Just off Belle Isle, in the centre of the Belle Isle Strait, we were swathed in mist. The sea was flat and there was barely a breath of wind. Three eerie shadows appeared on the radar screen dead ahead. We slowed the engine, posted a lookout on the bow and we all stared into the murk. We passed close by one shadow and, sure enough, a whitening of the fog emerged a couple of hundred metres to port. Soon to follow was a growler, recently shed from it's parent.
We have come a thousand miles south from the icebergs of Disko Bay but they are still here, lurking in the mist, biding their time and waiting to trap the careless mariner.