dataesr/scientific-paragraphs-categorization huggingface dataset:
Despite considered as potentially critical for the model error space, Weddell region was discarded from the bathymetry patches ensemble construction, which effective set contains 36 members. few additional members have been added from the perturbations of the model minimal depth threshold. It is usually set to 10 m in the TUGO-m hydrodynamic, global ocean model. Depth threshold aims to minimize frequency-domain modelling validity limitations in very shallow waters, but more importantly to deal with the existence of unrealistically shallow depths in most bathymetry datasets. Potential errors arising from this parameter has been taken into account by producing six members with global values centered around the 35 standard value (10 m). In total, the ensemble of bathymetry perturbations contains 84 simulations (42 perturbations run with both the FES99 and FES2012 LSA).
40 WOCE/GLOSS coastal database, open ocean BPR database provided by R. Ray (and used as validation dataset in Stammer et al, 2015), open ocean BPR database in Antarctica compiled by LEGOS, Arctic database from Kowalik, BHI and LEGOS, and four tide gauge stations of R. Ray's shelf database, located North of Florida. The (inevitably) redundant or neighboring observations were identified and the consistency between the https://doi. org/10. 5194/os-2020-96 Preprint. Discussion started: 16 October 2020 c Author(s) 2020. CC BY 4. 0 License.
Acknowledgements FES2014 project has been supported by the  French space agency (CNES)  under grants n°131678, n°160306 and grants  n°161431  (general grant framework  no14026 ) and through the  OSTST/TOSCA (INSU) scientific 15  fundings. The authors warmly thank  David Griffin  from  CSIRO  for providing the mean-depth ADCP current time series at the  IMOS stations around Australia  and for all the fruitful discussions about the comparison with the FES2014 tidal currents. They thank  P. Gégout  ( GET, Toulouse ) and  J. P. Boy  ( IGSP, Strasbourg ) for their assistance in developing the unstructured grid loading/self-attraction software. They also thank their colleagues of the OSTST tidal community for their long-lasting support and collaborations, with a special thought for R. 20 Ray.
5  FES2014  project has been supported by  CNRS  and the  French space agency (CNES)  under grants n°131678, n°160306 and grants  n°161431  (general grant framework  no14026 ) and through the  OSTST/TOSCA (INSU)  scientific fundings. Conflicts of interest/Competing interests (include appropriate disclosures): none public access through AVISO+  CNES/NASA  website.
Introduction Over the past two decades, remote sensing technologies (RST) and the use of lidar-derived (here we use "lidar" as opposed to various other acronyms for "light detection and ranging" (see  Deering and Stoker 2014) ) products have become widespread on archaeological projects around the world, and yet limited attention has been paid to the ethical concerns of collecting and maintaining these datasets  (Fernandez-Diaz et al. 2018). Scholars who work with Big Data in fields such as geography, the digital humanities, and science and technology studies have reflected on many of the issues involved (e. g. ,  Markham, Tiidenberg, and Herman 2018; Pels et al. 2018; Richards and King 2014) , but archaeologists must more fully contribute to the conversation (for related scholarship on digital issues, see  Bevan 2015; Huggett 2012; Kansa and Kansa 2018; McCoy 2017; Richardson 2018).
It is important to point out that the degree of scale and detail, the comprehensive coverage, and the interdisciplinary importance of RST data -and lidar data in particular -make them fundamentally different from other kinds of data conventionally used by archaeologists, and raise a series of quite specific ethical concerns. Since guidelines for 'best practice' can offer a useful framework for conducting ethical scientific research, we argue that archaeologists should, therefore, develop a series of best practices and ultimately a code of ethics for collecting, maintaining, and reproducing RST datasets in our work. In recent years there has been growing concern about the ways in which archaeologists use RST data, and a series of questions have been raised about the ethics of lidar specifically  (Begley 2016; Fernandez-Diaz et al.
2018 ). These issues frame our discussion here and inform other papers in this Special Collection. For example, scientists routinely obtain permits from government officials before collecting remotely sensed data -but when or how do we consult with local communities and stakeholders on the ground? How can RST datasets be integrated into collaborative, community-based archaeological and interdisciplinary research programs? After the data are collected, who has access to the datasets, and where are they housed? How can we use legacy remote datasets to document the rate of cultural heritage destruction and earth systems change? There are very compelling reasons to move towards open access models in our research, but what if these are inconsistent with the desires or interests of certain communities and stakeholders? Given the diversity of the cultural and regulatory contexts in which we routinely work, how can ethical principles be applied globally? Are concerns about sharing location information and looting the same cross-culturally, and to what extent can these concerns be substantiated? In this paper, we set out to explore these themes, and we suggest a checklist that archaeologists may do well to consider before acquiring remote sensing data, and lidar data specifically.
This survey of ethical frameworks in archaeology will be useful for locating our discussion within a broader disciplinary context. We then examine the increasingly widespread use of archaeological lidar and consider how we can learn from recent experiences to improve future work. We highlight three factors that archaeologists should consider before collecting lidar data for archaeological purposes: 1) future access to and dissemination of data; 2) how to engage stakeholders; and 3) how to promote public education. We draw on examples from our own work to illustrate why these kinds of issues should be recognized and considered before embarking on programs of archaeological lidar. Our introductory discussion aims to set the stage for the papers in this Special Collection, all of which, to some degree or another, touch on the issues that we present here.
Ethics, Sovereignty, and Airspace As  Smith and Burke (2003)  have pointed out, all ethical codes in archaeology were developed within a Eurocentric disciplinary context (see also  Lynott and Wylie 1995; Wylie 2002 Wylie : 229-234, 2003)). Apart from the Society for Professional Archaeologists (SOPA, now the U. S. Register for Public Archaeologists) code, which was created in the 1970s, most codes were developed in the 1990s. These developments built on earlier discussion of archaeological ethics, catalyzed in particular by the passage of the United Nations Act of 1985 and the indigenous and Native rights movements around the world in the 1960s-1980s (for historical context, see  Davis 1984; Lynott and Wylie 1995; Watkins 2000: Ch. 2 ). In the U. S. , the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) in 1990 resulted in substantial debate among archaeologists, Native peoples, and other stakeholders  (Atalay 2006 , Figure 1: Map of countries for which there are wide-area public lidar datasets used for archaeology and countries with wide-area acquisitions by archaeologists in the peer-reviewed literature (https://angkorlidar.
We make the case here that engaging diverse stakeholders in our programs, and incorporating the perspectives of indigenous communities, are important pre-requisites for an ethical research agenda involving archaeological lidar. Also relevant to any discussion of diverse perspectives is the growing dialogue about digital ethics in archaeology. For example, in their study of academic literature about remote sensing,  Agapiou and Lysandrou (2015)  find that publications and research are clustered at European, North American, and some Asian institutions; meanwhile, other parts of the world like South America and Africa are barely represented (see also Figure  1 ). This coincides with  Bevan's (2015)  point that one outcome of the current growth in digital archaeological information is that existing wealthy, computer-savvy parts of the world are best positioned to generate and exploit digital datasets.
Access to the tools and benefits of the geospatial and the lidar "revolutions" are widely uneven, and there is a need to work with local partners in a collaborative effort  (Opitz and Herrmann 2018; Rayne et al. 2017; Richardson 2018). In archaeological lidar, uneven access to tools and funding sources has led to a "lidar elite" in some parts of the world, or certain individuals or groups who have the necessary resources to collect, process, and store enormous lidar datasets  (Fernandez-Diaz et al. 2018). One potential solution to combat this form of digital colonialism is for fully open access of datasets to ensure data accessibility, sustainability, and longevity  (Huggett 2012 (Huggett , 2018;; McCoy 2017 ). As we discuss below, we agree with the idea of open access and appreciate that many archaeological datasets will inevitably be open access soon (if not already), but it is important to recognize that open policies may not be compatible with the wishes of certain countries or communities.
The Multispectral Scanner (MSS) sensor onboard of Landsat 5 satellite was producing publicly accessible images with a resolution of 60 m per pixel. Prototype airborne lidar sensors have existed since at least 1985, but they did not have the capability to penetrate thick vegetation canopies, and they produced low-resolution data that was of limited use to archaeologists  (Sheets 1991). Today, on the other hand, up to 54% of the global population has access to the internet, and the public has free access to worldwide imagery at 30 m resolution or higher in urban areas (ITU, United Nations 2019). Lidar data enables researchers to visualize archaeological features that are concealed under forest canopies, and to map hundreds or thousands of square kilometers in a short time with sub-meter spatial resolution.
Embedded in these Big Data -which are increasingly publicly available -are elements of the archaeological record, which can be used for both the preservation and destruction of cultural resources. This compels us to think carefully about ethical issues and the potential abuse of data and their accessibility. Unforeseen misuse and unintended consequences are part of the potential of information in the public domain. For now, because of concerns over looting, there are significant barriers to accessing high-resolution archaeological lidar data. Nevertheless, as Chase and Chase (2017) have observed, there is an urgency to develop a systematic and coordinated approach to dealing with the consequences of open lidar data, since technological developments point towards the increasing, easy availability of ever-more high-resolution lidar datasets in the future.
Lidar and Archaeology The use of very detailed, wide-area topographic datasets has a long history in some regions, such as parts of Europe, the Andes, and Mesoamerica, and for some archaeological projects today they are a key, foundational resource  (Alcock and Cherry 2016; Balkansky 2006; Billman and Feinman 1999; Leisz 2013; Sanders, Parsons and Santley 1979). At the landscape scale, lidar has transformed how we collect topographic information in terms of speed, accuracy, and resolution. Topographic relief models made from lidar have been used to great effect in forested or heavily-vegetated areas where ground survey, and other forms of RST, are slower or less effective  (Brady, Barton and Seaver 2013; Canuto et al. 2018; Chase et al. 2012; Evans et al. 2013; Rosenswig et al. 2013). Importantly, lidar products can be used alongside traditional ground-based approaches, including pedestrian survey, to facilitate refined research questions regarding heritage management and settlement patterns.
This brings a unique set of challenges, particularly with respect to curation and data management. Who curates these Big Data? Who can access them? Who decides who disseminates the research? What, if any, are the limitations or boundaries for collecting data? Remotely sensed datasets ensure the preservation of the archeological record, and yet the datasets can be enormous -which in turn creates different kinds of preservation problems. In the case of the Mosquitia region in Honduras, our inventory of high-density, three-dimensional point cloud data includes 144 km 2 of ALS data, terrestrial lidar scans from before and during excavation, and 3D models of groundstone artifacts  (Cruz-Castillo 2015; Fernandez-Diaz et al. 2018; Fisher et al. 2016 ). These storage issues are in addition to conventional archaeological data such as artifacts, photographs, field notes, and so on.
Other projects have larger collections still: the Cambodian lidar programs have accumulated more than 2000 km 2 of high-density point coverage, consisting of around forty billion individual measurements  (Evans 2016 ) -and this project, in turn, is dwarfed by recent acquisitions in Guatemala, which seek to cover 15,000 km 2  (Canuto et al. 2018; Estrada-Belli pers comm. ). That archaeologists would be commissioning three-dimensional datasets of such scale and detail was practically unimaginable only a decade ago. To cope with such developments, scholars have called for more sustainable database management  (Chase and Chase 2017; Huggett 2018; Kansa and Kansa 2018; McCoy 2017; Richards-Rissetto and von Schwerin 2017) , and there are now numerous repositories that we can use, such as the Digital Archaeological Record (tDAR), Open Science Framework (OSF), Box, and GitHub.
At some institutions, such as in Europe, there are 'in-house' university-managed networked and backed-up servers: in the UK, there is the project-funded Archaeological Data Service, and in the Netherlands, there is the DANS (Data Archiving and Networked Services)-Easy archiving system for large dataset storage. For the time being, however, there remains only one dedicated global repository for high-resolution topographic data, OpenTopography. Depending on the project, some of these services may be too expensive or grant dependent (e. g. , tDAR; Box), and others may eventually start charging fees (e. g. , OSF). GitHub has a relatively steep technical cost of entry, but it is free and open access -one useful outcome is that everyone who works on a GitHub project ends up with a copy of code on his or her own computers.
Even in the spirit of open access, this may not be appropriate for all projects and it may not adhere to the wishes of host countries with specific access policies (see discussions in  Bevan 2015; Opitz and Herrmann 2018). While there may be no catchall solution for data storage, questions of sustainable access to datasets should be a central concern at the planning stage for archaeological lidar programs -well before data collection -and applications for grants and permits should have appropriate budgets to facilitate this, in addition to laying out comprehensive data management plans. A major concern in these plans should be keeping datasets up to date with current software, and the recognition that future storage systems may be incompatible with our contemporary instruments. Storing data is not a one-time process; rather, as case studies from Croatia  (Doneus et al.
, in press ) and Honduras (Fernandez-Diaz and Cohen, in press) show, the raw data must be preserved and then updated and integrated as technology changes. Questions about openness and accessibility are closely related to and profoundly complicated by concerns about safeguarding the cultural features revealed by lidar technology. On the one hand, awareness of the existence and location of heritage resources is crucial for their effective conservation, and increased accessibility to lidar data sets the stage for a broader range of stakeholders to become involved in that effort. On the other hand, do higher resolution maps promote looting? The longstanding assumption for many areas is that they do, or at least that they might, but there have been few systematic studies that evaluate the idea  (Frank et al.
2015; Krieger 2014). This is something that needs to be a focus of study, perhaps beginning by looking at whether the availability of free, high-resolution imagery in Google Earth and Google Maps has had a net positive or negative impact on heritage conservation (see  Myers 2010; Ur 2006). Recognizing that withholding geospatial data from communities of end-users is also a source of potential harm to heritage resources, we should better involve local partners in projects (see below) and begin to carefully weigh the risks in specific locations instead of defaulting to locking away datasets. There is an urgency to make lidar data more widely available for planning and decision-making. In some areas -such as the ancient city of Angamuco (250-1530 CE) in Western Mexico, and the Honduran Mosquitiaour archaeological lidar scans may be the last records of ancient landscapes that will soon succumb to development, their archives of past activity erased forever.
To this day, the paved highway to Koh Ker stops several kilometers from the main complexes, and access to the temples remains by way of the original, narrow dirt road. Similar interventions against road works in sensitive archaeological zones have also taken place recently in Phnom Kulen, in the north of the Angkor region, where another early capital remains substantially hidden beneath the forest  (Chevance et al. 2019 ; Jean-Baptiste Chevance pers. comm. ). In all these cases, adverse outcomes were prevented by last-minute, ad hoc interventions by government archaeologists who happened to have privileged access to tightly controlled, closed archives of lidar data. Efforts are now underway to open those archives, improve access to the lidar data for all stakeholders, and engage communities in planning processes informed by the imagery, with a view to improving conservation outcomes.
Notably, funding of archaeological lidar acquisitions by private concerns may be presented as a rationale for decreased accessibility to the data. This is an issue in the Americas, which have a much stronger tradition of private philanthropy than other parts of the world, and where the largest archaeological lidar acquisitions have all been funded by private foundations. This contrasts with publicly-funded acquisitions, which may be subject to mandates for public accessibility -in other words, making the data available to the taxpayers who funded the acquisition. Nevertheless, even with public funding, there are various regulations about whether government entities retain or control access to lidar data, which makes it difficult to establish a universal protocol for data sharing. There are numerous technical, financial, political, cultural, religious, privacy, and safety reasons why it may only be possible to complete an aerial laser scanning campaign over important cultural heritage sites once and once only.
As we have noted above, there are also a range of potentially adverse outcomes; meanwhile, the benefits of lidar may be spread unevenly. That being the case, how should we as researchers engage with all the groups who are potentially impacted, ranging from local stakeholders (including local landowners, indigenous groups, and marginalized groups such as squatters) to powerful national interests such as government authorities? Recognizing that lidar data might encode the only permanent record of threatened cultural and natural heritage in each area, how might descendant communities be given a voice in the acquisition and stewardship of that information? It is important to note that there may be divergent perspectives on how to promote the protection of cultural heritage, even within individual ' communities' (e.
Public Education As the public is educated about scientific methods and becomes increasingly interested in the outcome of archaeological lidar work, it is clear that we must be more responsible about modes of dissemination and the clarity of what is learned  (Klein et al. 2018). We advocate for democratizing archaeological science, and the datasets it produces, as an important part of achieving responsible and proportional representation in the media. Additionally, as scientists, we need to do a better job of communicating our work to the public. This is not only because the public often funds our projects and consumes our data and interpretations in various ways, but because non-scientists in media, political, or religious contexts may promote pseudo-scientific claims  (Feder 2014; Holly 2015).
2014). While there are questions about the reproducibility and quality of these data points, these kinds of projects show the potential for directly involving citizens in the collection and/or interpretations of large datasets. Recent examples of a citizen science approach in archaeological lidar are encouraging, including the use of lidar hillshades in the undergraduate classroom in France  (Forest et al. 2020 ) and a machine-learning and citizen researcher fieldwork campaign in The Netherlands  (Lambers, Verschoof-van der Vaart and Bourgeois 2019). These studies demonstrate that there is unexplored pedagogical potential in lidar data. In the future, participatory archaeology -which incorporates community perspectives, including potential research questions about approaching wide-area spatial data -may play a future role in democratizing archaeological lidar.
2018; McCoy 2017; Opitz 2016; Opitz and Herrmann 2018; Richardson 2018) , and yet we believe that specialists in archaeological lidar can more fully contribute to and develop the conversation about research ethics. As the evolving considerations about database management, stakeholder collaboration, and archaeological ethics show, aspects of some of these ethical quandaries in archaeological lidar may vary according to context and they will likely change over time as this subfield matures. Our experiences and those of our colleagues underscore that archaeological lidar and RST projects encompass far too much diversity in aims and methods to consider rigid protocols. Nonetheless, we believe that archaeologists who want to collect these types of data must engage in a reflexive, holistic process of preparation that weighs the opportunities and challenges of integrating such kinds of data.
A total of 128 participants started the survey. Out of these, six were deleted because they only provided answers to the questions about demographics, and did not complete the second part on their interactions with Twitch. Another nine were deleted because they showed satisficing behavior (i. e. , straightlining), or because the replies to the open-ended questions included nonsense, were clearly trolling, or referred to memes. This is an inherent part of doing research online, especially in popular culture, and we were even warned that this might happen by some of the serious participants. Out of the 113 remaining participants, 84 completed the entire survey. For clarity and consistency, we included only these 84 participants when discussing the results. All participants gave informed consent, and the research was approved by the Research Ethics and Data Management Committee (REDC) of the Tilburg School of Humanities and Digital Sciences, at Tilburg University.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The authors are grateful to all the participants who invested time into completing the survey. Furthermore, we thank our colleagues Renske van Enschot,  Emiel Krahmer ,  Emiel van Miltenburg ,  Leonoor Oversteegen , and  Karin Slegers  for their valuable feedback on the survey and the overarching study design. We would like to dedicate this work to  Byron Reckful Bernstein , who passed away on July 2nd, 2020. His followers had nothing but kind words for him when filling out the survey.