Hydrostatics — the series
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The pressure that only knows depth
A litre of water and a swimming pool press equally hard on a floor at the same depth. Pressure in a still fluid is a scalar with no direction of its own, it depends on how far down and on nothing else, and the shape of the container falls out of the arithmetic entirely.
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Force multiplied, and nothing gained
A push on a small piston becomes a much larger push on a large one, in the ratio of their areas, with no machinery in between except the liquid. What the liquid will not do is give anything away — the distances shrink by the same factor the forces grow by, and the product is untouched.
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The surface a spin decides
Spin a dish of liquid and its surface settles into a paraboloid — exactly, with nothing about the liquid in the shape. A parabola of that form has a focal length of g over twice the spin rate squared, so a bucket of mercury turning at twenty revolutions a minute is a telescope mirror figured by a clock instead of by grinding.
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The height a siphon cannot pass
A siphon will not lift water more than about ten metres, and the usual explanation for the limit is also given as the explanation for the mechanism. It cannot be both. A siphon runs in a vacuum, with degassed water, over a crown no atmosphere could support.
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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.
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The sea that stands lower because water gives
Water is the textbook incompressible fluid, and at the bottom of the ocean it is 4.7 per cent denser than at the top. That squeezing lowers the whole sea by about thirty metres, adds the weight of 266 metres of water to the pressure in the deepest trench, and speeds sound up so steadily with depth that it digs a channel in which a low note can cross an ocean.
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The water that warms on the way down
Lower a thermometer into the Mariana Trench and it reads colder and colder for four kilometres and then starts to warm, reaching about two and a half degrees at the bottom, eleven kilometres down. No heat is coming up from the sea floor to do it. The water at the bottom is the same water as the water two kilometres higher, carried down and squeezed, and squeezing warms it. In fresh water near four degrees the same squeezing does nothing at all, and below four degrees it cools — so a parcel of cold lake water pushed deep enough keeps sinking on its own.
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The rise a joule of heat buys
Warm a column of seawater and it stands taller without weighing any more, so the sea rises while the pressure on the sea floor stays exactly the same. How much it rises depends on where the heat goes. Seawater's expansion coefficient grows with temperature and with pressure, so a joule stored in warm tropical water lifts the sea more than six times as far as the same joule in Arctic surface water. Cold water in the deep, squeezed by four kilometres above it, expands about twice as much per joule as the same cold water at the surface. That is why the budget of sea-level rise turns on thousandths of a degree in the least-measured part of the ocean.
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The floodgate that opens at a chosen depth
Hang a flat gate on a horizontal hinge across a channel and it can be made to stay shut while the water rises, press harder against its seat for a while, and then swing open on its own at one particular level — with no float, no motor and no sensor, only the position of the hinge. The trick is that the water's push on a submerged surface acts below the surface's middle by an amount that shrinks as the water deepens, so the point the push acts at climbs as the flood rises. Put the hinge on that climb and the gate opens where the climb crosses it.
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The bottle that pours at one rate however full it is
Water running from a hole in the foot of an open bottle slows as the bottle empties, because the pressure at the hole is the depth of water above it. Seal the bottle and push an open tube through the stopper, down into the water, and it stops slowing: the flow holds steady from full until the level reaches the bottom of the tube. Nothing regulates it. The tube's tip is the one point inside where the pressure is the atmosphere's, the water above it hangs from an air pocket below atmospheric, and the outlet sees only the height of the tip.
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The vessel whose level falls evenly
Water leaves a hole in the floor of a vessel faster when the vessel is full, because the pressure at the hole is the depth of water above it. In a cylinder that makes the level fall quickly at first and slowly at the end, so hour marks on its wall crowd towards the bottom. A level that falls at one rate needs a vessel that widens as the outflow quickens: its radius must grow as the fourth root of the height. The Egyptians who made the oldest surviving water clock, about 1400 BC, gave it sloping sides, which halves the error of a cylinder. They also gave it a scale for every month, because the hours they wanted to count were not all the same length.
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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.