On the final day we ricocheted off a refrigerator-sized floe and veered within 30 feet of a pack-ice cathedral whose two craggy pinnacles rose three stories from the bay. Suddenly the berg crashed into the water with a thunderous splash. A small wave rocked our kayak. Where the cathedral once sat, a small chapel now bobbed. Daisy's face turned a glacial white. "I've got goose bumps on my goose bumps," she said.
The close encounter didn't cool Daisy's ardor for ice. She had a big crush on a 50-foot slab in the shape of a decaying tooth. She suggested that we lasso the berg and haul it ashore. By the time we got it to the airport, she reasoned, it would have melted enough for us to strap a seat belt around it. "Let it float," I advised. "That's not the only tooth in the sea."
In fact, it's just the tip of the iceberg.