Polar regions: witnesses to the future
Suspense on the Polarstern...
On Friday night 18 May 2005 we finish our day of work, as usually, by hauling in the fykes from 3337 metres below. The fog has thickened in the course of the day, and the ice sheet, although very loose at departure, is consolidating again. The hauling of the nets has thus been postponed and evening is falling. In short, things cannot get much worse.
As we are sailing straight above the fykes, the Posidonia system sends a signal from the bridge. We follow the raising fykes at 0.7 metres per second. The circumstances at the surface are critical, but we aren’t left with much choice! Although the signal disappears at 20 metre below surface (which is normal), we know exactly where they will emerge: 200 metres ahead of the ship. By an extraordinary stroke of fortune the fog is lifting right in front of us, and nowhere else, as if it wishes to make our lifes easier! Someone announces that the fykes should be at the surface now. All eyes are scanning the water, but in vain! But we can easily conclude that the fykes must have got stuck under one of the few ice floes floating in the area. Suspect number one is the very thick floe in front. Our captain moves the ship a bit back and forth, and, with Swiss precision, breaks the pack into pieces. Not one thing! A few people are sent to the bridge to measure with a classic remote control: the distance between the boat and the acoustic system on the fykes isn’t great, and needs to be determined more accurately. But still no response.
It is dark now and the Polarstern’s gigantic projectors are put on. In this climax of suspense, I begin to calculate the cost of this mission, the price of two trains of fykes… and to realize that, at all coming stops (still five to go), our fykes are already under water. The expedition leader proposes a last resort: the ship will circle the spot where the fykes were supposed to emerge. Because of all those manoeuvres, we’ve lost track of our suspect ice floes… Is it all wasted now? The second-in-command, who always directs the fyke hauling operations, takes off his suit anyhow. To put our minds at rest, the boat makes a few circles…
Suddenly the ship’s radio yells: “sie sind da!”. The signal receiver on the bridge emits a trilling ‘tuut’, proving that the fykes have emerged. I run to the starboard side and can’t believe my eyes: our yellow buoys! The cage has stuck under a silly tiny bit of ice that, by pure chance, has broken when the Polarstern sailed over it.
The fykes aren’t full at all: they stayed to briefly on the bottom, and the most agile animals have probably escaped. But we still have champagne tonight!
Greetings from the Polarstern,
Claude
