Into the Ice

Dark shapes emerge from the predawn twilight. They loom, a shade darker than the smooth black glass of the sea surface. As they drift past, the light from the still-to-rise sun reflects off of their north-facing sides, showing colors of soft white, light gray and cold blue.

That’s what it was like on the 3-6am watch this morning. Bergie bits, growlers and other funky-named ice pieces floated by in an unsteady stream all during watch, but they were all fascinating shapes and sizes: some low and flat, others tall and thin, most a combination of the two. And that’s just what we could see above the waterline.

The sizes of the big ones, too, were staggering. One proper iceberg came into view late during the watch. I estimated its distance at a mile or mile-and-a-half away; radar revealed it to be six miles away. Yikes. And then, taking that distance into consideration, the height of the thing ran in the 250-meter range. Double yikes. And that’s pretty small compared to the big bergs out farther to the east.

Yes, east. At Kap Brewster, the cape that forms the southern boundary of the mouth of Scoresby Sund, the coastline veers to the southwest after having run pretty much north-south for many hundreds of miles. The ocean currents along the east coast of Greenland push the ice southward — and continue mostly southerly at Kap Brewster. So as planned, we sailed a bit west of north from Ísafjörður and have now ducked inside the ice that lies offshore (and that turned back Polar Bear on its earlier attempt because it was thicker and the winds had curled the pack in towards shore).

We’re making our way northeasterly, about 15 miles or so off the coast of Greenland. We’re currently in pretty thick fog but for much of the morning visibility was pretty good.

The mountains and glaciers of east Greenland, which came into view yesterday when we were about 68 miles offshore — 68 miles! — loomed massive when they were in view. Seeing them at such size from such a distance called to mind the view of Denali from Anchorage; that something could appear so impressive when so far away staggers the mind. And this is just one small stretch of coast on what is the world’s largest island. If Greenland is this big and on this scale already, well, it’s more than an island. It’s a continent.

Personal, Travel, Uncategorized,

First Ice

Just came off the 6-10am watch. The monotony was broken up by periodic changes in the elements: drizzle for a few minutes, then dry for 20; a tiny bit of breeze for a bit, then dead calm; cold, down to freezing for half an hour; slighly warmer, mid-30s, for the next 30 minutes. But two interesting changes, in particular, appeared on this watch.

The first occurred around 10:45 when the surface of the ocean changed suddenly. We’d been motorsailing along in a calm surface that had a slight wind-generated ripple on it, when out in front of Polar Bear a line in the water appeared from horizon to horizon. Beyond the line: smooth-as-silk water with literally zero ripples. The wind gauges didn’t register any change on either side of the line. Where the change was noticeable was in the course-made-good gauge: we entered a westward-setting current when we crossed that line — to the tune of 20 degrees or more. A simple fix to that, but it was an impressively abrupt delineation in between two different parts of a single body of water.

The second big change occurred just before the end of our watch: ice. There, about a mile off the starboard beam, was a small bit of bright-white ice bobbing on the surface. I called below to Boogie and told him that I had a bergie bit in sight, and when he emerged on deck I pointed it out to him before remarking, “there’s another one.” This one, on the starboard bow and a few miles away, was much bigger. As soon as Boogie’s eyes picked that one out, he noticed a few others in the same general vicinity.

So we’ve entered the realm of ice. Here begins the Greenland adventure…

Personal, Travel, Uncategorized, , , , ,

The Renaissance Begins

Written: 16 May
36,000 feet over the Atlantic, midway between Boston and Nova Scotia

Just departed Logan Airport in a nor’easter tempestuous enough to prompt my mother to ask if I ever got nervous flying in such weather. I don’t. In fact, I dig flying in almost any weather, no matter how bumpy (maybe that’s why I got my pilot’s license a few years ago). But this flight has already been different — and we’re just half an hour into it.

I’ve become a pretty jaded traveler over the years (OK, jaded about a lot more than just traveling, but let’s stay on-topic here). But over the course of the past hour or so, I’ve actually giggled a couple of times and I wear the smile of someone who is truly relaxed. Why? Just one step into the plane and I was already hearing that Irish lilt — and being spoken by a female speaker no less, which creates something so subtly intoxicating about the medium, no matter how mundane the message. A few moments later, upon taking my seat, I listened to the French being spoken in the row behind me. And it hit me: for the first time in more than 20 years I was flying to a different continent, to a place where English (or least American English) isn’t the primary language. I was headed to places where the provincialism engendered by having a large ocean on each side of our country is not possible; where different languages and different cultures and different ways of dealing with life are encountered every single moment, whether one likes it or not. And that’s kinda cool, in a humbling sorta way.

INTERRUPTION: Wow! The full moon just came into view between the starboard wing tip and the overcast below. Meanwhile the sun shines brightly off the port side. Can you tell I’m just a wee bit excited?!

Anyway, listening to the various languages being spoken in the terminal and on the plane, and realizing how long gone my abilities with French and German were, reminded me of the old joke:
Q: What do you call someone who speaks more than two languages?
A: A polyglot.
Q: What do you call someone who speaks two languages?
A: Bilingual.
Q: What do you call someone who speaks one language?
A: An American

I’m not knocking my homeland. I’m an American through-and-through. But sometimes our my-way-or-the-highway attitude is just plain embarrassing. And I’m excited about getting out of my comfort zone and into some situations where I can practice a little humility, learn new ways of seeing and expand my horizons just a bit further.

Opinion, Personal, Travel, Uncategorized,