Dry times

If I asked you to name the driest spots on Earth, I wonder if this one would come to mind -- even though it's a top contender for the number one spot.

You might have thought of Chile's Atacama Desert, or possibly somewhere in the Gobi, Sahara, or the Rub' al Khali (Empty Quarter) of Saudi Arabia.  All good guesses, and certainly they're not what I'd call wet climates.  In fact, parts of the Atacama come in second; the high elevation and perpetual clear skies are why it's such a great spot for astronomical observatories -- it's currently home to three of the best, and a fourth is being built.  The La Silla Observatory, the Paranal Observatory (which includes the Very Large Telescope), the Llano de Chajnantor Observatory (which hosts the ALMA international radio observatory), and the Cerro Armazones Observatory (site of the future Extremely Large Telescope), are all in the Atacama Desert.

As an aside, can astronomers please try to come up with better names for their observatories?  I mean, what the hell?  The "Very Large Telescope" and the "Extremely Large Telescope"?  What's next, the "Abso-fucking-lutely Humongous Telescope, No Really I'm Totally Serious You Won't Believe How Big It Is"?

Probably not.  AflHTNRITSYWBHBII would be hard to fit on a grant application.

But I digress.

Anyhow, the top spot for the driest climate on Earth is the McMurdo Dry Valley region of Antarctica, and beats most of the other possibilities by a significant margin.  Some studies indicate the place hasn't had any significant accumulated precipitation in over two million years.  What small amount does fall -- estimates are in the range of a hundred millimeters per year -- almost all evaporates before it reaches the ground because of the fierce katabatic winds.  Katabatic winds occur because air density is strongly dependent upon temperature, and the McMurdo Dry Valleys are surrounded by mountains.  Air masses above the mountaintops lose heat faster, making them become more dense; the air then flows downhill, easily reaching hurricane speed, and pools in the valleys.  Most of the air already started out dry; any humidity it originally had was precipitated out as snow on the windward side of the mountains.  This drops the relative humidity to only a few percent and keeps it there.

Any snowflakes falling into that don't stand a chance.  They don't melt; it's too cold for that.  They sublimate -- turn from a solid to a gas without passing through the liquid phase.

That's how cold and dry it is.

The result is that the McMurdo Dry Valleys are basically nothing but a vast expanse of extremely cold rock, gravel, and sand.

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Dturme, Labyrinth, Wright Valley, McMurdo Dry Valleys, Antarctica, CC BY-SA 4.0]

The exposed rocks are mostly of Triassic age, and belong to the Beacon Formation, which is largely made of sandstone.  There are a few volcanic intrusions only a few million years old, but by and large, the whole place is just one big bunch of very old wind-eroded sandstone, quartzite, and pebble conglomerate.

And yet... there are living things there.

Not many, of course, but the McMurdo Dry Valleys are home to endolithic bacteria, which live in the cracks and fissures inside rocks, subsisting on the minerals therein and the tiny amount of water in the soil (supplemented from time to time by trickles of glacial meltwater).  They're still poorly understood, but are thought to be metabolically similar to the mid-ocean vent bacteria, which are able to use minerals like sulfur, iron, and manganese as the basis of their metabolism.

All of which makes me wonder if Mars hosts life.  McMurdo has been described as "the most Mars-like environment on Earth;" the site has been used to test equipment for the Mars rover missions.  Hell, if bacteria can survive in McMurdo, it's not much of a stretch to surmise that there might be life underground on Mars -- perhaps a holdover from the distant past, when Mars was a much warmer, wetter place.

I find places like this fascinating.  The idea that we have here on our (mostly) temperate and green planet a spot so profoundly inhospitable is pretty astonishing.  I wonder how (or if) climate change will alter things there?  The entire continent is climatically isolated by the Antarctic Circumpolar Current, one of the hugest oceanic water transporters in the world -- the amount of water flowing through the Drake Passage, between South America and Antarctica, is estimated at around 130 times the volume of all the world's rivers put together -- so it's hard to imagine this shifting in any significant way.

But given that many oceanographers fear that meltwater from Greenland is going to block the Atlantic Meridional Overturning Circulation -- the best-known part of which is the Gulf Stream -- maybe I shouldn't speak too soon.

So that's our look at the Earth's answer to Mars.  Not, I'm afraid, a locale I'm eager to visit, given how little I like the cold.  I'm adventurous, but I draw the line at a place that hostile.

Plus, I like rocks as much as the next guy, but when there's nothing else to see -- well, I can think of a few other places that are higher on the destinations list.  I'm content to appreciate McMurdo from afar.

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Home bizarre

My house is, to put not too fine a point on it, kind of a disaster area.

A friend described it as "looking like a museum run by lunatics."  Part of this is that my wife and I have dozens of interests, so we have a huge amount of random stuff.  Carol is a professional artist (you can and should check out her amazing work here), so between the pens and inks and watercolors and framing supplies -- as well as all the finished pieces -- it takes up a lot of room.  We're both amateur potters, which is a whole other set of supplies and products.  I'm a fanatical book and CD collector, and also a musician with (at last count) five flutes, three recorders, three pennywhistles, a set of bagpipes, a guitar, a djembe, a concertina, and a piano.  I collect masks, and have them hanging on walls all over the house.  Then there's the odd random stuff; just from where I'm sitting, I can see a Bigfoot statue, an antique typewriter, a gargoyle, a bronze sundial, several ceramic statues of characters from Doctor Who and Lost in Space, and a scale model of the Miller-Urey apparatus.

Our house isn't neat, but I can at least confidently assert that it's interesting.

There's also the problem that Carol and I are both housework-impaired.  This is not helped by the fact that we have three large dogs.  When we have guests coming over it's preceded by three days of panic-cleaning so we don't die of humiliation as soon as our guests walk through the front door.  On the other hand, it's a good thing we sometimes do have guests, because otherwise one day we'd go missing, and when the police came to investigate they'd find us both trapped in enormous clumps of dog hair.

We'll never make Home Beautiful, but we did make the May edition of Home Chaotic.

My work station

The reason all this comes up is a loyal reader of Skeptophilia, who sent me a link suggesting that the problem isn't that I have a million interests, the attention span of a fruit fly, and zero aptitude for housework.

The problem is my home needs an exorcism.

At least that's what Australian psychic Catarina Ligato would probably say.  Her vocation is "cleansing" houses of their past inhabitants, who do stuff like creating "negative energy," making rooms feel unnaturally cold, and moving your belongings around.  They can also produce odd smells, although I wonder if we'd even notice that given our aforementioned three dogs.

If Ligato checks a place out and finds it's haunted, she respectfully asks the disembodied ghosts of former residents to leave the place in peace.  She also uses a "crystal wand" and "sacred spray" to encourage their exit.

Kind of the spirit world equivalent of a mop and a can of Lysol, is how I think of it.

"Doing this work is a calling, it’s not for everyone," Ligato said.  "I know other psychics who ended up in psych wards for losing their balance.  [Working in homes] can feel a bit more positive, because you’re helping both the inhabitants and the spirits to find peace."

If you don't want to shell out the cash to hire Ligato (her minimum fee is three hundred dollars) -- or if, like me, you live halfway around the world from her -- you can always DIY it.  Burn some essential oils, she says, play some calm music, keep the windows open, and "declutter regularly."

It's this last one that would be the sticking point for us, because as I mentioned earlier, clutter is kind of our raison d'être.  I mean, I guess it'd be nice to live in a neat, clean house (not that I know first-hand what that's like), but... I like my stuff.  This is my Emotional Security Stuff.  If I were to start doing a Marie-Kondo-style culling, I'd be a little lost.  Okay, maybe I don't need an Indonesian statue of a cat playing a flute, but yeah, Marie, it kind of does spark joy.

So I think the fact that we're constantly misplacing stuff probably isn't caused by the ghosts of former inhabitants moving our belongings around, but more that (1) we have a huge amount of random things strewn everywhere, and (2) we're both kind of scatterbrained.  As far as it feeling cold sometimes -- well, it's an old house, and we do live in upstate New York, which is a four-season climate (the four seasons are Almost Winter, Winter, Still Fucking Winter, and Road Construction).  I don't think I'm ready to pay Catarina Ligato to fly out from Australia to do an exorcism, entertaining as that would be.

I might give the essential oils a try, though.  I doubt it'll help with the overall cleanliness, but maybe it'll help with the doggy smell, which can get pretty intense sometimes.   Every move in the right direction is a good thing.

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Time and tide

I don't know if you've had the experience of running into a relatively straightforward concept that your brain just doesn't seem to be able to wrap itself around.

One such idea for me is the explanation for tides.  I've gone through it over and over, starting in high school physics, and I keep having to go back and revisit it because I think I've got it and then my brain goes, "...wait, what?" and I have to look it up again.

The sticking point has always been why there are two high tides on opposite sides of the Earth.  I get that the water on the side of the Earth facing the Moon experiences the Moon's extra gravitational attraction and is pulled away from the Earth's surface, creating a bulge.  But why is there a bulge on the side facing away from the Moon?

Now that I'm 64 and have gone over it approximately 482 times, I think I've finally got it.  Which is more than I can say for Bill O'Reilly:

So, let's see if I can prove Mr. O'Reilly wrong.

Consider three points on the Earth: A (on the surface, facing the Moon), B (at the center of the Earth), and C (on the surface, opposite the Moon).  Then ask yourself what the difference is in the pull of the Moon on those three points.

Isaac Newton showed that the force of gravity is proportional to two things -- the masses of the objects involved, and the inverse square of the distance between them.  The second part is what's important here.  Because A, B, and C are all different distances from the Moon, they experience a difference in the gravitational attraction they experience.  A is pulled hardest and C the least, with B in the middle.

This means that the Earth is stretched.  Everything experiences these tidal forces, but water, which is freer to move, responds far more than land does.  At point A, the water is pulled toward the Moon, and experiences a high tide.  (That's the obvious part.)  The less obvious part is that because points B and C are subject to a difference in the gravitational attraction, the net effect is to pull them apart -- so from our perspective on the Earth's surface, the water at C pulls away and upward, so there's a high tide there, as well.

There's practically no limit to how big these forces can get.  On the Earth, they're fairly small, although sometimes phenomena like a seiche (a standing wave in a partially-enclosed body of water) can amplify the effect and create situations like what happens in the Bay of Fundy, Nova Scotia, where the difference in the water level between high and low tide can be as much as sixteen meters.

But out in space, you can find systems where the masses and distances combine to create tidal forces that are, to put it in scientific terms, abso-fucking-lutely enormous.  This, in fact, is why the whole subject comes up today; the discovery of a binary system in the Large Magellanic Cloud made up of a supergiant with a mass thirty-five times that of the Sun, and a smaller (but still giant) companion ten times the mass of the Sun.  They're close enough that they orbit their common center of gravity about once a month.  And the combination of the huge masses and close proximity creates tidal bulges about three million kilometers tall.

That's over three times the diameter of the Sun.

You think the people living along the Bay of Fundy have it bad.

Artist's conception of the system in the Large Magellanic Cloud [Illustration by Melissa Weiss of NASA/Chandra X-Ray Observatory/Center for Astrophysics]

And that's not even as extreme as tidal forces can get.  If you were unfortunate enough to fall feet-first into a black hole, you would undergo what physicists call -- I'm not making this up -- spaghettification.  The tidal forces are so huge that they're even significant across a small distance like that between your head and your feet, so you'd be stretched along your vertical axis and compressed along your horizontal one.  Put more bluntly, you'd be squished like a tube of toothpaste, ultimately comprising the same volume as before but a much greater length.

It would not be pleasant.

Be that as it may, I think I've finally got the explanation for tides locked down.  We'll see how long it lasts.

At least I'm pretty sure I'm still ahead of Bill O'Reilly.

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A map from the home world

One of the most persistent -- dare I say, canonical -- stories of alien abduction is the tale of Betty and Barney Hill.

The gist of the story is that the Hills, a couple from Portsmouth, New Hampshire, were driving home from their vacation in September of 1961, and near Franconia Notch, New Hampshire they saw a UFO that seemed to be following them.  After observing it for a while, including through binoculars, they experienced a "time-slip," and found themselves back home without any memory of how they'd gotten there.  The following day, they noticed some oddities -- Barney's new dress shoes were scuffed, the leather strap on his binoculars was broken, neither of their watches worked, and there were several shiny concentric marks on the hood of their car.

They were puzzled, but no explanation seemed forthcoming, so they forgot about it, until Betty started to have dreams about being aboard a spacecraft.  This eventually led to some hypnosis sessions in which both of them claimed to have suppressed memories of being abducted and examined (our lore about aliens doing, shall we say, rather intimate examination of abducted humans comes largely from Barney's claims under hypnosis).

All of this would be nothing more than your usual Close Encounter story -- lots of wild claims, nothing in the way of hard evidence -- if it weren't for one thing that Betty revealed.  While she was on the spaceship, she said, she was shown a star map that had the aliens' home world and various other star systems with lines between them showing "trade routes."  She attempted to reconstruct a two-dimensional drawing (she said the map she'd been shown was three-dimensional), and here's what she drew:

Now, potentially, this could be interesting.  One of the more eye-opening things I learned when I was a teenager watching the original Cosmos series was that the constellations in our night sky only seem 2-D from our perspective, but there's actually a third dimension -- depth -- that we can't see from Earth.  If you add that third dimension, it becomes obvious that what we call "constellations" are actually random assemblages of stars that only seem near each other from our perspective, but are actually at greatly varying distances from us.  This means that if they were observed from a different vantage point, the constellations would look nothing like they do here at home -- and in fact, many of the stars that appear to be close together would be widely separated in the sky.

One of the coolest animations from the series was looking at the stars of the Big Dipper, first as we see it from the Earth, then making a huge circle around it.  It doesn't take much of a difference in angle to make it look nothing at all like the Big Dipper. Here's the constellation as it's seen from Earth, and the same stars as viewed after a ninety-degree revolution around the star in the lower left corner:

So if Betty Hill's recollection of the alien star map was real, then it'd be pretty convincing -- because the aliens presumably would have drawn the stars from the perspective of their home star system, not ours.  This would be mighty hard to fake now, much less 58 years ago.  So the race was on to try and figure out whether the map Betty Hill drew conformed to any known configuration of stars as viewed from somewhere else in the galaxy.

The person whose answer is the most commonly accepted by UFO enthusiasts is Marjorie Fish, who identified the home world of the aliens as Zeta Reticuli (thus kicking off all of the claims that the Annunaki, the "Greys," and various other superintelligent species have come here from that star system).  Starting from that star, Fish said, there are nearby stars that could represent the ones on the Hill map.

Which brings up the problems with the claim.

Recall that the map is the only hard evidence -- if you can call it that -- to come out of the Hill story.  Brian Dunning, of the brilliant blog Skeptoid, is critical of the claim right from the get-go:

Several years [after the alleged abduction], a schoolteacher named Marjorie Fish read a book about the Hills.  She then took beads and strings and converted her living room into a three dimensional version of the galaxy based on the 1969 Gliese Star Catalog.  She then spent several years viewing her galaxy from different angles, trying to find a match for Betty's map, and eventually concluded that Zeta Reticuli was the alien homeworld.  Other UFOlogists have proposed innumerable different interpretations.  Carl Sagan and other astronomers have said that it is not even a good match for Zeta Reticuli, and that Betty's drawing is far too random and imprecise to make any kind of useful interpretation.  With its third dimension removed, Betty's map cannot contain any useful positional information.  Even if she had somehow drawn a perfect 3D map that did exactly align with known star positions, it still wouldn't be evidence of anything other than that such reference material is widely available, in sources like the Gliese Star Catalog.

The problem runs deeper than that, though.  Long-time readers of Skeptophilia may recall a piece I did a while back on ley lines -- the idea that there are towns and sacred sites that are aligned because there are "energy currents" beneath the ground that flow in straight lines, and were why the ancients chose to build on those specific sites.  The trouble is (as my post describes), in any arrangement of random dots, you can find strings of dots that are close to falling in a straight line, just by random chance.  No "energy currents" required.

Here, the difficulty is magnified by the fact that we don't just have a couple of hundred dots (or, in this case, stars) to choose from, but tens of thousands, and that's just counting the relatively nearby ones.  Also, they're not on a flat surface, as with the ley lines; they're in a three-dimensional grid, which you're allowed to look at from any perspective you want to.

If those were Marjorie Fish's constraints, it's actually astonishing that she took years to find a group of stars that matched Betty Hill's map.

We're pattern-finding animals, we humans.  As with pareidolia -- our capacity for seeing faces in inanimate objects like clouds, walls, and grilled-cheese sandwiches -- if there's no pattern there, our brains will often invent one.  Add to that confirmation bias and just plain wishful thinking, and it's not hard to see that the Hill map -- still considered the best evidence for the Hills' story -- is actually not much in the way of evidence at all.

Allow me to emphasize that I'm not saying Betty and Barney Hill weren't abducted.  It's just that -- to end with a quote from Neil DeGrasse Tyson -- "As a scientist, I need more than 'you saw it...'  If you have an actual object taken from a spacecraft, though, you'll have something of alien manufacture, and anything that has crossed interstellar space to get to Earth is going to be interesting.  So show me an object you've taken from the spaceship, and then we can talk."

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Apocalypse ongoing

A while back, I wrote about the strange and disheartening research by Leon Festinger, Henry Riecken, and Stanley Schachter, the upshot of which is that frequently when there is powerful evidence against a deeply-held belief, the result is that the belief gets stronger.

It's called the backfire effect.  The Festinger et al. study looked at a cult that centered around a belief that the world was going to end on a very specific date.  When the Big Day arrived, the cult members assembled at the leader's house to await the end.  Many were in severe emotional distress.  At 11:30 P.M., the leader -- perhaps sensing things weren't going the way he thought they would -- secluded himself to pray.  And at five minutes till midnight, he came out of his room with the amazing news that because of their faith and piety, God told him he'd decided to spare the world after all.

The astonishing part is that the followers didn't do what I would have done, which is to tell the leader, "You are either a liar or a complete loon, and I am done with you."  They became even more devoted to him.  Because, after all, without him instructing them to keep the vigil, God would have destroyed the world, right?

Of course right.

The peculiar fact-resistance a lot of people have can reach amazing lengths, as I found out when a loyal reader of Skeptophilia sent me a link a couple of days ago having to do with the fact that people are still blathering on about the 2012 Mayan Apocalypse.  Remember that?  Supposedly the Mayan Long Count Calendar indicated that one of their long time-cycles (b'ak'tuns) was going to end on December 21, 2012, and because of that there was going to be absolute chaos.  Some people thought it would be the literal end of the world; the more hopeful types thought it would be some kind of renewal or Celestial Ascension that would mark the beginning of a new spiritual regime filled with peace, love, and harmony.

The problem was -- well, amongst the many problems was -- the fact that if you talked to actual Mayan scholars, they told you that the interpretation of the Long Count Calendar was dependent not only on translations of uncertain accuracy, but an alignment of that calendar with our own that could have been off in either direction by as much as fifty years.  Plus, there was no truth to the claim that the passage into the next b'ak'tun was anything more than a benchmark, same as going from December 31 to January 1.

Mostly what I remember about the Mayan Apocalypse is that evening, my wife and I threw an End-of-the-World-themed costume party.

Although the party was a smashing success, what ended up happening apocalypse-wise was... nothing.  December 22, 2012 dawned, and everyone just kept loping along as usual.  There were no asteroid impacts, nuclear wars, or alien invasions, and the giant tsunami that crested over the Himalayas in the catastrophically bad movie 2012 never showed up.

Which is a shame, because I have to admit that was pretty cool-looking.

So -- huge wind-up, with thousands of people weighing in, and then bupkis.  What's an apocalyptoid to do, in the face of that?

Well, according to the article my friend sent -- their response has been sort of along the lines of Senator George Aiken's solution to the Vietnam War: "Declare victory and go home."  Apparently there is a slice of true believers who think that the answer to the apocalypse not happening back in 2012 is that...

... the apocalypse did too happen.

I find this kind of puzzling.  I mean, if the world ended, you'd think someone would have noticed.  But that, they say, is part of how we know it actually happened.  Otherwise, why would we all be so oblivious?

The parallels to Festinger et al. are a little alarming.

The mechanisms of how all this worked are, unsurprisingly, a little sketchy.  Some think we dropped past the event horizon of a black hole and are now in a separate universe from the one we inhabited pre-2012.  Others think that we got folded into a Matrix-style simulation, and this is an explanation for the Mandela effect.  A common theme is that it has something to do with the discovery by CERN of the Higgs boson, which also happened in 2012 and therefore can't be a coincidence.

Some say it's significant that ever since then, time seems to be moving faster, so we're hurtling ever more quickly toward... something.  They're a little fuzzy on this part.  My question, though, is if time did speed up, how could we tell?  The only way you'd notice is if time in one place sped up by comparison to time in a different place, which is not what they're claiming.  They say that time everywhere is getting faster, to which I ask: getting faster relative to what, exactly?

In any case, the whole thing makes me want to take Ockham's Razor and slit my wrists with it.

So that's our dive in the deep end for the day.  No need to worry about the world ending, because it already did.  The good news is that we seem to be doing okay despite that, if you discount the possibility that we could be inside a black hole and the fact that Donald Trump is still president.

Me, I'm not going to fret about it. I've had enough on my mind lately.  Besides, if the apocalypse happened thirteen years ago, there's nothing more to be apprehensive about, right?

Of course right.

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The most alien-looking place on Earth

George Wynn Brereton Huntingford was a British anthropologist, linguist, and historian, who traveled widely and was famed for his perceptive observations of societies and cultures.  And if you had to guess which of the many places he traveled during his 77 year life he labeled "the most alien-looking place on Earth," what would you come up with?

His vote was for the island of Socotra, a 132-by-42 kilometer island which lies at at the mouth of the Gulf of Aden.  To the north is the Arabian Sea; to the southwest, the Guardafui Channel separates it from the Horn of Africa.  It's nearer to Africa than to the Arabian Peninsula (232 versus 380 kilometers), but is controlled by the government of Yemen, as much as Yemen's political disaster is currently controlling anything.

Most of Socotra is desert to semi-desert:

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Rod Waddington from Kergunyah, Australia, Socotra Island (11007223546), CC BY-SA 2.0]

Although it does get more rainfall than either Yemen and Oman (to the north) or Somalia (to the east), so it has a great deal more vegetation than its neighbors:

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Rod Waddington from Kergunyah, Australia, Wadi, Socotra Island (14495206039), CC BY-SA 2.0]

The main reason for Socotra's uniqueness -- and why evolutionary biologist Lisa Banfield called it "the Galapagos of the Indian Ocean" -- isn't the climate; it's the fact that geologically, it's part of Africa.  During the Miocene Period, about twenty million years ago, Africa and the Arabian Peninsula were joined, but a rift formed that split the two, opening up the Gulf of Aden.  Socotra is a chunk of the Somali Plate that was torn loose and got separated from the rest of the land mass that now forms the easternmost part of Africa.  (Interestingly, the rifting has continued, joining up with a fault system that runs up north through the Red Sea and south into the East African Rift Zone, which one day will tear away a much huger chunk of Africa -- all the way down to Mozambique.)

The issue is that since Socotra's separation from Africa around twenty million years ago, it's been largely isolated, so evolution has veered the community off into its own direction..  This has led to a high degree of endemism -- the fraction of species found nowhere else on Earth.  11% of its bird species, 37% of its plants, 90% of its reptiles, and 95% of its mollusk species are endemic.  One of the most iconic plants is the "dragon's blood tree" (Dracaena cinnabari), which looks like it was invented by Dr. Seuss:

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Alex38, Dragonblood tree in Socotra 2, CC BY 4.0]

Then, there's the cucumber tree (Dendrosicyos socotranus), which -- as the name would suggest -- is the only species in the cucumber family (Cucurbitaceae) that grows into a tree.  As far as I've heard, though, the fruit isn't edible, which is a good thing, because it'd be a hell of a climb to harvest one for your dinner salad:

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Gerry & Bonni, Cucumber tree (6407165121), CC BY 2.0]

Like many places with unique and isolated ecosystems, Socotra's oddball assemblage of biota are endangered, from introduced species like cats and rats, from land use by the island's sixty-thousand-odd inhabitants, and from climate change.  The ongoing Yemeni civil war isn't helping, either; the government's priority is certainly not protecting peculiar-looking trees, and the ecotourists whose revenue might help the situation are mostly staying away for their own safety.

In any case, that's one anthropologist's vote for "the most alien-looking place on Earth" -- an island that's geologically African, politically and culturally Arabian, and biologically like nowhere else.  It's a place I'd love to visit one day if the situation calms down.  Adding some bird species to my life list that are found only on one speck of land in the Arabian Sea would be amazing.

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Monks at sea

The phenomenally silly song "St. Brendan's Fair Isle," by the Arkansas folk singer and songwriter Jimmy Driftwood, tells the wild tale of St. Brendan of Clonfert, sometimes called "Brendan the Navigator:"

We'd been on the ocean for ninety-four days,
And came to a spot where the seas were ablaze;
Those demons from Hades were dancin' with glee
And burnin' the sailors alive on the sea.
Well, St. Brendan walked on the blistering waves,
He drove all those demons right back to their caves,
And all of the saints wore a heavenly smile
As we sailed for St. Brendan's fair isle, fair isle
We sailed for St. Brendan's fair isle.

St. Brendan himself is something of a historical mystery.  He lived from around 484 to 577 C.E., although the first extant mention of him isn't until a hundred years after his death (in Adomnán of Iona's Vita Sancti Columbae), and the earliest account of him as an explorer is a hundred years after that, in the ninth century Martyrology of Tallaght.

The story is that St. Brendan and some of his fellow monks took off into the Atlantic Ocean in a leather-bound coracle in search of an enchanted island he'd heard was "somewhere in the western ocean."  Sources differ as to whether he found it, but upon his return he told (amongst other claims) of a place where "great demons threw down lumps of fiery slag from an island with rivers of gold fire" -- considered by some to be an indication that he reached the volcanic island of Iceland.

While St. Brendan's voyages might well be mythology -- no one, for example, gives much credit to his boat spending time riding on the back of a giant enchanted fish -- the idea of Irish and Scottish monks making it across the north Atlantic actually has some basis in fact.

A medieval illustration of St. Brendan of Clonfert and his fellow explorers (ca. 1460) [Image is in the Public Domain]

The twelfth century Íslendingabók (The Book of the Icelanders) by Icelandic historian Ari Þorgilsson describes the arrival of the first Norse settlers in around 874 C. E., and states that they found some settlements already there -- small clusters of buildings inhabited by "holy men" called Papar (from the Old Irish word papa meaning "monk").  Þorgilsson said that the Papar were Christian ascetics, and when they found out the island was being taken over by pagan Norsemen, they basically said "there goes the neighborhood," upped stakes, and left.  The Landnámabók (The Book of Settlements), which in general is considered pretty reliable as a historical document, concurs, and said that when the Papar took off they left behind items that confirmed their Christian faith, including books, bells, crucifixes, and crosiers.

Some historians believe that the place names Papey (which seems to mean "island of the Papar") and the Vestmannaeyjar (the "islands of the western men") hearken back to Irish and Scottish inhabitants who actually predated the Norse settlements, perhaps by as much as two centuries.

While all this is intriguing, it bears mention that despite extensive archaeological investigation of the locations of alleged settlements by the Papar, there have been no unequivocally Celtic artifacts located in Iceland yet.  So right now we're left with a couple of moderately-plausible historical documents and a highly mythologized account of a saint whose exploits include some highly questionable events such as an island inhabited by bow-and-arrow wielding pig-headed people and a place where Judas Iscariot is tortured by being frozen on one side and burned on the other.

I might believe that St. Brendan sailed to Iceland, but that bit is a little more than I'm willing to swallow.

A statue commemorating St. Brendan's voyage, in Bantry, County Cork, Ireland [Image is in the Public Domain\

Anyhow, that's our historical curiosity of the day.  Whatever the truth of the Brendan story, I find it incredible that back in the days before reliable maps anyone was willing to launch off into the ocean.  I have my adventurous side, but that's way beyond anything I'd ever consider doing.  And that goes double if I thought there was a chance that demons from Hades might burn me alive if my faith wasn't sufficiently strong.

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