Calving Glacier Cruise

It takes four hours by boat to travel to the Eqi Glacier from Ilulissat. Round trip that equates to eight hours spent at near freezing temperatures, with the bone-chilling Arctic wind piercing through every bit of exposed skin. There are no more seats indoors and so we sit cross-legged and shivering, on the roof of the boat, under its spinning radar.

Along the way, we pass through a field of icebergs and spy humpback whales cruising by. They easily overtake our boat before upending into the depths in search of food. Small falls of melt-water decorate the rocky coastline; the boat slows its passengers to snap photos, and a seal seizes the opportunity to check us out.

After three and a half hours we start to see a gleam of white on the horizon - Eqip Sermia. It peeks out from two inlets, its jagged surface visible from this distance only as a dappled reflection of the midday sun.

For the next thirty minutes we continue motoring towards it but the glacier doesn't seem to get any closer, and that's the moment it strikes us how large it must be. Beyond the coast it's impossible to even see where it ends and land begins.

The captain stops the boat about a kilometre and a half away from the face of the glacier. Here, he says, they call the sea an ice porridge because it's all sludgy and uneven. He tells us to watch out for seals. They like to hide amongst the ice, so if we stay sharp we have a good chance of seeing them.

As we gather at the bow to watch the glacier calve, the guide tells us a story about a giant iceberg that caused a tidal wave, washing away a village on a clifftop several kilometres away. It's a sombre reminder that we're at one of the last wild frontiers on Earth, and are completely at Mother Nature's mercy.

Because of the distance, there is a two second delay in sound. By the time we hear the crack the ice has already started falling, and the sound of the splash doesn't reach us until the grey cloud of dust, water and debris has exploded against the white. It takes a further ten seconds for the first wave to hit our boat and set it rocking.

I slip away from the group and find a quiet spot along the port side. From here the glacier stretches out parallel in front of me, and the voices are a distant hum. It's peaceful and magical all at once.

All of a sudden, a small brown head - a monk seal - pops up directly ahead of me. It looks around, scanning its surroundings lackadaisically, but doesn't seem to register us. Before anyone can react it turns away unconcernedly and slips back underwater silently.

A delicious lunch of oysters, prawns, mussels and meatballs later, we are on our way back Ilulissat. But the captain has one last treat up his sleeve - he uses a fishing net to collect small chunks of ice, which goes perfectly well with the pet bottle of Johnny Walker that my Dad has in his pocket. It adds to the drowsiness, and before we know it, the day is over and we are pulling back into port.