Not in Brooklyn anymore

I went iceberg chasing down the Southern Shore to Ferryland, Newfoundland, this afternoon. It was a spiritual pilgrimage of sorts, I’ve been dreaming about the icebergs since my father moved back to Newfoundland years ago and sent a postcard of a pinnacled specimen locked in St John’s harbour. Hard not to stay all day and pay respects after waiting so long to see one. Ferryland’s mammoth chunk of ice was magnificent, blue in the grey sea, broken off from Greenland, a long way from home.

Minutes after I shot these photos the fog rolled in, blotting out the iceberg and the ocean and the road. A family of tourists drove up, clearly disappointed, cameras whirring in and out of focus, everything a grey-white blur. “That’s a sin” said one, staring into the abyss.


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