From Galathea 3´s journal

Laila Ingrid Rasmussen, author

Dato 22.1.2007

Here is a mountain of ice, here is another and yet another. To starboard there is the flat top of an iceberg one kilometre long- a cathedral of ice in whose turquoise-green cloisters, made by waves, foam dances.  Its surface gleams a wonderful light. Here, Vædderen glides by on her way to Antarctica. Here is the crew, scientists, skilful and versatile communicators with a battery of digital cameras, ready to capture the moment, freeze it in a picture before the ice melts or the ship has sailed past.

Here is the proof that we can be found. I am here with my North Face polar jacket, one hand on the railing, smiling in front of the fully automatic lens, an iceberg behind my shoulder. Tomorrow, the news is on Politiken's page on the other side of the world. The world materialises here: we find the proof of it.

Out at sea a pod of whales pass regardless of our presence and fathoms below us, shoals of bright silver fish. They feed, are fed upon, live and die. They know nothing of tissue analysis, Latin names and DNA. They conjugate, multiply quite automatically. The albatross retraces the continent; he may go four years without seeing land. The world belongs to them, not us. The sea is so much bigger than we can even imagine: this ship a diminutive iron skin, a drop of fuel in an eternal engine. Icebergs lift from the haze, cold ghosts on the horizon. Press the shutter just once– the focus locks with certainty.

                                                                                                      Galathea 3, 12^th leg of the journey