Foghorns

I woke yesterday to the low sound of a foghorn. In the grey light, the tent walls were covered with droplets of moisture. As I snuggled under the quilt to go back to sleep, I heard the low notes again. And then again. In a dense fog, the ocean-going vessels that travel through the seaway will sound their horns every couple of minutes.

It's hard to resist a thick fog. I climbed out of the tent onto the wet grass and stumbled sleepily to my parents' cabin. They're early risers, and I knew they'd be up already, making a little fire in their stove and drinking coffee. As I came into grab a glass of juice, my mother announced that my father and youngest sister had already left in the car, deciding to drive through the nearby farmland to take photos in the thick mist. "I can't believe they didn't wake me up," I muttered darkly.

The white on our bay was so thick that I couldn't see the island across the way, even though it's only half of a mile away. I walked down to the dock with my camera, figuring that boats in the mist would have to be as exciting a photographic opportunity as cows in the mist. I was just looking for a rock to put in the bow of a canoe (which is what I do to balance myself when I canoe alone) when my husband came looking for me and offered to take the place of the rock.

The familiar bay looked different as we paddled through weeds and lily pads, and then out onto the dark still water. White surrounded us on all sides, as if we were lost at sea. As we moved closer to shore, I could see shapes, rocks and trees, and islands that I could name from their silhouettes, much the way I can pick out my own kids in a crowd of teenagers. I took photos, and we talked quietly, the canoe gliding through the hushed, misty world of grey and white.