Written by: author Dallas Murphy
Kjetil and I shuffled out onto the slippery aft deck to see the rime ice that thickened every rail, crane, and cable to the point of abstraction. Frozen decks—here was the very emblem of Arctic seafaring, past and present. But romantic nautical revery can’t last long in the teeth of that steely wind. Just before it blew us inside, Kjetil said, “I want to sail every mooring cruise on this ship.”
I’ve been aboard nine different research vessels under three flags in both hemispheres. But only Kronprins Haakon could have fulfilled this expedition’s mission. She’s big, 100 meters overall displacing 10,000 tons (after all, she’s an icebreaker), and powerful, capable of generating 20,000 hp, and almost incredibly stable. I unscientifically figured that our average wind velocity was 35 knots; twice we weathered 60 knots with higher gusts at hurricane velocity. Even in gale conditions, we could walk straight down the corridors without holding on; our dinner plates didn’t go flying off the table as if with a will of their own. Kronprins Haakon treated us very gently.
However, even aboard this ship, consistently severe conditions would have precluded deploying moorings from the A-frame on the icy, wind-whipped aft deck or even, as per usual on Kronprins Haakon, from the exposed starboard side. No, the single shipboard aspect that saved this mission was her moon pool. Without it, Kjetil estimates we could have deployed two, maybe three moorings in the allotted time, not six. We liked that moon pool.
I admit to a tendency to sentimentalize ships and boats, particularly those battered in Arctic conditions, and the Norwegians, who were first to sail here. But Kronprins Haakon more engenders admiration. You of course expect professional competence from all departments. That they gave us more than that was reflected, for instance, in how avidly and with obvious pleasure at the novelty they figured out how to rig lifting gear for the moon-pool deployments. One might say, well, sure, that’s their job. True, but noticeable was the less-tangible matter of attitude.
This cruise had been abbreviated. Previously, in the far north of Greenland, Kronprins Haakon had incurred ice damage requiring a shipyard stay. Now there was real time pressure to deploy five moorings in two weeks with no spare weather days or room for delays of any sort. Everyone felt the pressure. Certainly, Kjetil and his science party felt the press of time. But pressure formed into a spirit of shared mission, not only in the science party with most at stake, but in the crew, who clearly cared about success in equal measure. Concentrating over long hours, people moved with head-down determination as they assembled and sunk those moorings, plus one extra, and they did so without visible tension. They made it look easy, and they were clearly happy about that. It was fun to watch.
Maybe that spirit is just typical aboard this ship. If so, better still, but it would never happen unless she was a happy ship. The old nautical truism that a ship’s temperament originates from and is determined by that of her captain is borne out by my own at-sea experience. I’ve been aboard two unhappy research ships, and the difference is, sometimes, painfully vivid. Captain Johansen’s smile lit up the bridge on dark Arctic nights, telling sea stories while precisely conning his ship into the CTD positions. We could look anywhere to see that spirit’s reflection, from his mates on the bridge down eight decks to Chief Karlsvik’s engine room. But let’s look at the food.
Another old nautical saying: Ships sail on the stomachs of the crew. Science parties’, too. Hardly a meal went by that someone didn’t remark on the quality of the cuisine. For that we thank Silje, the chief cook, and Oscar, chief steward. Silje has been a chef her entire adult life. She worked four years in Bergen restaurants and hotels, but she didn’t like the stress, hours, or the impersonality. She felt the same after two years cooking aboard Hurtigruten and Havila ships. Then she met Kronprins Haakon. “This is the best job I’ve ever had,” she said. “It’s like cooking for a big, appreciative family. It’s—well, it’s cozy. Plus, you get to see the world.”
Okay, I’ll stop extolling the ship’s virtues for fear it might sound like I’ve been paid off by the Norwegian Polar Institute or someone and say only that it’s all true and real. Just ask anyone. But now that everyone aboard has reveled in their success, it’s worth remembering that this is just the beginning of the project. Six moorings now lie athwart the East Greenland Current, two gliders are repeatedly sampling its waters from the surface to 1,000 meters, and two CTD transects slice the current at 71 and 75 degrees North. The oceanographic tools are in place.
Kjetil will get his wish to sail again aboard Kronprins Haakon. In February, he and his party will return to the East Greenland Current to sample temperature, salinity, geochemistry, and velocity. Winter is the time of the deepest, densest convection when atmospheric forcing is at its most powerful. That’s to say the really cold air further “densifies” the already salt-ladened Atlantic-origin water upon its arrival as the East Greenland Current. Then in 2026, they’ll retrieve the moorings, see what they have to tell about dense-water formation. If the project hypothesis holds, increased exposure to the cold atmosphere will sufficiently cool the EGC to supply enough dense water to the lower limb of AMOC to keep it healthy—because, not despite, the sea ice loss. This would be good news. AMOC, or at least this segment of it, is more resilient, healthier than the often-dire predictions hold. Here’s hoping. Some good news would be welcome.