The world’s largest iceberg, imaginatively named A23a, is no longer content letting the Southern Ocean play host to its frigid theatrics. After a rather long and uneventful nap along the Antarctic seafloor that lasted since the Clinton administration, or more precisely since 1986, the iceberg has now decided to put itself in motion, much like a retiree finally embracing the open road with a modest camper van and a vague route northward.
A23a is no dainty sliver of ice blocks. It’s roughly three times the size of New York City, which makes it the sort of object you might lose under the couch only if your couch happens to be the size of Greenland. It calved off from the Filchner Ice Shelf during Margaret Thatcher’s tenure and then promptly parked itself near the southeastern Weddell Sea, where it stubbornly refused to drift despite prevailing wisdom and ocean currents trying to coax it gently along like a sleepy toddler resisting bath time.
Now, aided by changes in water temperature, currents or perhaps just boredom, the iceberg is finally moving at a clip that has scientists paying attention, and seals reconsidering their travel plans. It has begun charting a course into the Drake Passage, a famously unruly part of the Southern Ocean that brooks no nonsense from anything, even icebergs impersonating islands.
According to British Antarctic Survey glaciologist Oliver Marsh, A23a has officially become “unstuck” and is now following what is affectionately known as iceberg alley, a region off the Antarctic Peninsula where orphaned bergs drift northward like confused cruise ships. While the party line from researchers is scientific intrigue, one imagines there’s a betting pool somewhere on what it will bump into next.
The concern now is not just navigational headaches but the risk to remote island ecosystems in the South Atlantic. Should A23a swing by South Georgia Island for a frosty cameo, it could block foraging routes for local wildlife including seals and penguins who were likely not consulted in this late-stage voyage plan. Apparently, no one told the iceberg that crashing an ecosystem is generally considered poor etiquette.
“We’re watching it closely,” Marsh said, perhaps the geological equivalent of peering nervously past the curtain as a mammoth guest lumbers toward your backyard BBQ.
Whether A23a will lodge somewhere inconvenient again or break up en route is still unknown, but the world’s scientific community is keeping a frosty eye on it, possibly from a safe distance with hot tea in hand. After all, it’s not every day a 4,000-square-kilometre ice slab decides to go walkabout after nearly four decades of stubborn stillness.
This iceberg may be cold, but its timing is impeccable.