Up above us, in the watchtower, at intervals, a white-clad arm signaled for warning blasts to sound our passage through the harbor islands. Although we could see clearly from one end of the deck to another, visibility appeared to end within ten feet of the boat. Wonder mingled sharply with alarm as we stared not out at—but simply at, that white, unbending wall of fog. All at once we passed a lobster boat, very close below, where men in yellow suits steadied for our wake, waving briefly with one hand—we all waved back. Then they were gone, but the fog was spotted where they'd been, as if their hands had torn it. The spots spread gradually, growing bigger, darker, as if they were materializing into something. It was frightening to wonder what. Suddenly it became a piece of brown land, coming closer, clearer—still distant, then gone. Someone said the fog was lifting, and someone else said this was the most dangerous time for burns, when you can't see the sun, because the rays that burn get through cloud. I looked down at my forearm, and saw countless points of water collected on the hairs, like pollen on a bee's leg.

back / next

home