This post is about the trials and tribulations of building my first Direct Air Capture (DAC) device: The Carbonation Bed. Part one of this series (Capturing Carbon I: The Base) covers my origin story, the fundamentals of “calcium looping” for DAC, and the approach to solving this problem.

Two hundred kilograms sounds heavy, and I dream of back-squatting it one day. It is also the amount of CO₂ my first prototype captured. There are over 3,360 gigatonnes still available in the air, and capturing a sliver will require churning out more and better Carbonators. If building this future feels exciting, check out Terraform Industries; we are hiring!
The architecture
The North Star for the DAC system is to provide 500 standard liters per minute of CO₂ for 6 hours a day, costing on the order of a Benjamin for every ton captured. For scale, this is close to the weight of a grown grizzly bear in carbon dioxide, made when the sun shines brightest and blesses our system with electrons. The Carbonator subsystem’s cost is the sum of building it (Materials + Labor) and running it (Energy to blow A LOT of air * Cost of energy). The former is minimized with clever mechanical design and the latter by flowing as little air as needed through the smoothest path possible.
Katie’s Wind Tunnel was my introduction to solving this carbonation problem. It was slightly different from the ones F1 fanboys are familiar with. Instead of blowing half a ton of air per second through a multi-million dollar vehicle, a bouncy house blower from Amazon blew air through a packed bed of calcium hydroxide flakes, enabling us to measure how efficiently carbon dioxide was captured under different operating conditions. The performance was related to three things:
- Gas side: amount of air blown (Air Volume = Cross-sectional Area * Velocity of Air * time)
- Energy: how difficult it was for an air molecule to make it through the bed (driven by the pressure drop modelled using Ergun)
- Sorbent side: proportion of calcium hydroxide flakes turned into calcium carbonate (carbonation conversion as measured by a TGA).

The architecture for our first scaled-up Carbonator was selected by the time I joined. I’d only spent a few hours reading about Terraform’s DAC design in the opulence of a Spirit Airlines middle seat before arriving onsite, so I lacked the knowledge to do anything but go with the flow. “The Carbonation Bed” was a conveyor belt that carried a packed bed of sorbent inside of a semi-sealed box with air blown through it. Data from the wind tunnel tests guided design parameters such as bed thickness of sorbent, air humidity, sorbent shape (wavy plates vs. pellets vs. flat discs), and air speed, which were used to size the prototype (mass of sorbent, surface area, air flow rate, system resistance, etc.).


Wood was designated as the primary material to make this low-profile, school bus-sized prototype for its cost benefit and ease of prototyping. After initial brainstorming sessions, I found myself lost in the platonically ideal realm of CAD, where everything fit properly, and a 4×4″ block of wood really was a perfect square matching that nominal dimension. I radiated enough ignorance about woodworking to warrant warning shots from a man who once bore the brunt of building a house with that material. Enough fixes were implemented (e.g., fewer cuts of plywood sheets) and Treehouse Masters videos were watched to get a green light on production, but I was about to fly blind into a storm.
The build
“If you are going to eat shit, don’t nibble” – A rich VC
I was told that a team of competent carpenters could have completed the build in two calm days. It took me three arduous weeks. The bed had two sections: the top plenum (an enclosed box) through which air entered and the bottom plenum where air exited after being filtered. The top was made of TV-sized stick frames covered with plywood sheets; the bottom, placemat-sized stick frames skinned with MERV dust filters. The belt with the flakes sat between the two, and all of this was mounted on a laminated veneer lumber frame.
While making these structures, I fell victim to a plebeian litany of fumbles: cutting twice and measuring once, stripping screws, cracking lumber, and messing up that goddamn kerf. Sawdust found a new home in my pockets, hair, and shoes, and occasionally a splinter would settle into my fingers. Each piece added more cuts, more attachments, and more interfaces to seal, and my design had too many pieces. There was only one way out, and for that I had to go all in.

The humidifiers became the bane of my existence but were essential for flakes to carbonate in days instead of weeks. The Pareto essence of their design was obvious after I took apart an off-the-shelf evaporative cooler: drop water on high-surface-area structured packing and blow air perpendicularly through those pads. As air came in contact with the pads, it helped evaporate the water, gaining humidity while getting cooler. As usual, the hard part came from making the functional thing, which in this case was three boxes that had to seal water and air, as big as the fat Harkonnen’s bathtub.
The humidifiers were the last phase of the build, and I was starting to fantasize about the finish line until I experienced SIMPLIFY-DELETE-REPEAT in real time when integrating these humidifiers with the bed. To combat the unlevel parking lot that my assembly rested on, I chose to use nine 2-foot-wide flexible ducts for routing air from the humidifiers to the Bed’s plenum. This method got vetoed and I was forced to rethink the connections. Pressure bursts pipes or creates diamonds; in this case, it forced me to eliminate 9 ducts plus 18 flanges and directly join the two subassemblies, a solution more elegant than the cat maze of bouncy house looking ducts.

These struggles were an elemental precursor to the gains. I welcomed the gorilla grip developed from hauling 4’x8′ sheets and holding saws steady. I went from sneakily watching a “how to turn on a jigsaw” video to getting that tool taken from me for overusing it. I went from timidly drilling pilot holes for wood screws to shooting them straight with one hand while laying sideways on a partially assembled conveyor belt. And my god did I go from slapping DFM/DFA on my resume to realizing the consequences of not designing for manufacturing/assembly deep in my soul.

There was never a dull day at DAC or one where I did not feel like fighting the battles. The installation of our 42-foot-long meshed belt was one such battle that resulted in late-night heroics, the supreme team-building activity. Sliding the belt on rollers mounted inside the bed’s frame was easy; preventing it from drifting laterally when it was tensioned and turned on was tricky. Plan A of tensioning the belt just right by tuning each end of the adjustable roller was failing after hours of trial and error. Plan B was to crown, i.e., taper the roller such that the center had a bigger diameter, allowing the belt to self-center every time it drifted. Jake, Aggy, and I took turns tightly winding anti-slip tape around the six-inch-diameter roller to add a 0.6-degree taper. Our anticipation was as high as Jordan’s vertical when we turned on the motor and watched for the belt to drift off the rollers. After 10 cycles, the self-correction was obvious, and we moved on to smothering the next fire.

Raw brute force got me to the finish line of having an assembled Carbonation Bed, and from the outside it seemed like this end goal was all I cared about. In reality, I don’t know what drove me. Was it my belief in Terraform’s ambitious mission and the excitement of revolutionizing direct air capture? Or was it the chip on my shoulder that came with over six hundred job rejections? Maybe the bonus Dead Presidents ignited my primal joy for winning and did the trick. There was also fear—of bosses, artificial deadlines, and disappointing teammates. And finally, there was my love of and for the game, whether genuine or something I tricked myself into. Perhaps it is all the above or none; in either case the fire burns, and as long as the flames shine bright, I see no need to probe deeper.
The next one
A physical test against reality is the ultimate boss in the game of building functional hardware: it cannot be fooled. This should be obvious but isn’t. In my reality, putting in the last screw of an assembly gives the false illusion of completion because of how relieving it is. The paranoia lifts because I have completed the hardest part of designing and putting the object together. But this is exactly when those vicious hardware gremlins strike.
The next part in this series is going to be about our test campaign and how we filled up the carbonation bed with flakes, the spice of DAC. It is the story of a box of rocks becoming the box of pain.















