The Pack Ice Cometh
[This post written 6/21/08; position: lat -58’09”, long -42’32”; temp -6C; wind chill -29C]
As I write this, the wind on the bridge is gusting around 40 miles per hour, and the swells are running 15 feet high. Believe it or not, the weather is better now than it was earlier in the day!
There was a moment during breakfast this morning when I looked up and saw that the bearded face of the man sitting next to me — Kevin, one of the ship’s crew — was luminous with golden sunlight. The sun was out! I rushed to the nearest porthole. At first I saw nothing, because the porthole looked more like the window of a heavy duty washing machine. Waves were pounding up against it. But between them, yes indeed, there was sunlight streaming through a break in the clouds. It was a beautiful sight, all those white-capped cold-blue waves glittering in the creamy Antarctic sun.
I scraped my plate and hurried to my cabin, hoping to get outside on deck in time to catch a ray or two. As I struggled into my Carhartts and pulled on my boots, I was thinking of that old Ray Bradbury story about the planet where the sun only comes out once in a lifetime, and the children, not entirely understanding, lock one of their classmates in a closet for a joke, and accidentally forget to let her out until after the sun has disappeared. Alas. By the time I had zipped myself into my fleece and my parka and pulled on my hat and gloves, the sun was gone again. I went outside anyway, because, well, I was all dressed up and the fresh air is always a good thing, especially if it’s brisk. I took my camera with me, because I always do.
Even without the sun, it was wild and wonderful out there. On the upper decks, there was no danger of waves washing over, but still the thrill of being close to them, right in the teeth of the wind. As I gazed out from the overlook above the starboard A-frame (deserted, all missions scrubbed for the day due to the weather), I saw what seemed to be chunky icebergs and a thin line of ice gleaming white in the distance. I wasn’t entirely sure where we were. We often travel miles during the night, to whatever location the scientists want to sample. Was I seeing our iceberg in the distance? I didn’t think so. What I saw on the horizon looked far bigger than even our enormous iceberg. If you look closely at the top picture, you can see what I saw. It could only be the pack ice. But the day before, the pack ice was much too far away for us to see.
When I went inside, I asked about it. Rob Sherlock confirmed that it was indeed the pack ice. “It’s coming up fast. It’s because of the wind,” he said.
A couple of hours later, looking down from the bridge, there was no denying that we were only a few miles from the edge of the pack ice, and it was still hurtling toward us. Wind blew the tips off the waves in white striations, coming directly off that enormous mass of ice. The speed and power of it were palpable. A short time later, Ken Smith voiced concern about the sudden nearness of so much ice. If it overtakes A43K, we’ll no longer be able to study it, because the proximity of so much other ice will skew the data.
It was a quiet day for the scientists — a day of waiting and watching, catching up on some much-needed sleep. Some went to bed because they had to due to seasickness in these big swells. I did all right because fairly early in the day, seeing that the weather would be rough, I popped an extra half tab of Meklozine. Woohooo! I’ve weathered the day like an old salt. We’ll see what tomorrow brings.
Glad to hear that you are feeling better!