this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, microfilming, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the Publisher, with the exception of any material supplied specifically for the purpose of being entered and executed on a computer system, for exclusive use by the purchaser of the work.Printed on acid-free paper Springer is part of Springer Science+Business Media (www.springer.com) Now, visits by local people from the nearby community at Coral Harbour are rare and usually occur only to conduct tourists or to hunt walrus at the several large haulouts along the coast. We see them no more than twice a season. For weeks at a time our only reminder of the world outside Coats Island is the daily flight from LondonCalgary which passes over us about mid-day. In the past the faint radio voice emanating from the Nunavut Research Institute and its predecessor, the DIAND Iqaluit Laboratory was a daily link to the outside, but since we got a satellite phone it has been our choice to call out, rather than a daily routine. On a crowded planet, northern Hudson Bay stands out as an enduringly uncrowded place.In 1992, I sailed across the northeast corner of Hudson Bay, from Coral Harbour to Ivujivik, via Coats and Mansel islands, in an elderly Peterhead, the Terregluk, crewed by members of the Nakoolak and Alogut families. The weather as we left Coats was calm and clear, with the early morning sun lighting up the steam rising over a great herd of walrus on the Cape Pembroke haul-out. We lingered to photograph the haul-out, but within an hour of heading eastwards the wind rose out of the northeast and the sea kicked up to Beaufort 5. The non-Inuit members began to look a little green. It was at this point that I realised our only navigation aid was a rather battered looking binnacle. There was no chart. At moments such as that you become acutely conscious of how empty a place northern Hudson Bay is.Given the size of the sea that rose quickly the captain could not steer a straight course but had to continually adjust to the waves, now running with them, now taking advantage of some minor amelioration to broadside them. As I watched the needle of the compass swing backwards and forwards over 180° I wondered where on earth we were going to land up and how we would figure out where we were viii Foreword when we did. Ten hours later, after a day of grey skies and lumpen seas, we sighted a nondescript line of shingle and rock on the horizon. As we coasted agonisingly slowly eastwards I finally made out a navigation beacon near the shore and realised that our landfall was precisely as planned, at the northern tip of Mansel Island. Somehow, through that heaving grey waste, with only a gyrating compass needle as guide, Jimmy, our captain, had kept us on course: a reminder that the sea and atmosphere have their signs for those who can read them.Reading the signs is what this book is about. The Hudson Bay region is experiencing ...