Buoyancy — where it appears
Named by 21 essays across 2 fields — each of them below, with the objects they name alongside it.
The weight of the water that is not there
A submerged object is pushed up by the weight of the fluid it has displaced — not by something like it, not approximately, but exactly. The reason is that the pressures on its faces do not cancel, and the sum that survives has forgotten everything about the object except its shape.
Why a ship comes back upright
Whether a floating body rights itself or rolls over is not decided by its weight, its density or how deep it sits. It is decided by the shape of the slice the water cuts through it, and the number that settles it can be worked out before the vessel is built.
The depth past which it must sink
A body carrying a pocket of gas can be trimmed to hang motionless in water at exactly one depth. Push it a little deeper and it does not come back — the gas compresses, the buoyancy falls, and the equilibrium turns out to have been balanced on its point.
The block the water does not lift
A block bedded flat on the bottom of a tank, with no water underneath it, feels no upthrust at all. It is fully submerged, Archimedes' principle is not suspended, and it presses on the floor with more than its own weight — because buoyancy is not something a fluid has, it is what the bottom face is doing, and a face the water cannot reach does nothing.
The layer a parcel cannot leave
Whether a column of air overturns is not decided by its density but by a difference of two gradients — the rate the environment cools with height, and the rate a lifted parcel cools on its own. Subtract one from the other and what is left is a restoring force per unit displacement, so a stable atmosphere rings at a period of minutes and an unstable one has no period at all.
The push that has no direction
That the pressure at a point in a still fluid is the same whichever way the surface faces is not a definition. It is a theorem, and its proof is an argument about how two kinds of force scale with size — which is also the exact statement of when it stops being true.
The same force whichever way the surface faces
A magnetic field's stress is usually described as a pressure across the lines with a tension along them, as though it were two effects. It is one. The force per unit area is B²/2μ₀ on every surface however it is oriented, and only the direction changes — the surface normal reflected in the field, so that turning the surface one way turns the force the other. At 45° neither name applies.
The body that displaces two things
Every earlier argument has a body wetted by one fluid, so the displaced weight is a volume times a density. A body at an interface displaces two, and what holds it is the *difference* between them — so the same block is held six times less stiffly at an oil–water boundary than at an air–water one. In a continuously stratified column the neutral depth becomes stable, which is the exact opposite of the compressible case.
The balloon that leans the wrong way
When a car pulls away, everything loose in it swings back — except a helium balloon on a string, which swings forward. Nothing strange is acting on it. Buoyancy points against gravity, and inside an accelerating cabin gravity has a sideways part. Read that way, a lift cannot change how deep a boat floats, free fall abolishes floating altogether, and a centrifuge is Archimedes' principle with the word "up" pointing at the axis.
The salt that sinks through a stable sea
Warm salty water lying on cold fresh water is heavier at the bottom at every depth, and by every test of static stability it should stay where it is. It does not. Heat leaks sideways out of a thin tongue of sinking water a hundred times faster than salt does, so the tongue arrives cooled and still salty — heavier than its new surroundings — and keeps going. A column can be stable by density and unstable by diffusion, and most of the subtropical ocean is.
The mixture heavier than either water
Two bodies of seawater can have exactly the same density — one cold and fresh, one warm and salty — and sit side by side without either wanting to sink. Mix them, and the mixture is denser than both, and sinks. Nothing has been added and nothing removed; the extra weight comes from the fact that water's density is a curved function of temperature while mixing averages temperature in a straight line. The same curvature, at its most extreme, is why a lake overturns twice a year and freezes from the top, and why the open ocean, too salty to have a density maximum above freezing, does neither.
The log that floats on its corner
A long square beam of very light wood floats flat, one face up, as anyone would expect. A beam of wood half as dense as water does not: it rolls onto a corner and floats with a diagonal vertical, like a diamond. Between the two, at a quarter of water's density, it floats tilted at twenty-seven degrees, neither flat nor on edge. Heavier beams repeat the sequence in reverse, and the whole pattern is symmetric: a beam of density s floats at exactly the angle of one of density 1 − s. None of it depends on anything but a square, a density and Archimedes, and the same arithmetic decides which way an iceberg rolls when it breaks.
The balloon that floats at a density
A helium balloon let go rises until something stops it, and what stops it depends entirely on how it is built. A party balloon or a weather balloon stretches until it bursts. An open-bottomed science balloon climbs at constant lift — its gas expanding exactly as fast as the air thins — until its envelope is full, then floats where the air is thin enough. A sealed, unstretchable balloon floats where its whole density equals the air's and bobs back if pushed away. None of them floats at a height; each floats at a density. The difference between the three is how compressible the balloon is compared with the air around it, the same comparison that decides whether a Cartesian diver sinks.
The cloud that cools more slowly than the air
Dry air carried upward cools at 9.8 degrees per kilometre, and the atmosphere, which cools at about 6.5, is stable against it: a dry parcel nudged upward ends up colder than its surroundings and sinks back. Saturated air is different. As it rises its vapour condenses, the latent heat warms it, and it cools at only four to six degrees per kilometre in the lower atmosphere. The same column of air is then unstable to it. Most of the troposphere, most of the time, is stable until something lifts air to saturation, and then it is not — and that one asymmetry runs from a fair-weather cumulus to a thunderstorm, to the warm wind that comes down the far side of a mountain.
The water the dent displaces
A steel needle laid carefully on water floats, and the usual explanation is that surface tension holds it up instead of buoyancy, as though the two were rival mechanisms. They are not rivals. The needle presses a dent into the surface, and the upward pull of surface tension along its edges is exactly the weight of the water missing from that dent. Archimedes' principle holds without amendment: a floating needle displaces its own weight of water. Most of that water is simply not underneath it.
The pond that is hottest at the bottom
Water heated from below rises, which is why a pond in the sun is never much warmer than the air: the heat is carried to the surface and lost there. Put a metre of salt gradient in the way and the hot water at the bottom is also the heaviest, cannot rise, and keeps its heat, behind an insulating layer that sunlight passes straight through. Ponds built this way reach eighty degrees under an ordinary sky. The salt does not collect any extra light. What it buys is temperature.
The floating ice that still raises the sea
An ice cube melting in a glass of water leaves the level exactly where it was, and the reason is exact: a floating body displaces its own weight, and the meltwater has that weight. The same argument is often used to say that melting sea ice and ice shelves cannot raise the sea. It nearly works. The ice was floating in salt water and melts into fresh, which is lighter, so the meltwater overfills the hole by almost three per cent — and the ice that really fills the sea is the part of a grounded glacier above the thickness at which it would float.
The sand that lets a body in and will not let it out
Quicksand cannot swallow anyone: liquefied, it is nearly twice as dense as water, and a person in it floats with their chest clear. What makes it dangerous is the opposite asymmetry. Going in is easy, because a step breaks the gel holding the grains apart and the sand turns liquid. Coming out is hard, because the sand settles and packs around whatever sank, and a trapped foot can only rise as fast as water can seep through the packed grains to fill the space it leaves. Pulling harder barely helps; letting water in does.
The grounding line with nowhere to stop
Where an ice sheet flowing into the sea lifts off its bed and begins to float, buoyancy fixes how thick it is: just thick enough to touch the rock, about 1.1 times the depth of the water. The ice crossing that line goes as the 19/4 power of the thickness, so twice the depth sends out twenty-seven times the ice. On a bed that deepens inland, a grounding line that retreats a little moves into deeper water, exports more, and retreats further. No steady state can sit there, and an ice sheet whose edge reaches such a slope crosses the whole of it.
The building that breathes through its doors
In winter the lobby doors of a tall building are hard to push open and, once open, let in a gale, though there is no wind outside. The building is a chimney. Its warm air and the cold air outside are two columns of fluid standing side by side, and the lighter one loses pressure more slowly with height, so the two pressures can be equal at only one level. Below it the outside pushes in through every crack; above it the inside pushes out. The difference is a few tens of pascals, the weight of a few millimetres of water, and over the area of a door it is the push of a strong hand — set entirely by hydrostatics, and running backwards in summer.
The balloon a cold morning lifts
A hot-air balloon is open at the bottom, so the air inside is at the same pressure as the air outside and lighter only because it is hotter. Its lift is the outside air's density times one minus the ratio of the two absolute temperatures — a small number, a third of a kilogram per cubic metre at best — and since the fabric cannot be heated much above a hundred degrees, the lift depends as much on the cold outside as on the heat inside. That is why balloons are the size of houses, why they fly at dawn, why each has a ceiling, and why the pilot must burn for where the balloon will be half a minute from now.
Named alongside it
The objects these essays reach for when they reach for this one.
Archimedes principleStabilityDensityEquilibriumStratificationHydrostatic pressureCompressibilityHydrostaticsInstabilityPressureCapillary lengthConvection