Water is pretty fabulous stuff. It makes life possible and over enough time acts as a universal solvent. On earth, water is everywhere from the glass on my desk to covering over 70% of the surface. Oceans contain approximately 1,360,000 cubic kilometers worth of water – a lot of water even before land based, sub-surface, frozen or any other place water hides is considered.
Our current understanding of water came relatively recently. We held onto the ancient Greek concept that water was one of the four basic elements (along with fire, earth and air) up until the Renaissance. Water is very stable, making it difficult to break into its parts, but it was done at a time when most people considered it a fundamental element. The French chemist Lavoisier managed to break water apart into its components (two hydrogen molecules and one oxygen on) on 28 February 1785. In time it was determined that covalent bonds hold water together, that is, by sharing electrons between atoms.
A water molecule resembles Mickey Mouse's head. Two ears on top, which are hydrogen atoms, and the head would be the oxygen atom. The top, where the hydrogen is, is somewhat positive and the bottom, where the oxygen is, is somewhat negative resulting in a polar molecule. Since positive and negative are attracted to each other a hydrogen atom from one water molecule is attracted to the oxygen atom of a neighboring water molecule.
How many water molecules must we have before it can be called a liquid? In the field of fluid mechanics, they have what is called a 'continuum hypothesis'. This hypothesis assumes that to be a fluid there must be over a million water molecules present within a reasonable volume (by reasonable, I mean some where between packing them in so tightly they become like a black hole or spreading them out so much it looks like a vacuum).
So, assuming we have enough water molecules to make a liquid, let's think about putting them all into a glass of water. In the middle of the glass, each water molecule attracts its neighboring molecules (remember the polar trait from above). This attraction occurs from all direction at once, resulting in a balance and no net force. Things don't work out so nicely at the surface. Here, the attraction doesn't balance because there is only attraction from the molecules to the sides and below as there are no water molecules above the surface. This causes surface tension. Molecules at the surface are pulled towards the center of the liquid, minimizing the surface area. A very small drop of water pulls itself into a sphere because a sphere has the smallest ratio of surface area to volume. Water in a glass will form a flat surface (ignoring the meniscus) as it is the minimum space it can take up.
Since wet is defined as 'consisting of, containing, covered with, or soaked with liquid (as water)'. Water acts to makes something else wet (as opposed to being wet itself) – so if I go walking outside on a rainy day, I end up wet from the rain.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Friday, February 4, 2011
My Forest
I grew up in a house surrounded by forest. We didn't live on a large lot, three acres or so, but the house couldn't be seen from the road and we couldn't see the neighbours from the house. The forest was typical of the area – temperate rain forest. Full of sappy fir trees, gray barked alders and majestic big leaf maples, each growing tall enough that their canopy perpetually shaded the forest floor. Under the trees a unique habitat thrived which I spent hours exploring. I considered it my forest and during daylight hours it felt friendly to me. I'm sure if I went back there it would seem small, but at that time/when I was little it felt huge and packed with things to see. The rich earthy smells have stuck with me and anytime I walk into a similar forest the smell immediately takes me back.
In the shade, huckleberries, salmon berries, salal, and vanilla plants (I have no idea if that is the true name for them, they grew as a single stalk with three large triangular leaves and to me they smelled like vanilla) grew. If I was really lucky, I would find a blooming trillium, which I would never pick because my mother told me if I picked them they wouldn't come back the next year. Tiny yellow violets could also be found hidden between ferns and stumps. On an particularly unlucky day, I found a not-so-fresh deer carcass – the smell from that find is still etched in my memory. The forest also provided a home for large wasp nests and many types of birds who were mostly heard, not seen.
Since we lived on a hill the forest had dry areas and boggy areas. The boggy low areas contained skunk cabbage and huge ferns beneath massive cedars. Here, a wrongly placed foot would end up swamped in mud. Little tea-coloured bogs/ponds teemed with tiny lifeforms. With rubber boots and a collection of jars, I would wade into the ponds and try to catch the little critters.
The stumps of the old growth forest remained as a reminder of a past majesty, like the ruins of an ancient civilization. These stumps could be found in varying states of decay everywhere. Most were topped with thickets of salal, except one which was hollow. This exception became a favorite hiding place and reminded me of a book I read about the same time where a boy did the same thing.
Human machinery had pushed some of these old stumps aside. A large bulldozer would do the trick. Someone before we moved there must have done it because I don't remember big bulldozers in my forest. The stumps were pushed (or pulled) until their massive root balls came clear of the soil. These root balls had a diameter much greater than the stumps. On their side, the roots would extend up in a gnarled mass of hand holds - so I would climb them. Some had been there so long that ferns and huckleberry bushes grew at the top. All of them were dirty. I had to be careful, because sometimes a choice hand hold would only be a dried ball of mud and would crumble the instant I held onto it. I always felt satisfaction when I would get to the highest root and look around.
The light in my memory is always the same: dappled sunlight that would shift as a breeze moved the canopy of fir needles above. This indirect light allowed for dark recesses in the forest that added mystery. Was something watching me from these recesses? (This very question made this forest a scary place at night.) A cougar? A bear? They were in my forest too, but I never saw them. In reality, I was never that far away from our house. I think I was lucky to have had the opportunity to roam alone through this wild place – many kids don't.
In the shade, huckleberries, salmon berries, salal, and vanilla plants (I have no idea if that is the true name for them, they grew as a single stalk with three large triangular leaves and to me they smelled like vanilla) grew. If I was really lucky, I would find a blooming trillium, which I would never pick because my mother told me if I picked them they wouldn't come back the next year. Tiny yellow violets could also be found hidden between ferns and stumps. On an particularly unlucky day, I found a not-so-fresh deer carcass – the smell from that find is still etched in my memory. The forest also provided a home for large wasp nests and many types of birds who were mostly heard, not seen.
Since we lived on a hill the forest had dry areas and boggy areas. The boggy low areas contained skunk cabbage and huge ferns beneath massive cedars. Here, a wrongly placed foot would end up swamped in mud. Little tea-coloured bogs/ponds teemed with tiny lifeforms. With rubber boots and a collection of jars, I would wade into the ponds and try to catch the little critters.
The stumps of the old growth forest remained as a reminder of a past majesty, like the ruins of an ancient civilization. These stumps could be found in varying states of decay everywhere. Most were topped with thickets of salal, except one which was hollow. This exception became a favorite hiding place and reminded me of a book I read about the same time where a boy did the same thing.
Human machinery had pushed some of these old stumps aside. A large bulldozer would do the trick. Someone before we moved there must have done it because I don't remember big bulldozers in my forest. The stumps were pushed (or pulled) until their massive root balls came clear of the soil. These root balls had a diameter much greater than the stumps. On their side, the roots would extend up in a gnarled mass of hand holds - so I would climb them. Some had been there so long that ferns and huckleberry bushes grew at the top. All of them were dirty. I had to be careful, because sometimes a choice hand hold would only be a dried ball of mud and would crumble the instant I held onto it. I always felt satisfaction when I would get to the highest root and look around.
The light in my memory is always the same: dappled sunlight that would shift as a breeze moved the canopy of fir needles above. This indirect light allowed for dark recesses in the forest that added mystery. Was something watching me from these recesses? (This very question made this forest a scary place at night.) A cougar? A bear? They were in my forest too, but I never saw them. In reality, I was never that far away from our house. I think I was lucky to have had the opportunity to roam alone through this wild place – many kids don't.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Exploring
Although only a fortunate few can ever visit the deep sea, the precise instruments of the oceanographer, recording light penetration, pressure, salinity and temperature, have given us the materials with which to reconstruct in imagination these eerie forbidding regions
- Rachael Carson, The Sea Around Us
I wouldn't call the deep ocean eerie. Alien is perhaps a better descriptor, as it's a place where survival is only possible with extreme measures similar to what we would need to survive in outer space – minus the rockets. I like the idea of being in a profession (ie oceanographer) that includes exploring an alien world right here at home. The more I think about the exploring part of my last post, the more I wonder if I consider myself an explorer? I've been reading about early attempts made by the British to explore Africa's interior. Most expeditions ended in a typical horror movie ending – everyone dies. What prompted them to set off on expeditions that would most likely kill them?
Mungo Park, an Englishman who barely made it home the first time, traveled to West Africa for the second time in 1805 – the trip didn't end well. 40 soldiers accompanied him (not by his choice) along with the few friends he really wanted to travel with. A twist of traveling fate started them walking into the jungle in the rainy season, resulting in malaria and dysentery. Wild dogs, crocodiles and lions attacked the group, and locals stole their gear. Party members dropped one by one. By the time they reached the Niger River, only 12 of the original group remained. In the end, when the party was whittled down even further, they constructed a 'boat' to ride the Niger back to the ocean. Angry locals, who weren't paid the tributes they expected, ambushed the boat. Park was never heard of again. Years later, Mungo Park's son, Thomas Park, vanished into Africa looking for his father – all that was ever seen of him again was a freshly laundered shirt labeled 'T Park' that was delivered with another explorer's laundry on the coast. (from The Age of Wonder: how the romantic generation discovered the beauty and terror of science by Richard Holms).
I've gone on expeditions to various places for various reasons, but I've always left confident I would come home okay. I'm not sure how well I would fare if I knew everyone who went before me had died, but I suspect I wouldn't be keen on going.
If I look in an issue of Outside Magazine, there is always a tale of travel to some remote place. In the issue on my desk, it's to Mongolia (it's an issue from last summer). These expeditions are more about adventure and less about exploration. We've already explored the surface of our globe – which doesn't negate the value of exploring a place because it is new to you. The only places in this planet that are new to everyone are in the water or under the ground.
My field – physical oceanography, includes exploring the waters beneath the ocean surface. The term 'oceanography' comes from the ancient Greek 'oceanus' and 'graphia' and literally means recording and describing the ocean. 'Oceanology' might be a better descriptor for the field as it means 'the science of the ocean,' but, it isn't in common usage. Oceans make up a significant part on the surface of earth and includes vast unexplored areas. Huge unanswered questions about the physics of the oceans still exist – for instance we know how much energy is put into the ocean through the tides but we can't account for where all that energy goes.
For my work, I still consider the pressure, salinity and temperature in the same way they did back in the 1950's when The Sea Around Us was written, except now these values are measured electronically. This means I can get significantly more information. In fact, there is probably significantly more oceanographic data out there than oceanographers to analyze it.
Back to my original question – can I consider myself an explorer? Since, there is stuff out there for everyone to explore, I'll conclude we all can be explorers if we choose to. For some ideas on how to start check out How to be an Explorer of the World by Keri Smith. Here are some of my ideas: What about the exploration of ones own mind? One's own world? Or even cyberspace? How about exploring the world through food?
- Rachael Carson, The Sea Around Us
I wouldn't call the deep ocean eerie. Alien is perhaps a better descriptor, as it's a place where survival is only possible with extreme measures similar to what we would need to survive in outer space – minus the rockets. I like the idea of being in a profession (ie oceanographer) that includes exploring an alien world right here at home. The more I think about the exploring part of my last post, the more I wonder if I consider myself an explorer? I've been reading about early attempts made by the British to explore Africa's interior. Most expeditions ended in a typical horror movie ending – everyone dies. What prompted them to set off on expeditions that would most likely kill them?
Mungo Park, an Englishman who barely made it home the first time, traveled to West Africa for the second time in 1805 – the trip didn't end well. 40 soldiers accompanied him (not by his choice) along with the few friends he really wanted to travel with. A twist of traveling fate started them walking into the jungle in the rainy season, resulting in malaria and dysentery. Wild dogs, crocodiles and lions attacked the group, and locals stole their gear. Party members dropped one by one. By the time they reached the Niger River, only 12 of the original group remained. In the end, when the party was whittled down even further, they constructed a 'boat' to ride the Niger back to the ocean. Angry locals, who weren't paid the tributes they expected, ambushed the boat. Park was never heard of again. Years later, Mungo Park's son, Thomas Park, vanished into Africa looking for his father – all that was ever seen of him again was a freshly laundered shirt labeled 'T Park' that was delivered with another explorer's laundry on the coast. (from The Age of Wonder: how the romantic generation discovered the beauty and terror of science by Richard Holms).
I've gone on expeditions to various places for various reasons, but I've always left confident I would come home okay. I'm not sure how well I would fare if I knew everyone who went before me had died, but I suspect I wouldn't be keen on going.
If I look in an issue of Outside Magazine, there is always a tale of travel to some remote place. In the issue on my desk, it's to Mongolia (it's an issue from last summer). These expeditions are more about adventure and less about exploration. We've already explored the surface of our globe – which doesn't negate the value of exploring a place because it is new to you. The only places in this planet that are new to everyone are in the water or under the ground.
My field – physical oceanography, includes exploring the waters beneath the ocean surface. The term 'oceanography' comes from the ancient Greek 'oceanus' and 'graphia' and literally means recording and describing the ocean. 'Oceanology' might be a better descriptor for the field as it means 'the science of the ocean,' but, it isn't in common usage. Oceans make up a significant part on the surface of earth and includes vast unexplored areas. Huge unanswered questions about the physics of the oceans still exist – for instance we know how much energy is put into the ocean through the tides but we can't account for where all that energy goes.
For my work, I still consider the pressure, salinity and temperature in the same way they did back in the 1950's when The Sea Around Us was written, except now these values are measured electronically. This means I can get significantly more information. In fact, there is probably significantly more oceanographic data out there than oceanographers to analyze it.
Back to my original question – can I consider myself an explorer? Since, there is stuff out there for everyone to explore, I'll conclude we all can be explorers if we choose to. For some ideas on how to start check out How to be an Explorer of the World by Keri Smith. Here are some of my ideas: What about the exploration of ones own mind? One's own world? Or even cyberspace? How about exploring the world through food?
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Technology Trap
The title isn't my idea, it came from a documentary I watched recently – 'Trigger Effect,' one of the 'Connections' series by James Burke that first aired in 1978 (all his shows can be watched here). I originally saw the series in mid 80's. At the time, I eagerly anticipated each show – rushing home to ensure I caught each one. Years later, I enjoyed the sequels just as much. Shows like these ones form part of the reason why I'm interested in understanding the world around me and why I chose science as my career. I like to try to know why things are the way they are (I'm not convinced it is possible to completely understand the world around us because it is so complex – which means there will always be new things to discover).
The 'Connections' shows focus on how the things that surround us in the modern world came to be, their influence on the way we are today, and their impact on how we think. Even though this show came out several decades ago, the ideas are completely relevant today – perhaps even more so.
Technology benefits us in in many ways – but I agree with the show, that technology can be a trap. The complex interconnections between everything means that a failure at one point can have cascading effects on everything. In the show, an elevator is used as an example – we hop into these boxes all the time, usually without considering what would happen if the power went out. What would we do? Since the show, even more technology has entered our everyday use. Using a GPS for navigating is now standard – so what happens when the batteries die?
Another consequence of our modern inter-connectedness is that the places left where one can be the first to explore becomes extremely limited (there still are some places). Right now I'm considering taking on a project about a remote bay in the Arctic. When I look at a map it seems so far away – yet it has a long history of exploration. I won't be the first to explore it by a long shot. It will probably take me days to travel to the location, yet I can download maps, charts and photos of the area from my home office.
I came across this quote, which sums up my thoughts about exploration (from a guest post by Gerald Zhang-Schmidt on the blog 'Time to Eat the Dogs'):
It may not be possible to go out and find something new that will make one known as the first person to have seen it. However, the exploration of blank spots of our own personal knowledge, hidden by the superficial familiarity gained from TV and internet, has become all the more important, and worthwhile – and it is a whole treasure trove of possible experiences: about other peoples, about this planet’s ecology, and often beginning with our own cities and neighborhoods. How well do you know the people and paths in your community or the species that dwell in your own backyard?
I'll consider my Arctic project as a way to fill a blank spot in my personal knowledge (there will also be some good science there), and I'll continue exploring my world closer to home – I've already started identifying the birds that live in my backyard.
As a tangent: I know how to navigate without a GPS.
The 'Connections' shows focus on how the things that surround us in the modern world came to be, their influence on the way we are today, and their impact on how we think. Even though this show came out several decades ago, the ideas are completely relevant today – perhaps even more so.
Technology benefits us in in many ways – but I agree with the show, that technology can be a trap. The complex interconnections between everything means that a failure at one point can have cascading effects on everything. In the show, an elevator is used as an example – we hop into these boxes all the time, usually without considering what would happen if the power went out. What would we do? Since the show, even more technology has entered our everyday use. Using a GPS for navigating is now standard – so what happens when the batteries die?
Another consequence of our modern inter-connectedness is that the places left where one can be the first to explore becomes extremely limited (there still are some places). Right now I'm considering taking on a project about a remote bay in the Arctic. When I look at a map it seems so far away – yet it has a long history of exploration. I won't be the first to explore it by a long shot. It will probably take me days to travel to the location, yet I can download maps, charts and photos of the area from my home office.
I came across this quote, which sums up my thoughts about exploration (from a guest post by Gerald Zhang-Schmidt on the blog 'Time to Eat the Dogs'):
It may not be possible to go out and find something new that will make one known as the first person to have seen it. However, the exploration of blank spots of our own personal knowledge, hidden by the superficial familiarity gained from TV and internet, has become all the more important, and worthwhile – and it is a whole treasure trove of possible experiences: about other peoples, about this planet’s ecology, and often beginning with our own cities and neighborhoods. How well do you know the people and paths in your community or the species that dwell in your own backyard?
I'll consider my Arctic project as a way to fill a blank spot in my personal knowledge (there will also be some good science there), and I'll continue exploring my world closer to home – I've already started identifying the birds that live in my backyard.
As a tangent: I know how to navigate without a GPS.
Monday, January 17, 2011
The turmeric experiment
Nothing new and exciting to report on my jar experiment, so I'm trying something new. Further to this post about turmeric, at the farmer's market on the weekend I found fresh turmeric. To the left is a picture of a thumb size piece. Cutting it stained both my knife and cutting board - time will tell how permanently. I tried a bite and it was really strong. I don't recommend eating it that way (although I read kids in India do, is that true?).
I've planted the rhizome in potting soil and put it in a sunny location. Now I'll wait and see what happens.
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