Black T'ick a' Fog

Please, dear God, I prayed, get me out of this safely.  The fog lay on the water, gray and palpable. Just below and a paddle length’s out from the canoe the water was a warm flat black.  Everything else was pea soup fog, damp foam rubber, something you could cut with a knife. This was what the fishermen meant when they said it was “black t’ick a’ fog.”

The compass between my knees supposed to be showing southeast was moving steadily with a mind of it’s own toward west.  Which direction should one paddle in to make it swing back toward south.  No, not that way. Well, halfway around? Could the compass possibly be right? There - all the way around again.  Now to keep it steadily on south. Home was Middle Island and I knew the prevailing wind was south east, so south would be the way to go from Bell to Middle.

It was after eight.  Could I make the shore of Middle Island before dark? What was that low slow sloughing?  The big rock? Cabbage head? Please God, the shore of Middle... No.  A long rock.  Chowder’s rock?  Nothing looks the same in the fog. Wavering in the softly rolling sea, the rock was only a dark cast on an already dim place - a shadow on an under exposed negative.

When I left, paddling slowly out along the coast of Bell island there were a surprising number of people down by the shore, all moving silently.  Why do people become quiet when the air is quiet?   A mother and daughter watched solemnly from the end of Junior’s wharf and on Peter’s stage four or five dim figures moved, bringing in the gear from a day on the water.

“Some fog. Yup, some fog.”, a quiet greeting.  Surely I could cover the short distance across Baker’s gut now, even if no sign of the opposite shore was visible.  Just point the compass and stick with it.

“Aren’t you afraid to be out in this fog?” A faint voice from one of the dim figures on the wharf.

“Oh, no, I’ve got my compass.”  And, to myself, I just wish I’d practiced with it in daylight and sunlight, ... and with this canoe.  I’m not much more experienced with a canoe than I am with a compass, I thought ruefully.

More sloughing, getting louder now and closer, and the swells beginning to ascend and descend like heavy breathing.  Something menacing loomed... mustn’t get too close... a bigger rock.  But what rock is this?  More slight surf against a dim outline, hardly a shape but perhaps a shape in the mist, darkening: Middle Island?   Doesn’t look like Middle Island. Round? Sanddollar? Cabbage.  Yes, Cabbage.

Whatever it is, I’m going to land on it, I thought.  Better to spend the night here than to drift out to sea.  I could be lost forever. Fortunately no one is expecting me in either place so they won’t be looking for me, endangering themselves.  I’ll just bunk down - it isn’t cold - and wait until morning.  Or perhaps the fog will clear a little and the moon will come out. 

There, I’m sure this is the inner side of Cabbage.  I’ll just paddle around the point and land on the beach to be sure.  From there I might even be able to get across to Middle.

No beach. Rocks.  Not a coast particularly sympathetic to landing.   Hard slices of rock, then a point, perhaps unwise to get too close, but I’m not leaving this definite place for that gray blur.  I’m landing.  There, it’s calmer on this side, and the breeze, what there is of it, is warmer, and it has a land smell.  Hey, sand. Why this looks like, this is, Johnson’s Point!

So I spent three hours on Johnson’s Point.  I tried to make a nest in the damp sand to sleep.  The bugs weren’t horrible, but they weren’t good.  A few sand crabs.  Got up to check my watch but couldn’t read it. Debated whether to try again and decided not.   Ran up and down the beach and hunted for a flat rock where I could do some clogging to get my feet warm.  Tried burying my very wet feet in the sand to keep in the warmth so generated. Thought, at least I’m safe.  And no one’s worrying about me.

Tried the watch again. 10:30.  I can read it! Perhaps I can see those trees a few yards away a little better.  Maybe the fog is clearing.  I’ll sleep a little more and try again.  Not much sleep with the occasional mosquito but when the attack of no see'ums began, biting even through my clothes, I thought, time to try again. 11:45.  Yes, I convinced herself, without my glasses - they misted over so quickly – I can read the compass now.  Home.  Warm bed.  Surely all I have to do is bear due east  and never let it deviate.  But a touch of doubt hovered; how had I managed to get so far off course?

I went due east, compass firmly clasped between my knees again, resolutely looking only at that faint, barely discernable E.  Tried never to take my eyes off it, and to keep the sloughing on my left.  Surely on this course I’ll bump into Middle.  Goodbye sight of Johnson’s Point. Just keep dipping the paddle in the silent fog. Deep sloughing now to the right, a long low ominous sounding reef.  What looks like that?  Mackerel Point? No. Outer Island Reef.  Good grief, so far out?  This is no joke. Switch the compass to north and head for in.  Anywhere in.

I swung around, leaving the Outer island Reef behind, and though I could barely make out the shadow shaped mass of land, just one shade of gray darker than the sea and the sky, close enough it seemed to touch, and yet unknowable, I paddled cautiously from point to point, never letting the shadow out of sight, and finally came to the dear, familiar coast of Middle island.  Only then did I relax enough to notice that there was phosphorescence in the water, creating sparkles with each stroke of the paddle. The sky was lightening.  I saw a faint round glimmer in the haze; the moon trying to come to the rescue?

In the morning the children were surprised to see me, “Oh, we thought you were spending the night on Bell.”
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La Have Islands, 1984