• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Everyone knows that water's chemical formula is H2O, which means that it consists of one largish oxygen atom with two smaller hydrogen atoms attached to it. The hydrogen atoms cling fiercely to their oxygen host, but also make casual bonds with other water molecules. The nature of a water molecule means that it engages in a kind of dance with other water molecules, briefly pairing and then moving on, like the ever-changing partners in a quadrille, to use Robert Kunzig's nice phrase. A glass of water may not appear terribly lively, but every molecule in it is changing partners billions of times a second. That's why water molecules stick together to form bodies like puddles and lakes, but not so tightly that they can't be easily separated as when, for instance, you dive into a pool of them. At any given moment only 15 percent of them are actually touching.

In one sense the bond is very strong—it is why water molecules can flow uphill when siphoned and why water droplets on a car hood show such a singular determination to bead with their partners. It is also why water has surface tension. The molecules at the surface are attracted more powerfully to the like molecules beneath and beside them than to the air molecules above. This creates a sort of membrane strong enough to support insects and skipping stones. It is what gives the sting to a belly flop.

I hardly need point out that we would be lost without it. Deprived of water, the human body rapidly falls apart. Within days, the lips vanish “as if amputated, the gums blacken, the nose withers to half its length, and the skin so contracts around the eyes as to prevent blinking.” Water is so vital to us that it is easy to overlook that all but the smallest fraction of the water on Earth is poisonous to us—deadly poisonous—because of the salts within it.

We need salt to live, but only in very small amounts, and seawater contains way more—about seventy times more—salt than we can safely metabolize. A typical liter of seawater will contain only about 2.5 teaspoons of common salt—the kind we sprinkle on food—but much larger amounts of other elements, compounds, and other dissolved solids, which are collectively known as salts. The proportions of these salts and minerals in our tissues is uncannily similar to seawater—we sweat and cry seawater, as Margulis and Sagan have put it—but curiously we cannot tolerate them as an input. Take a lot of salt into your body and your metabolism very quickly goes into crisis. From every cell, water molecules rush off like so many volunteer firemen to try to dilute and carry off the sudden intake of salt. This leaves the cells dangerously short of the water they need to carry out their normal functions. They become, in a word, dehydrated. In extreme situations, dehydration will lead to seizures, unconsciousness, and brain damage. Meanwhile, the overworked blood cells carry the salt to the kidneys, which eventually become overwhelmed and shut down. Without functioning kidneys you die. That is why we don't drink seawater.

There are 320 million cubic miles of water on Earth and that is all we're ever going to get. The system is closed: practically speaking, nothing can be added or subtracted. The water you drink has been around doing its job since the Earth was young. By 3.8 billion years ago, the oceans had (at least more or less) achieved their present volumes.

The water realm is known as the hydrosphere and it is overwhelmingly oceanic. Ninety-seven percent of all the water on Earth is in the seas, the greater part of it in the Pacific, which covers half the planet and is bigger than all the landmasses put together. Altogether the Pacific holds just over half of all the ocean water (51.6 percent to be precise); the Atlantic has 23.6 percent and the Indian Ocean 21.2 percent, leaving just 3.6 percent to be accounted for by all the other seas. The average depth of the ocean is 2.4 miles, with the Pacific on average about a thousand