Buoyancy — the series
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.