Crew Log 72 – Rubik’s (Ice) Cube

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August 25th, 2009 – At Sea 70 53N, 96 44W
by Herb McCormick and Mark Schrader

(August 25): The green flash. For long-distance sailors, the green flash is the holy grail of celestial observations. Many folks think it’s a myth, that the green flash – the burst of color seen during the rarest of sunsets, on the clearest of days, when the very tip of the sun disappears behind a razor-sharp horizon – doesn’t really exist. Alas, those poor souls have never witnessed the phenomenon, for once you do, you get it and appreciate it once and for all. And, oh yes, you long for another.

Yesterday afternoon, in a place called Oscar Bay on the Boothia Peninsula, the crew of Ocean Watch was treated again to that sailor’s delight.

We’d pulled over into Oscar like a carload of weary travelers heading off the Interstate and up the exit ramp. But there was no Hotel 6 waiting alongside this highway. By definition, the bay wasn’t the prettiest spot on the planet, but after hours of piloting through vaporous fog, when the mist finally parted and there was blue-sky overhead, it was a lovely spot indeed.

Sunset in Oscar Bay right before the “Green Fade.”

The crew was lounging in the cockpit, drinking in the light and warmth, as the sun descended towards the horizon. Someone said, “What about the green flash?” and I quickly replied, “No way.” I’ve seen the green flash twice offshore, both times setting into a blue sea with a horizon’s edge as straight as a ruler. Yesterday afternoon, it was descending behind a low expanse of land, not the water. I reckoned a green flash was impossible, that it required a contrasting field of blue ocean. We were all in for a surprise.

What happened next was amazing. As the bottom two-thirds of the sun disappeared, the sky around it slowly acquiesced into a greenish hue. And when it sank altogether, it wasn’t so much a green flash as a green halo that took its own sweet time to fade to blue.

In unison, we all let out our personal take on “Whoa!” and then lapsed into silence and blinked at one another. Had we actually seen that? Yes, we had. Finally, Dave Logan put it into comprehensible words:

“That wasn’t a green flash. That was a green fade.” So let it be known, Ocean Watch has recorded the first Green Fade.

In yesterday’s report, I lamented the bleak nature of the Arctic, and somewhere, the God of Amazing Visuals

A peregrine falcon slept upon the spreader on the mast overnight.

must have been reading. For the Green Fade was only the first in a series of eye-catching treats. Last night, there was the big peregrine falcon that landed upon the spreader on the mast and apparently found the perch so comfy that he spent the night, and was still sleeping on Ocean Watch early this morning when the crew began to rouse. And at first light, there was the sprinkling of frost on deck, fetching in its own cold way. As we departed Oscar Bay, a shaft of morning sun pierced the low mist, and we saw what can only be described as a “fogbow,” (see main photo) an arching spectrum of color that was clear and detailed. It led not to a pot of gold, but to an ice floe that looked like a mushroom cap, with its deep-blue stem a signal of salt-free old ice; it was a sculpture carved by time.

It wasn’t the last ice we’d see; in fact, as the day progressed, ice floes would once again be our little planet’s defining symbols. For weeks now, we’ve been obsessed with the yellows, reds and greens of the ice charts, waiting for the shades to align in our favor. They’ve become something like Rubik’s Cube, a puzzle we’ve been dying to master. For us, however, we’re not trying to align the cubes in one solid color; no, we’ve been waiting for the colors to crack and disappear, to give way to a beautiful expanse of blue. For blue means clear water, a path out of the Northwest Passage and back to a world we’ve left far behind. Today, in the real-life Arctic, we’ve still got ice, but there are also glorious patches of blue. Closer. We’re getting closer.

Thankfully, skipper Mark Schrader is feeling less rapturous than me. (What can I say? I’ve been hypnotized by the Green Fade!) Here’s his update, from his personal log, on the state of Ocean Watch today:

An ice floe that looked like a mushroom cap was a scuplture carved by time.

“Ice specialist Bruno Barrette’s weather briefing aboard the Canadian Coast Guard icebreaker Sir Wilfrid Laurier (which was mentioned in detail in yesterday’s Crew Log) continues to be spot on. We’re on the west ridge of a large high-pressure area that is moving at approximately our same speed and direction, north and slightly east. The barometer is high (1024.4mb), winds very light (around 6kts) and the seas absolutely flat.

“Just before sundown last night, with fog becoming more dense and ice getting very close, we decided to anchor for the night in Oscar Bay on the west side of Boothia Peninsula (named in honor of Felix Booth, founder of England’s largest gin distiller and a man willing to fund Arctic expeditions – in return for some recognition). According to all of our charts, electronic and paper, Oscar Bay isn’t exactly uncharted but soundings have not been recorded from the entrance to well inside the bay. The Arctic Sailing Directions noted that it ‘has been described as an ideal harbor for small vessels but can be filled with loose ice.’

“While paying close attention to the depth sounder, we very slowly made our way in and found a good spot three miles into the bay. Those three miles took us out of the fog and into a calm and sunny anchorage.  As the sun went down all except the skipper were on deck enjoying the spectacular sunset – and in unison I heard, ‘There it is!’ – highlighted by a green glow.  It seems in the crisp and clear Arctic air they experienced our first so-called green flash aboard Ocean Watch.

“We’re now motoring northeast in the James Ross Strait with significant ice floes to the east, a few grounded floes

The ice charts suggest that ice floes will dot the surface for the next 100 nautical miles.

to the west side and some smaller floes dotting the surface along our course stretching out to the horizon. These are easy to spot and avoid in these conditions – but they would’ve been very difficult to see in fog and darkness. The ice charts suggest this is what we’ll have for the next 100 nautical miles.

“Bellot Strait is now 110 miles due north. The speed/distance and hours of daylight computation confirms we’ll look for another safe anchorage for tonight and find Bellot Strait early tomorrow morning. We won’t know if it is open until we actually see the west entrance. If it appears open we’ll give it a try, if not, we’ll continue heading north to the top of Somerset Island.

“Even though it is now mid-morning with a temperature of 32° we are enjoying rare clear skies and sunshine while picking our way through pieces of slowly melting white and blue ice moving along with the current.  Dave Logan just reported more ice ahead of us, larger floes extending across our course all the way to shore.

It’s all hands in these conditions.

“From Ocean Watch, I’m happy to report all are okay as we move north, slowly.”

- Herb McCormick and Mark Schrader with photographs by David Thoreson

This crew log submitted by Iridium OpenPort and Stratos

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