October Arctic Storms

*Photo by Peter Mark Jacobsen. See The Fourth Continent.

October swings around again, with the prospect of autumn storms, and I am reminded of this photo of a bus stop in Nuuk. It gives you an idea of what the storms can be like. When the wind blows, it tears across the sea, ripping the tops from the white caps in the bay. Gusts slam against our house and I flinch as the windows bend and I feel the pressure change in my ears. Inside is certainly the best place to be when the wind winds up to a low roar.

But sometimes one has to venture out – to get to school for example. One of the newest schools in Nuuk is unfortunately placed in what is perhaps the windiest location in Nuuk. The prevailing southerly storm winds tear up from the sea and right past the front door of the school. In weather like this, teachers tie a rope from the bus stop to the school’s front door, so that kids can haul themselves from the bus to the building. I’m not kidding. On one such day, a friend kindly gave me and my son a ride to school. When we arrived, we couldn’t get out of the car. Parked about ten metres from the front door, the car rocked from side to side, as if we were driving on some uneven surface. As we waited for a break in the weather, I watched anxiously as two young boys, perhaps eight and ten years old, walked along the road toward the school, leaning heavily into the wind. Suddenly, a gust swept them from their feet and into the deep, rain-filled gutter on the side of the road. The force of the blast sent them rolling head over heels, again and again and again, through the freezing water. Finally able to regain their feet, they ran desperately, dripping, soaking wet, into the school.

Yes, inside is the place to be. And that is where I was with my son and his friend one wild, grey October afternoon.

“Hey!” shouted my son, pointing out to the balcony, “the wind is blowing that thing away!”

A large blue tarpaulin was working its way out, one gust at a time, from under a daybed on the balcony. There was nothing we could do. If I opened the balcony door, the wind would rip it from my hand and smash it against the wall. So the three of us stood by the large windows and watched helplessly. In moments, the large blue sheet wrenched itself free from its hiding place, launched over the balcony into the maelstrom and whipped around the side of the building. The three of us, enthralled, rushed to the windows on the other side of the house, just as the blue canvas landed, splayed, and clung to the ground.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “we’ll go get it later when the wind calms down.”

But almost immediately, the wind caught a corner and filled it like a balloon, launching it high into the air again. It twisted like a living thing, curving and arcing its way higher, drifting momentarily like a feather and then jerking wildly. The three of us watched in silence, unable to articulate our thoughts, captivated by this fragment of colour in the wild grey landscape of water, rock, and cloud. Upward and away in the wind, it grew smaller, more distant, a dancing blue appartion, twisting and spiralling up the rocky slopes that streamed with water, until finally, almost magically, it crested the mountain and it was gone.