Winds of change

There’s a fabulous new site that shows wind patterns – it gives you a whole new perspective on the globe. One of the most striking things is the regular patterns across the oceans. Until quite recently long-distance travel was dependent on sailing boats, at the mercy of the wind and regular patterns of wind were needed to support regular sailing routes. The goods and people moved by these winds in turn drove dramatic historical changes that still resonate. Let’s look at a few, illustrated by the Earth Wind Map.

Turn of the sea

In the early 15th Century, Portuguese sailors began exploring the Atlantic ocean. Initial footholds were made on groups of volcanic islands: the Azores and the Canaries. Regular travel between these islands and Portugal taught sailors an odd trick: the best route back home was not a straight line but instead a big loop. This ‘volta do mar’ or ‘turn of the sea’ relied on working with the prevailing winds and ocean currents.

Atlantic winds (green), currents (blue) and approximate Portuguese sailing routes (red). Image from Wikipedia.

Atlantic winds (green), currents (blue) and approximate Portuguese sailing routes (red). Image from Wikipedia.

Here’s how the Earth Wind map looked for this area recently: the same pattern can be seen even in this snapshot of actual conditions.

Image captured from Earth Wind Map. With permission.

Image captured from Earth Wind Map. With permission.

Later sailors showed this pattern to be of global significance. It stretches across the entire Atlantic – Columbus used it on his return from the Americas. Eventually Spanish sailors correctly guessed that it applies to the Pacific, allowing the Spanish empire to connect Central America and the Philippines.

These patterns are caused by global circulation of the atmosphere. Warm air rises at the Equator and flows up and towards the poles. At around 30° latitude (north or south) it descends again into a region of high pressure called the Horse latitudes. Further north a different circulation cell is found, forever whirling in a different direction. These flows of air, on a spinning globe, create patterns of prevailing winds: ‘trade winds’. These patterns are fundamental features of the earth and have been recognised in ancient climates.

Spice

The Portuguese weren’t the first people to sail long distances, of course. Trade across the Indian Ocean between Africa, the Middle East and India was established long before; it supplied the Romans with spices as well as lions and tigers for their circuses.

The northern Indian, like the Atlantic at the same latitude, has trade winds that move towards the south west. This is convenient if you want to speed your cargo of hungry tigers from India over into the Red Sea and via Egypt to Rome. But how do you get a cargo of gold coins to India to buy the animals in the first place? Unlike the Atlantic, the horse latitudes are on-land: there is no turn of the sea to get you east.

Indian Ocean2

The winter pattern of winds, away from India

In the Indian Ocean something remarkable happens. The billion year old trade winds are switched, flipped completely round every year. From May until October winds blow from the south and west, towards India. This pattern allows repeat journeys and supports trade. In later centuries these winds sculpted a maritime ‘Dhow culture’ that stretched from the East African coast via Arabia into India.

What has the power to overturn a global pattern of wind? The Himalayas and the Tibetan Plateau do. This massive area of high altitude land was formed and is kept aloft by the ongoing collision between Indian and Asia. During the summer, heating of the high land lowers air pressure, drawing in air from the ocean. This reverses the pattern of winds and brings massive rainfall to India, feeding crops that feed millions.

Sugar, gold and blood

European exploration of the Atlantic of course led to the ‘discovery’ of the Americas, a new land full of Silver and Gold and indigenous civilisations collapsing under the onslaught of vicious diseases to which they had no immunity.

For many, the question was: how to make money from this new land? For the Spanish in central and south America, silver and gold was the obvious answer.  The Portuguese in Brazil and the English and others in North America and the Caribbean turned to farming, preferably of addictive substances.

Sugar, cotton and tobacco could all be grown in the Americas and shipped west to newly addicted populations in Europe. But who was going to grow the stuff? Shamefully, the answer was slaves from Africa, sold in exchange for rum or textiles made in Europe (from ingredients grown in the Americas).  Part of the reason this system worked was to do with the winds. The ‘turn of the sea’ was scaled up into the ‘triangular trade’ that took ships from Europe, to Africa, to America and back again.

triangular trade

In time Europeans realised the full horror of this system. The world’s first consumer boycott was of sugar, first organised in Britain in 1792. They realised that not a cask of this slave-grown sugar came into Europe “to which blood is not sticking”.

Tea

What the British mostly did with sugar was put it in their tea. Until the mid-19th Century, drinking unboiled water in a British city was a good way to die young. The traditional solution to this was to drink beer or gin – both sterile, if not completely healthy. In time, powered by growing commercial power in Asia, tea replaced booze as the British drink of choice (at least during working hours). This thirst drove the last great flowering of commercial sailing ships: the tea clippers.

Tea is a seasonal crop and the best tea is fresh tea. For these reasons fabulous beautiful ships were built to speed it across the world. The great tea race of 1866 saw four sailing ships race from China to Britain packed with tea. The first ship to arrive would command the best prices. The route they followed was the fastest possible, drawing on hundreds of years of knowledge of the trade winds. Let’s trace their winding route on a windy globe.

From China, down the South China Sea through the Sunda Straight

From China, down the South China Sea through the Sunda Straight

Across the Indian Ocean and round the Cape

Across the Indian Ocean and round the Cape

Back to Blighty, past St Helena and the Azores

Back to Blighty, past St Helena and the Azores

Height, speed and distance: the view above my back garden

I’ve bought a deck chair this Summer and it’s got me thinking. As I’ve sat in it – enjoying some peace until the moment when my children and ‘playing nicely together’ abruptly part company – I’ve been looking at the sky and thinking about space, distance and speed.

Photo via Alessandro Giangiulio via CC.

Photo via Alessandro Giangiulio via CC.

The view of the sky from my deck chair has many levels. First there are pigeons, flying between trees a few metres above me along little drooping arcs. Next are the red kites, effortlessly circling above, on the look out for carrion (I take care to move occasionally in my chair). Speeds are low. A pigeon, closely followed a sparrow hawk once zoomed just over my shoulder at thrilling speed, but away from the business of killing or eating, nothing moves fast.

Moving up in height, little propeller-driven planes from a nearby airfield are next. To me they resemble bumblebees – a quiet buzzing, slow progress. There are odd moments of drama when they perform acrobatics. When they dive straight to the ground they make a ‘Nazi-plane-shot-down-in-flames’ noise. The lowest section of their downward loop is hidden by houses and I find myself waiting for an explosion, but they always pull up again. So far. They move fast, 100s of kilometres an hour, but they are always at least a few kilometres away.

Next come the jet planes. A handy phone app allows me to quantify their height – the many many flights into or from nearby Heathrow are a few kilometres up, travelling at 300 kph. From a bedroom window I can sometimes see the flight path – multiple planes strung out across the evening sky as dots of light.

Some planes are not Heathrow bound, but are high, travelling from Ireland to Europe or Germany to America. These are ten kilometres or more above, little more than specks. Often the bit of the ground they are above is a surprisingly far distance away. If you want a view over a long distance, just look up into the sky. Without a geeky app to help, you can only tell these planes are there if they leave contrails, or via their lights at night. They are speeding along at 640 kph and the ratio of their distance to their speed is about the same as the little planes – so to me they move at much the same speed.

Higher things are only visible at night. The International Space Station is a rare visitor but it doesn’t stay long. At 370 kilometres height it is of course only a dot, but impressively fast as it tracks across the sky at 7.66 km/s, nearly 28,000 kph. It is 40 times further away than the jet planes, but moves nearly a hundred times faster. From my perspective, that’s about as fast as a circling red kite.

The fastest things in the sky are rare visitors: shooting stars. These little fragments – broken up planets or sweepings left over from the formation of the solar system – travel at ‘cosmic velocities’, around 30 kilometers a second (over 100,000 kph). Faster than the ISS they are also closer, burning up in the atmosphere at around 100 km in height.  Like a sparrow hawk you can’t calmly measure their speed. Rather they are experienced as a sudden dramatic event, a glimpse into another, faster world.

I really like my deck chair.

UPDATED: Copyright, blogging and scientific papers

Is it legitimate to reproduce diagrams from scientific papers in a blog post? Curious, I asked the question of Twitter. It returned two distinct responses.

One response, from a pair of scientists and highly respected and active bloggers was (to simplify and paraphrase) that it was OK since you were discussing Science. Asking permission of the author was the polite thing to do, but ask the publisher only if you get the material direct from their website.

Another response, from a professional archivist and soon-to-be-published book author was a clear statement of the legal situation: it would be a clear breach of copyright, not covered by ‘fair use’.

Both sets of responses entirely correct, but reflecting two ways of viewing the situation. Copyright is an important legal protection for content-creators and should be respected (and is The Law), but equally communication of scientific ideas is an important public good. An interesting contrast, which I thinks maps nicely onto a growing discontent with academic publishers. Academics are the creators of the content, yet the Copyright is held by the publisher. When journals were distributed in paper form, the value added by the publisher was clear. Now that online access is the norm, and authors submit formatted papers and when scientific editing and refereeing is also done by academics, the value added by publishers is less clear. When even the Economist talks of ‘fat profits’, it seems the balance is skewed.

So, what’s a boy to do? Well, I happen to belong to the Geological Society of London and the particular diagram I am dying to copy is in their journal. A quick and helpful twitter response from them pointed me to their publications permissions page. All is well! With acknowledgement, I can use up to three figures without permission and up to 100 words. [NB this implies a picture only paints 33 words, surely wrong?].

This gave me a warm glow, since this seems to be a nice balance between the need for protection of copyright and the fact that “data wants to be free”. A search of a commercial publisher soon deadened the glow. Elsevier have a process whereby I can request permission to use content. Selecting a random Earth Sciences paper and requesting to put a single image on the web, for non-commercial use would cost me $28.75. How much of this is given to the person who created the diagram? None, of course.

Following the equivalent process with Nature Publishing (who use the same RightsLink software) cheered me up again as using figures for non-profit is free.

The roller-coaster continues down again, as it appears that the Geological Society of America does not allow posting material on the web unless you are the author. You can request permission, but this costs $10 for processing. Also they haven’t responded to my tweet yet. UPDATE: Those lovely people at the Geological Society of America have responded to my tweet. In a very rapid response to this post and a related post from Brian Romans (@clasticdetritus) they have revised their policy to say that using a single image/table/paragraph counts as ‘fair use’ and does not require permission. I feel inspired to go off blog about a paper from one their journals now, by way of thanks.

Anyway, I am beginning to bore myself. I shall be off and send an email to the author, whose paper in the JGS I covet.

Disclaimer: I don’t really know what I’m talking about. If you wish to do be certain about copyright law, don’t take my word for it. Opinions expressed here are not those of the author, past blog post quality is no guide to future performance, may contain nuts.

Inside the mind of a singer

So here I am in the middle of the tenor section singing my heart out.

What am I looking at? Well, there is the music. My eyes are never far from the copy I’m holding and I’m managing to keep them slightly in advance of where the notes I’m currently singing are on the page. This means keeping track of which stave (line) I’m on, ignoring the 5 or more others. Oh, and for goodness sake don’t forget to turn the page over before you need to sing the notes on the *next* page, or you’ll look a right idiot. Extra marks for style if you turn the page ever so slightly ahead of everyone else. I’m also keeping an eye on the conductor, some distance away in front of me. They get sad and lonely if you ignore them, sometimes grumpy with it too. When I’m not singing I might cast a critical eye over the audience. How many of them are there? What’s the average age, are they enjoying themselves?

What am I listening to? My fellow singers, of course. Mostly my own tenor section, often others, for cues. A choir should be more than just a bunch of soloists singing at the same time, we listen to each other to make sure we are singing the same notes, in tune, at the same time. On a good day I listen to be inspired, to ensure the blend is perfect and the phrasing consistent. On a bad day I’m desperately listening to the person behind me who has learnt the music better and who I can get the notes from. Today is a good day. As well as listening to help me sing better, I’m also a part of the audience and I am singing some of the best music ever written. Shivers are never far from my spine, my goose is bumped.

What am I doing? I’m singing, which means I’m vibrating air in my chest, throat and head to produce a sound with a specific pitch. To try and do this well, I’m thinking about my posture, using my diaphragm and other abdominal muscles to support the sound. I’m also trying to keep my soft palate up, the back of my tongue down and avoid tension. This is an all-body experience, from the soles of my feet (firmly planted on the ground) to my forehead (where high notes feel like they come from).

What am I thinking about? I’m translating the notes on the page into the rhythm and pitch of the notes I’m singing. Since I don’t have perfect pitch, I work out the intervals between notes so I can move between them correctly. Plus the words, which today are in German so I must try and sing them like a German would. Also I’ve written things on the copy (in pencil, I’m not a barbarian). The most useful things are signs pointing to bear-traps, like VS for a nasty page turn, or a pair of spectacles where mis-reading the music is easy. Also I’m making a particular type of music which means, at least with this conductor, not singing it like other types of ‘classical’ music but in an ‘authentic’ style. This means a dance-like lilt to it, with a gentle emphasis on the first and third beats.

I’m doing all this thinking and listening and looking at the same time. I am relying on ‘muscle memory’, musical memory, years of hard work at singing and weeks of work rehearsing this particular piece with these particular people. I am very much in the psychological territory of flow. I am totally involved in the performance, immersed in it. It is such a joyful experience, I have never felt more alive. The fugue passages are the best, as a line of music that sounds great alone is started by different sections of the choir at different times. These lines then are piled up on top of each other producing exquisite music. As the fugue starts, I know I’m going to be tested physically and mentally. Once my part comes in, its such an intense feeling, the lines are complex, leave barely any space to breath and incredibly satisfying to sing.  For me to reach of the end of these sections having done justice to this wonderful wonderful music feels like I’ve just achieved something magnificent.

These heights of experience wouldn’t be heights if they lasted. Eventually the piece is over and the audience applauds. This was a good gig and the audience are happy, clapping like mad, and I feel that they’ve shared in some of my joy, our joy. The sweating and beaming conductor certainly has. Gradually I return to reality. My diaphragm hurts, which is good, but so does my throat, which means my technique is not good enough. I barely notice though because of the drugs. Endorphins are natural opiates produced when you do important things, like sing, exercise, fall in love, have/make babies or eat curry. They are pumping through my veins and it feels goood.

Backstage now and full of a room of my fellow musicians, all revved up, excited, talkative, full of joy. It is essential now to drink alcohol. This prolongs the joy. The best is a visit to a pub where you all talk fast and happily about the experience you’ve all just shared. Having a few audience members there is good too, as while we pretend otherwise we are all desperate to be told how good we were.

Eventually bed, sleep and waking up with a smile on my lips, counting the days until I can do this again.