A man of few words

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Michael Wilkin was a man of few words—occasionally, opinionated words. Stocky and bearded, most at ease in khaki shorts and short sleeved shirts, he had a soft heart, was distinctly talented at his craft, and had an unwavering commitment to problem-solving action. When he died unexpectedly on May 16, 2025, the world quietly became much poorer.

Born in England just over six decades ago, he was not world famous—he left that to his glassmaker brother Neil. In fact, outside Warrenton and Astoria, OR, his family, and a circle of oceanography folks like me, few likely knew or will remember Michael. Even so, an untold number of people benefit today (and will benefit for decades to come) from his skill and dedication, without so realizing .

See, Michael was a marine technician. He spent most of his professional life deep in a workshop, building or servicing sensor packages. Packages that, for most of the last (almost) thirty years he deployed in—or recovered from—the often harsh, fast, dark and cold waters of the Columbia River estuary and his majestic ocean plume. In this, he was a loner—except when he wasn’t. Armed with an unmistakenly British accent, he loved to share his craft with all sorts of people: kids and teachers from middle and high-school, fellow technicians, university students and post-docs, novice or established researchers, boat drivers, fishermen, and so many more.

I suspect that he scared some of those people—although never the kids, whom he seemed to just plainly fascinate. But no one walked away from Michael not realizing the depth of his knowledge, the genius of his out-of-the-box practical solutions, and the profound respect he had for all things ocean related. And no one could remain unmoved by his love for animals—birds, fish and mammals alike. That love, I suspect, made him a vegetarian—something that in the late 1990’s was an eye-popping oddity in his adopted (fishing- and hunting-loving) community of Warrenton and Astoria.  I could tell stories …

I was his ‘boss’ for a quarter century, until my retirement a few years ago. Except that Michael was too independent to have a boss—any boss. He took high-level, often incompletely articulated specifications, and transformed them into powerful sensing units, delivering innovative and practical solutions to operationally very challenging problems. At sea, he was superhuman. No sign of seasickness (well, except for that one time, Michael—but I won’t tell that story…), even under sea conditions that made the rest of us barely survive on Dramamine. Cautious, prepared, efficient of movements and instructions. A stickler for safety, for him and anyone working in his seagoing teams, from faculty to undergraduate interns. Many a limb were spared because of Michael—mine included, I suspect.

Whether you are a mariner, a recreational boater, a fisher, a search-and-rescue or oil spill responder, a scientist, a bar pilot—or so many others—, knowing in real-time what the water velocity, temperature, salinity, or other environmental characteristics of estuaries and coasts look like can at times make a huge difference. For much of the US coastal margin, that information is currently at your fingertips, if you have a cell phone or an internet connection. That is the work of many people, brought together with a shared spirit of service, love of science, and deep belief in ‘science for society.’

The Columbia River was a reference in developing this type of capability, as was the entire US Pacific Northwest. Many of those who contributed over the years recognize in Michael’s a disproportionate role and influence.  He was the master of making possible the extremely challenging—in fact, he made it look simple. He was the steady hand, keeping sensors working rain or sunshine. He architected the functional side of observing—whether from a boat, using a sea glider, making a sensor package move up and down continuously, or just keeping sensors reporting (mostly…) day in and day out—for years in a row, through smart ‘on a shoestring’ design and maintenance.

He won most, lost some: There are a few sensors and sensor frames lying around at unknown places at the bottom of the Columbia River, that Michael would have loved to have back. He thought of (some of) them as failures. I think of (all) them as the cost of innovation—and of service to the community that needs ocean data. I think of (all) them as a hidden testament to Michael’s skill and courage in pushing the limits of what is possible. In fact, these lost pieces of equipment are a fitting tribute to this often-self-effacing man, of few words but rare talent and commitment to service.

Thank you, Michael. What a life you lived! 

Antonio Baptista