The sound of gunfire echoes across the ocean. We’re the only boat out on this patch of the Arctic, which is roiling with waves in the lunchtime heat; and we are not under attack. But a thunderous crack, eerily like a gunshot, is what you hear when an iceberg breaks.
It’s just over an hour and a half since I set sail from Colonial Harbour, in Greenland’s capital, Nuuk, and my boat is slaloming through blocks of ice that have calved off the territory’s ice sheet. There are massive bergs, larger than our 25-foot Targa 25 boat; floes the size of breeze blocks, and fist-sized clumps that Christian, the boat’s first mate, scoops out and dumps into a bucket with the fish he’s caught that are piled up inside it.
