep climb while banking away from the hill. With no fire coming from the doorgun to keep them down, the full force and frustration of the enemy was now directed at the chopper and its occupants. They saw their prey escaping out of their hands right in front of their eyes. A burning pain shot through John’s back and legs as the body of the helicopter shuddered under the power of the two Rolls-Royce Gem turboshaft engines at full throttle. Smoke started to billow from the starboard engine. I have to get over that hill three miles away. Why am I dizzy? I have to get these boys out of trouble. I have to level the chopper and save power. I must get over that hill. I must get out of the reach of the bullets. “Doug! Doug! Can you hear me? What’s wrong man?” Leo screamed in a high-pitched, panicked voice. “Oh my God, you’ve been hit! Are you ok? Shit man, put the chopper down now. You’ll crash and kill us all!” “That hill … I have to get over it … out of range … I must get us there ...” Doug stuttered. “What was that? I can’t hear you. For God’s sake put the chopper down!” Leo shouted at the top of his voice. “Going down, going down … radio for help!” John whispered, a few seconds before everything went dark. The nightmare and the math Doug paid little heed to his passengers as he banked away from the canyon rim. Max was back there to help them. Doug had plenty on his mind, between the flashback to his crash in Afghanistan and wondering when whoever had shot two of his passengers would show up and try to shoot the chopper down here and now, over the Grand Canyon. Not to mention nursing the aging machine to do his bidding. Within minutes after takeoff from the canyon site, lying in the back of the chopper, JR and Roy were oblivious to their surroundings due to the morphine injection administered to them by Max Ellis – an ex-Marine medic and the third member of the Rossler boys’ rescue expedition. Others on the chopper had more on their minds. Raj was in his own world, eyes closed, wondering about his wife Sushma, their child, and the future. He and Sushma were not the outdoors adventure and camping types – living in a cave with other people was going to take some getting used to for them. They both grew up and had lived in the city all their lives. How was this going to work out

Ma chaussette… j'ai mis l'une à l'endroit et l'autre à l'envers. Bah, tant pis ! j'ai pas la force de recommencer. Encore que. M'accepteront-ils ainsi... au jugement dernier? ne vont-il pas me chercher noise, dis? voire même se… se moquer de moi? Crénom de nom, y'z y ont pas intérêt!… (S'allongeant sur son lit) Aïe, aïe, aïe! (soupir) C'est bien, n'empêche quand on s'est attifé pour mourir, un souci de moins… Avec celui de la vie éternelle, c'en fait deux ! (extrait de "Matca, la source", pièce en deux actes, six tableaux)

In fact, a dolphin's whistles, pulses, and clicks, made by air sacs just below its blowhole, are among the loudest noised made by marine animals. A scientist at Penn State's Center for Information and Communications Technology Research has been analyzing these underwater messages not for meaning but for hints on how to make our wireless signals more effective. As the Ask Nature database describes, Dr. Mohsen Kavehrad uses "multirate, ultrashort laser pulses, or wavelets, that mimic dolphin chirps, to make optical wireless signals that can better penetrate fog, clouds, and other adverse weather conditions." The multiburst quality of dolphin sounds "increases the chances that a signal will get past obstacles" in the surrounding water. In the same way, Dr. Kavehrad's simulated dolphin chirps increase the odds of getting around such tiny obstacles as droplets of fog or rain. This strategy could expand the capability of optical bandwidth to carry even greater amounts of information. Such an application technology could optimize communication between aircraft and military vehicles, hospital wards, school campus buildings, emergency response teams, and citywide networks.