Kayack
Coming through the cut into West Bay, skirting the frosted jetty, I
dodge floes that have detached from the main mass of ice. I cannot deny
that part of my pleasure in sea ice comes from my association of such
conditions with tales I grew up with, stories of polar exploration: Amundsen and Nansen, Scott and Peary, the folkways of the Inuit.
My grandfather, who was Norwegian, knew Nansen and Amundsen; the first
man to make it to the South Pole dandled my mother on his knee when he
came to visit. Still, much of my joy in this is also tactile, and
linguistic, for those stories taught me the names of different types of
ice: brash, which is the granulated, porridge-like slop of mixed water
and frozen chunks that is prelude to further freezing; pancake
Kayack
Kayack
Kayack
Kayack
Kayack
Kayack
Kayack
Kayack
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