|
Curiously, the farther north we sail, the sunnier
the days become. It's as if I've brought warm
weather with me on this sailing to Alaska.
The sea has a hazy glimmer at sunrise. It
brightens as the sun gains strength in its rise
toward noon. Foam gushes outward as the ship
ploughs through the calm sea, to form lacy
patterns that diminish slowly, gradually, until
they're no longer there.
Cooler breezes greet me each morning as we pass
the Canadian coast off the ship's starboard bow,
as do numerous gulls that line the railing of the
outdoor restaurant aft.
From the highest deck I see only a horizon of
sea. Endless. As it was in the beginning.
dolphins leap
in ordered arches
sunlit clouds
During the night, the ship has drawn nearer to
land. Dark fir-covered peaks rise on either side
of us. We pass through a wide channel dotted with
barren islets that appear to drift in even darker
waters.
There, ahead, like an enormous gate of
blue-tinted alabaster, the glacier rises. Miles
wide, indomitable, a barrier of ice.
As the ship slows to a halt and its engines cease
to sound, an awed silence suffuses the air. All
is still, but for a tentative breeze.
the majesty
of a vast cathedral
votive candle
I marvel at the sheer ice-cliff rising from the
sea, the enormity of just the fragment visible to
me. It appears so close. Then the startling
announcement is made that we have stopped six
miles from its base.
As I watch, a section breaks off and plunges into the sea. "Calving,"
it's called. The action creates a high, widespread splash.
Ripples rush towards us, along with a delayed, resounding crack.
Enthralled, I feel a calm reverence after
striving to reach this most distant, primitive
part of the world. My emotions are stirred. I
have attained my goal, to be in the presence of
the most enduring antiquity in the world, a
remnant of Earth from before the time of man.
ice floes
are gently swept aside
we leave — humbled
|
