Through The Sandglass

In Martian Memoriam

The sun is sinking rapidly below the horizon, temperatures are plummeting in the gathering darkness, snow is falling and ice begins to embalm everything exposed to the extremes of winter. The Martian winter.

And on the arctic plains of the red planet, Phoenix is dead.

As I was facing the final editorial deadline for the book, back in early June, one of the greatest frustrations was not being able to continue the story of the Phoenix Lander which had just arrived on Mars – it was one of those “at the time of writing” comments which had to be left at that. Since then, the Phoenix has joined, if not exceeded, the success of its comfort-loving colleagues, the Mars Rovers, which continue to trundle around the tropics. Phoenix is a hardy robotic field geologist which has worked diligently and delivered extraordinary science results – it has, deservedly, just won recognition from Popular Science magazine as an innovation worthy of the publication's "Best of What's New" Grand Award in the aviation and space category.

For much longer than was originally thought feasible, Phoenix has been scraping, digging, collecting, sorting, imaging, and analysing, with the most sophisticated laboratory on the planet, the sand (and dust, and ice) of Mars. It discovered water-ice in different forms. It found salts and calcium carbonate which support the case for liquid water existing on Mars, possibly relatively recently. It didn’t find little green men or even little green microbes, but it did show that some of ingredients necessary for the recipe of life are there.

  Phoenix observed its field area on all scales, recording the weather (dust storms, clouds and falling snow), the landscape, patterned in a way that is eerily evocative of our own Arctic tundra – and sand grains. Peering down its microscope, Phoenix recorded the grains in this image. About one-tenth of a millimeter across, these are the same minerals that make up rocks on Earth – and the rest of the universe. The iron content and weathering provide the rust-red color of the planet and its soil and some of the grains are magnetic.

The hard science of analyzing all of the results that Phoenix sent back will continue for years, but sometimes we just need to step back in wonder – this is a picture of microscopic sand grains on a planet a hundred million kilometers away.

Of course, by our standards, Mars is never balmy, but by now night time temperatures are expected to plummet to -184 F (-120 C). The ice that Phoenix has watched encroaching is still made of water, but the cold will be such that the carbon dioxide in the atmosphere will soon freeze, encasing if not entombing the lander. There is instrumentation on board that is designed to jump start Phoenix if, by any chance, it lives up to its name and resurrects itself next summer. But that chance is remote. For now we should just celebrate the remarkable life of this extraordinary field geologist.

[These images are courtesy of NASA/JPL-Caltech/University of Arizona/Texas A&M University/ Imperial College London. The Phoenix mission is another example of global collaboration. See NASA  and University of Arizona  for your own journey.]

Pundits, soothsayers, prognosticators - and lines in the sand

Listening to, reading, watching, googling the news these days is a mindboggling task. It seems that, much of the time, we must put aside the ongoing stories of man’s barbarism to man, and focus on the global economic crisis, the remarkably sudden inability of banks to do what they always said that they were good at (The Economist recently referred to the “hallucinogenic chaos of world finance”). And, regardless of your location, or the medium through which you monitor the news, they are there in their multitudes and all their glory – the pundits. It’s great business for them.

 

Not that they ever predicted the current events, but, now that these have eventuated, they have much to say. One has to question whether any of it is any more worth listening to, or taking seriously, than anything they did or didn’t say yesterday, a month ago, six months or a year ago. As a species we have many failings, one of which is that we think we know more than we do, and the second of which (related) is the belief that yesterday somehow or another informs us about tomorrow. In the immortal words of John McEnroe, commenting on Wimbledon tennis a few years ago, “It’s been predictable, in the sense ‘expect the unexpected’.” Or Hobbs, of Calvin and Hobbs, “The trouble with the future is that it keeps turning into the present.” Or, perhaps with deep resonance in today’s world, Albert Einstein, who observed that “the significant problems which we face will not be solved by the same level of thinking which created them.”

 

This, I will be the first to admit, is a favorite fulmination of mine, and touches on my fascination with uncertainty and how we deal with it. But what does it have to do with sand? Well, first of all, in my last post, I commented that watching sand fall through an hourglass is not only a therapeutic activity, but a lesson in fundamental physics; a pile of sand seems like one of the simplest things – grains fall, the pile grows, the sides slip and avalanche. But predicting the avalanches is impossible. So, if this is too much for us, why do we cling to the belief that we can predict the dynamics of the world’s stockmarkets, the price of oil, or the sales of anniversary Barbie dolls.

 

Perhaps we might as well resort to the age-old methods of divination in the sand. Geomancy, the art of divination, is a word that derives from the translation of the Arabic term ilm al-raml, the science of the sand. In a wide variety of cultures, sand has been a medium for telling the future. A shallow bowl of sand can be used, the surface smoothed; the person whose fortune is to be told makes shapes and patterns in the sand, the expert interpretation of which defines his or her future. Alternatively, the edge of the bowl can be tapped with a stick and the resulting patterns—vibrated granular materials again—can be interpreted.

 

In original Arabic geomancy, the diviner used and developed dots drawn in the sand on a board—or simply in the desert—by the person seeking advice. A twelfth-century automated interpreter, a beautifully ornate brass mechanical “calculator” from Damascus, was created to facilitate interpretation of the patterns. The Arabs brought the art of geomancy to Africa, and the tradition continues. Today, complex patterns of lines and dots in the sand are used to answer questions and divine the future. In the Dogon culture of Mali, the priest sets out an elaborate pattern of drawings, lines, and piles of sand, and invokes the sacred fox to visit during the night. If the fox obliges, the pattern of its tracks around the priest’s arrangement is interpreted.

 

In certain forms of Taoism, divination is accomplished by using sand as the medium in which spirits and deities write. Fine white sand in a large sand tray is smoothed and preparatory rituals are completed. The expert medium enters into a trance, takes a stick, and begins the incantation to seek assistance. If the incantation is successful, the thoughts of the spirit are transferred through the medium and the stick into sand writing. The words and symbols are continually recorded and the sand resmoothed so as not to interrupt the procedure. Should this be a technique for investment analysts?

 

And then there are the lines in the sand (was the original one drawn at the Alamo?). Just google the phrase in the news, and you will find that all the players, from the financial authorities to the auto makers, via our respective (and, of course, respected) elected representatives, are emphatically drawing lines in the sand. What they must not do, of course, is stick their heads in the stuff (which, by the way, ostriches do not do).

 

The Sandglass

I chose the title of this blog to enjoy the symbolism of all that is evoked by the image of a sandglass (or hourglass – but many of them run for periods other than an hour). If ever there was a universal symbol of time, the sandglass is surely it, and time and change are very much what sand is about, on all scales. There was a time when a sandglass was placed in a coffin (in what would seem an unnecessary reminder that the sands of time had run out) and was a popular image on gravestones. There are times when a sandglass icon occupies our computer monitors to insist that we wait, whether we want to or not. And it is still the time when the classic opening of a long-running soap opera features an hourglass and the words, “Like sands through the hourglass, so are the Days of our Lives.”
 

The flow of time, the sands of time – powerful imagery, but sandglasses have always been useful, as well as often beautiful objects in their own right. And they continue to be, very satisfyingly so, today. For my particularly significant birthday a couple of years ago, while I was deeply involved in trying to write the book, my daughter (who works as a sound engineer in Philadelphia, and is a tenacious sourcer of original and imaginative gifts) gave me the sandglass shown in the photo (that’s Kate, through the sandglass). It’s an extraordinary design, made by David Hood, of The Hourglass Connection in Oregon (for his website, which includes a fascinating history of sandglasses, see here). The base is actually a cast of his hand – which caused me all kinds of problems at Philadelphia Airport security. The whole thing was carefully wrapped and secure in my backpack – which abruptly halted on its journey through the scanner. Security folk gathered round to examine the screen, with anxious looks gripping their faces. One of them turned to me and, in a strangled voice asked “Do you have a hand in there?” 

It took some explanation.

 

Just sitting and watching the sand flow through a particularly spectacular hourglass is a strangely relaxing way of spending a little time – and, along the way, a lesson in fundamental physics and the laws of nature. Watch how the pile at the base behaves, building up in an organized way, but then re-organizing itself through a small avalanche – or a couple of small avalanches, or one large avalanche. Try to predict when and where the next avalanche is going to occur, and how big it will be, and you have no chance. Sort of like trying to predict an earthquake, and that’s because earthquakes and sandpiles demonstrate some of nature’s favorite behaviors – and provide some insights into the bizarre world of granular materials (more of that in a later post). The sandglass itself, to work properly, has to be a carefully designed conspiracy of sand, glass (which is made of sand) and geometry. Think about those intensely irritating timers that come with some board games and which always jam up when not watched, generally providing your opponent with advantageous extra time. They simply haven’t taken physics into proper account.

 

But coming back to the blog title, it’s obvious that I also, quite unashamedly, wanted to evoke Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There. My vision is of the interesting and exotic worlds we can find by gazing through a sandglass, never mind our old friends the Walrus and the Carpenter, weeping over “such quantities of sand.”

 
The Walrus and the Carpenter

Were walking close at hand;

They wept like anything to see

Such quantities of sand:

“If this were only cleared away,”

                They said, “it would be grand!”

                “If seven maids with seven mops

                Swept it for half a year,

                Do you suppose,” the Walrus said,

                “That they could get it clear?”

                “I doubt it,” said the Carpenter,

                 And shed a bitter tear.

This dilemma is faced by coastal residents the world over, particularly following a major storm. The residents of Pensacola Beach, Florida, while having access to more resources than the Walrus and the Carpenter, no doubt felt the same way after Hurricane Ivan in 2004 (picture: US Geological Survey). Which raises the questions: why do so many members of our (arguably incompetent) species insist on living in some of the most dynamic environments on the planet? And why should they be surprised at the consequences? And who should pay for those consequences?

Sandbanks

So, my first blog and my first post – an intimidating moment, and, obviously, one where I should try to set out the background and my aspirations. In the first instance, this is a blog about sand, and I can already visualise your cursor positioning itself over the “back” button – but please hang on a minute. Sand is, indeed, a humble material, but there is an awful lot of it about and it plays starring roles in the workings of our planet and in our daily lives. My starting point is that sand is an unsung hero – and somebody needs to sing about it (in many dune-fields of the world sand actually sings to itself, but that’s another story). So now, upfront, I will admit that I have tried, not to sing, but to write some of sand’s heroic and everyday tales in a book, Sand: The Never-Ending Story, which is just back from the printers (now there was a moment to remember). It will be published by the University of California Press in January - http://www.ucpress.edu/books/pages/10955.php. Oxford University Press will be putting out the UK edition in July.

So yes, part of my ambition for this blog is to draw attention to the book, but my aspirations are much more than that. For a start, I surprised even myself by realising how much there was that I had to leave out of the book – editing was a much bigger challenge than thinking of stuff to include. And second, there was a day when I had to stop writing, and yet so many topics have arisen and events occurred since then, that I keep finding myself saying “I wish that I’d had the chance to include that.” So, in part, this blog is intended to fill those gaps.

And then, during the long process of literary gestation (otherwise known as the hard graft of research and writing), I was really delighted to discover the global extent of the community that shared my enthusiasm for sand, and, along the way, to have actually made some converts, people whose first reaction was to press the back button, but who ended up being surprised and intrigued. This blog is for all those people – and, I hope, a whole lot more enthusiasts and converts who will share this place for conversation and debate.

So what we will we converse and debate about? One of the origins of the book is the idea of the stories that sandgrains have to tell – as individuals, families, tribes and societies. Around a billion sand grains are born every second around the earth, and each one embarks on a journey in the company of trillions of its colleagues. Journeys are stories, and those stories become linked, become sagas, become epics of our planet – and of our lives. It’s not just the dramatic stories of islands and homes disappearing during a hurricane, or villages being buried under sand dunes, but small, incremental, everyday stories of change and influence. One of the most satisfying things about writing the book was the discovery of these stories, these journeys, and the surprising places they lead. You may wonder what on earth I’m talking about, so let me give you an example.

Sand in the news.

Launched in 1967, the QE2 spent her life as the world’s premier passenger ship, plying the oceans of the world, but particularly maintaining the Atlantic link between the UK and the US. As a young kid, I had first arrived in New York aboard the RMS Caronia, of the QE2’s old relatives – I actually learned to swim in the middle of the Atlantic (in the pool on board). The QE2 is huge and magnificent, viewed by a nation of dwindling influence as a symbol of our mighty seafaring heritage. But she has retired (or been retired) after journeying five and a half million miles. Last week, she set out from the historic port of Southampton on her retirement voyage – and promptly ran aground. “Shipwrecked in the sand” cried one newspaper headline (the article went on to suggest that this was a sign that the ship should not leave the UK). Well, not exactly shipwrecked – strong winds blew her onto a sandbank and several tugs and a rising tide soon liberated her. The sandbank in question is famous for a number of reasons. Southampton sits, like many ports, at the head of an estuary, estuaries being good, sheltered access routes to the mainland – think of the historical role of the Chesapeake Bay. But estuaries are, by nature, sites of turmoil and the constant battle between tides and rivers – and therefore the scenes of shifting sands. The Brambles Sandbank, which snared the QE2, sits squarely in the middle of the estuary – and the shipping lanes – and is, for most of the year, just below the surface. Every once in a while, when tides are low, the Brambles bank emerges above the waves and two local sailing clubs converge on its brief and damp expanse, set up a bar (not a sand bar) – and play a game of cricket. Not long ago, a Dutch sailor, having stranded himself on the Brambles Bank, spotted the approaching flotilla and assumed that they were coming to his rescue; he was astonished to find that this was a sporting event – and, presumably like many people, quite at a loss as to the rules of the game (some good pictures of this mad dogs and Englishmen event here).

A single sand grain is a wondrous thing (remember the words of William Blake), benign (except when it gets in your eye or penetrates other anatomical sensitivities). But when it gathers together with unimaginable numbers of its colleagues, the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. The Brambles bank simply toyed with the QE2, but sandbanks have caused countless real and tragic shipwrecks over the centuries. The only pieces of wreckage traceable to the swordfishing boat, the Andrea Gail, after “The Perfect Storm,” were found washed up on Sable Island, the emergent part of a gigantic sandbank off the coast of Newfoundland. The island competes with a number of other locations for the title of “graveyard of the Atlantic.”

But now I’m wandering off on one of those journeys. The great irony of the QE2’s retirement voyage? She is off to Dubai, to serve out her days as a hotel and museum, moored off the Palm Jumeirah, the largest man-made island in the world, constructed – insanely - from sand. The island resort, representing some of the world’s most expensive real estate, just officially opened in an extravaganza of fireworks and celebrity-festooned razzamatazz.