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Somewhere in the centre of Greenland, a snowflake fell. It tumbled in the chaotic winds, but at last it landed, embedded in white. As time passed, more snow fell, pressing down on the layers below. The snowflake shattered, compressed against its compatriots. It could no longer be called snow; it was too hard, too harsh. It was ice.
Ten thousand years passed. The ice inched infinitesimally to the sea, lifted and lubricated by a layer of water. It moaned a dirge of creaks and groans, strained by the unseen ground below. Slowly, so slowly, it crawled forward, seeking the salty kiss of the sea.
The land was as tortured as the ice. Steep cliffs funnelled into the ocean, carving crevasses and creases that creaked and complained. The tide met and eroded the face of the glacier, fighting the relentless onwards pressure of ten thousand years of snowflakes.
A growl like thunder echoed around the fjord. With a crowd of attendants shattered from its sides, a terrible beauty was born. As the iceberg broke from the glacier, it surged downwards, displacing a billion tonnes of water in a wild rush. The raw faces of this glacial diamond shone prismatic blues that contrasted with the soft whites of its upper surface to look deceptively serene.
Its mile-long body was crushed and battered over the next two years. It was a harsh journey down 40 miles of fjord, and it lost half of itself, bashed and sundered in the relentless jostling. Some pieces were significant siblings; others shattered and melted into the sea.
In 1911, the iceberg freed itself from the cluttered fjord. It found freedom in the powerful west Greenland current, and dragged along the coast of Canada. The shallow waters near Labrador ensnared it, and it looked certain to settle there, seeping its fresh waters away into the frigid salt. It shrank and melted over many months, but in January 1912, something strange happened.
The moon shone enormous in the sky. Not only was it a full moon, but the moon was closer than it had been in 1,400 years. The gravitational effect on the tide was remarkable, amplified by the fact that the day before marked the Earth's perihelion, its closest approach to the sun. The iceberg and its stranded associates were lifted in a massive spring tide, and slipped back out into deeper water. The Labrador current embraced them and, over the next few months, took them south in an unusual crowd.
The plethora of ice did not go unremarked. The ships scattered across the Atlantic spread wireless warnings amongst themselves. Some ships took heed; others surged on, confident in their engineering and the power of man.
The iceberg continued, indifferent. Below the water its skirts spread wide. At some point, it gained a scrape of red paint. No matter. South it went, to the warmth, fading away, melting to smaller than a snowflake.
Ten thousand years passed. The ice inched infinitesimally to the sea, lifted and lubricated by a layer of water. It moaned a dirge of creaks and groans, strained by the unseen ground below. Slowly, so slowly, it crawled forward, seeking the salty kiss of the sea.
The land was as tortured as the ice. Steep cliffs funnelled into the ocean, carving crevasses and creases that creaked and complained. The tide met and eroded the face of the glacier, fighting the relentless onwards pressure of ten thousand years of snowflakes.
A growl like thunder echoed around the fjord. With a crowd of attendants shattered from its sides, a terrible beauty was born. As the iceberg broke from the glacier, it surged downwards, displacing a billion tonnes of water in a wild rush. The raw faces of this glacial diamond shone prismatic blues that contrasted with the soft whites of its upper surface to look deceptively serene.
Its mile-long body was crushed and battered over the next two years. It was a harsh journey down 40 miles of fjord, and it lost half of itself, bashed and sundered in the relentless jostling. Some pieces were significant siblings; others shattered and melted into the sea.
In 1911, the iceberg freed itself from the cluttered fjord. It found freedom in the powerful west Greenland current, and dragged along the coast of Canada. The shallow waters near Labrador ensnared it, and it looked certain to settle there, seeping its fresh waters away into the frigid salt. It shrank and melted over many months, but in January 1912, something strange happened.
The moon shone enormous in the sky. Not only was it a full moon, but the moon was closer than it had been in 1,400 years. The gravitational effect on the tide was remarkable, amplified by the fact that the day before marked the Earth's perihelion, its closest approach to the sun. The iceberg and its stranded associates were lifted in a massive spring tide, and slipped back out into deeper water. The Labrador current embraced them and, over the next few months, took them south in an unusual crowd.
The plethora of ice did not go unremarked. The ships scattered across the Atlantic spread wireless warnings amongst themselves. Some ships took heed; others surged on, confident in their engineering and the power of man.
The iceberg continued, indifferent. Below the water its skirts spread wide. At some point, it gained a scrape of red paint. No matter. South it went, to the warmth, fading away, melting to smaller than a snowflake.