(This was written for the 'air' conference on the WELL.)

air.11.43: Mike Knell (mpk)  Tue 2 Nov 99 00:33

 Although I've only just arrived here, since air is about to be retired
 I thought I should write this down sooner rather than later. Apologies
 for the length.
 
 It's the middle of August - late summer - and you're holidaying in
 Iceland with two friends, staying with another friend in central
 Reykjavik. One evening, around 11pm, a couple of you are noodling
 around on the computer talking to some people back home via IRC, the
 others are watching TV, and everyone's thinking of getting to bed -
 it's been a long day.
 
 But then one of your friends, a space science graduate with a
 continuing interest in things astronomical, comes rushing through and
 breathlessly announces, "Come and see.. quick.."
 
 "See what?"
 
 "Northern Lights.."
 
 And he's gone already, back to the balcony, turning off the lights as
 he goes to preserve valuable night vision. You quickly type
 "aurora.. brb", abandon your IRC session and follow through the
 suddenly dark apartment, trying not to knock things over on the way.
 
 Out on the balcony, it's a cold, clear night. Once your eyes adjust,
 the stars are out. There's a glow in the sky to the west, on your
 right, but right in front of you, there it is, disguised as a wispy
 cloud until you look harder - a faint, but visible, smear of green
 light, slowly undulating and rippling.
 
 Your heart leaps into your throat. Of all the things you've always
 wanted to see, the aurora borealis is in the top 3. You hadn't
 expected to see anything at this time of year - where you are, just a
 couple of degrees south of the Arctic Circle, the glow in the western
 sky doesn't fully dissipate until gone 1 o'clock; and the one thing
 you really need if you want to see an aurora is darkness. Lots of
 darkness. But there it is, right in front of you. Unbelievable. The
 sky's still glowing with twilight, and the lights of the city are
 mucking with your night vision, but it's still clear. By now you've
 been outside for over half an hour, and suddenly realise you're
 shivering in the cold night air. Drop inside for a jacket and some
 socks, and make some coffee to stop the yawning.
 
 The display gets bigger - streamers of green from the zenith reach
 straight out over your head, rippling and undulating slowly. Then,
 suddenly, things get really spectacular - the streams of green explode
 into huge sheets, lashing across the sky, waving and shimmering, and
 edged with sparking, flickering fringes of red and blue. It's getting
 difficult just remembering to breathe, the display is so
 mesmerising. The rippling streamers of light seem to reach straight into
 your soul, and all that anyone can say is "ooooohhh...." and "wow...",
 over and over again. The Icelander you're staying with has already
 said he doesn't usually notice these displays, much to everyone's
 disbelief.
 
 The feelings this sight conjures up are impossible to describe - awe,
 amazement, incredulity, even maybe a certain primal fear ... but
 mostly just a sense of incredible good fortune to have been lucky
 enough to catch such an amazing sight at a time of the year when it
 doesn't usually show up. You agree with your friends that it's great
 that you were able to experience it together, partially because you
 have a suspicion that if you didn't have any other witnesses to this
 display, nobody would believe you.
 
 Some time after 1 o'clock, the display dies away, and although you
 stay outside scanning the sky for any remaining traces, you're left
 with nothing but clear skies. Everybody drifts off to bed, as do you,
 but you don't get to sleep for a while - as soon as you close your
 eyes, those flashing, swirling patterns are there, rushing back from
 recent memory. The next night, wonder of wonders! Another aurora,
 even stronger than the night before, but although most of the
 excitement is there all over again, it's somehow just not quite the
 same as it was the first time.