I must have beckoned it with yesterday's image — kidding, but it's really foggy today. Fog horns are calling from every direction, though it's hard to tell which direction. They speak, or whomp, or toot (whatever they do) in various registers; then another horn answers. Occasionally, a boat answers. I can hear them all the way up here, on top of the hill, being Historic Hill. It's quite a conversation. And it sure does carry ...
It reminds me — and this is going way back — of sailing with my dad, Pop (who would not want to be called Poppa Betty). We'd venture off, not just the two of us but a bunch of us; this was long before anyone-and-everyone had radar or Loran or GPS. And, occasionally, we'd find ourselves in a fog bank. Pop would send me to the bow to watch and, more importantly (as I couldn't see anything), to listen. Not for fog horns so much — those were easy, even if it was hard to tell which direction they were whomping from — but for other boats. Which might be ferries. Or passing ships. Big ones. Even little ones. Any encounter might be devastating. It was so foggy at times that, from my perch on the bow, Pop was hazy in the stern. But at least we were sailing, as opposed to powering. At least we could hear ...
It occurs to me now (though it never occurred to me then) that my job was important. It also occurs to me that it had its dangers ...
