Episode summary:
I spent a week admiring ‘my’ iceberg in Grates Cove in Newfoundland. I watched it from dawn to dusk and sometimes even at night. It turned, rolled and drifted. It was hypnotic and very relaxing. If you are wondering ‘what is the best time of year to see icebergs in Newfoundland’, ‘are there any icebergs off the coast of Newfoundland’ or ‘what to see on the Avalon peninsula’ then this podcast episode could help you.
Listen to a podcast about how meditative it can be to watch a pirouetting iceberg in Canada.
Transcript – S3 E3: Adopting an iceberg in Canada
This week, we’re in far eastern Canada where I’m becoming more than a little obsessed with a floating natural wonder.
I’ve only known the thing for a few hours but I’ve already fallen for it. I don’t care who else may be gazing at it and admiring its beauty, the 40ft-high white blob sheltering in the quiet cove is now unquestionably my iceberg.
Rebel iceberg
100 metres further out to sea is an ice motorway, a broad, edge-of-ocean stream, which is part of the Labrador Current carrying thousands of bergs and trails of broken ice south from the Labrador Sea to the North Atlantic. My iceberg broke away from this marine conveyor belt and is now floating serenely in the lee of a rocky outcrop of land known as Green Point. I feel that it’s a bit of a revolutionary, this iceberg, reluctant to follow the herd to warmer waters. It’s not ready to melt just yet. It’s having too much fun.
I’m in Grates Cove, the most northerly point of the Avalon Peninsula in Canada’s most easterly province, Newfoundland. In fact, I’m not that far from the most easterly point of the whole of North America. That’s at Cape Spear Lighthouse near St. John’s, just a few hours’ drive away. This is the closest I’ve been to an iceberg and I confess I am a little obsessed. It’s the first thing I see every morning. I wave to it and say “hi”. It’s so perfectly balanced and so impeccably white. When the sun hits it, it shines like a beacon. It’s equally as impressive in moonlight. I know because last night I kept the curtains of my cabin open and moved my bed closer to the window so I could watch it while I fell asleep. As you can see, a little bit of an obsession.
Ice dancing
It seems so solid, so stable, so confident but, as an iceberg rookie, it seems there’s much I need to learn. After a stroll around the small settlement of Grates Cove, population 127 – well, 128 while I’m in town – I return to the cliff edge to discover my iceberg has suddenly and alarmingly shrunk to half its size. It also looks upsettingly misshapen. I’m on the verge of searching online for an iceberg emergency hotline to warn someone of this dramatic development and ask for help.
Back in the cabin I scramble to find my binoculars and breathe a sigh of relief to discover that my iceberg has not been cut in half but is, instead, gracefully pirouetting. It’s very sedate but it’s definitely turning. I’m now looking at it end on and I must admit it’s not its best side. Less graceful. A bit – dare I say – lumpy. I keep the binoculars trained on it and see it continuing its revolution. The side that was facing out to sea is now coming into view. It has a big bite taken out of it and a flat area that I could imagine – if we were in the southern hemisphere – a huddle of penguins might quite like to hang out on. By late afternoon it’s completed a full 180 and its peaks are throwing impressive shadows across its bite.
On a roll
I’m away from the window for less than an hour, just long enough to prep a local lobster for dinner when my iceberg starts to do something way more dramatic. It’s rolling. This is one restless iceberg. Maybe it’s not a revolutionary after all but got caught up in the cove by accident and is now desperate to get back out to sea. It’s trying to spin and roll its way back to its friends in the Labrador current. The sun is setting as it gracefully rolls forward. Or is it backward? It’s a bit hard to tell. As it does so it reveals a dazzling turquoise underbelly, the former underwater section. It’s not all true blue but the bits that are shine like a giant topaz gemstone in the sunlight.
I think I’m witnessing something special here and, as I finally put down the binoculars to save my deltoid muscles from seizing up, I see a crowd has gathered on the clifftop. When I say ‘crowd’ I’m talking 25 people but for Grates Cove that’s getting on for a quarter of the settlement. I feel slightly resentful of these observers. This is my iceberg after all. I’ve been watching it for days and these Johnny Come Latelys have just shown up. They don’t know the berg like I do. The last few degrees of the roll are a little faster and as it settles into its new upside-down position, a small wave ripples out from its edges.
That evening I fall asleep watching it glowing in the moonlight and in the morning I say my goodbyes as I have to leave. As I drive up the low hill out of town my eyes are fixed on the rear view mirror, watching this natural marvel get smaller and smaller. It’s like a tearful goodbye to a good friend.
© copyright Matthew Brace
