In the mid-eighties my father sailed on the research ship Regina Maris to
study whale populations in Greenland. One night he noticed there were a
lot of icebergs floating by the boat. Icebergs! After drinking
several beers too many with a friend, he decided to do something stupid. A
quick hop onto an iceberg proved that you could stand on it...
So my dad decided to hop from iceberg to iceberg with his friend until they
reached the nearest village two miles away. Hop after hop, they made their
way across the ice floe. As the lights of the village and the shoreline
grew nearer, they grew colder and began to pick up the pace. Alas, in
their hurry, they accidentally hopped together onto one small iceberg...
It broke under their combined weight, plunging them into the icy salt water
where they quickly sobered up. After thrashing about in the ch-ch-chilly
water for several interminable minutes, they managed to climb onto another
iceberg, and carefully hopped the rest of the way to shore. The men limped
into the village, where they were admitted to the hospital with hypothermia
and a touch of frostbite. Released little worse for the wear, to this day
my Dad never goes into the ocean.
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Reference: Personal Account, Tucker Worrall