"The fog comes in on little cat feet.
It sits looking over harbour and city on silent haunches and then moves on.
" Those lines, from a poem by Carl Sandburg, make fog sound all warm and fuzzy, don't they? Fog is certainly fuzzy, but it is definitely NOT warm.
And it can be downright dangerous.
I grew up on the west coast, the daughter, granddaughter and niece of US Navy men, where fog is a regular event.
The sound of foghorns in San Diego Bay said "home" to me.
Fast forward a couple decades, and I was once again living on a bay - literally.
I was living on my Westsail 32, SineWave, in a marina on Gravesend Bay, outside the Verrazano Narrows in Brooklyn.
It was June, and I was moving my boat up to a work yard on Long Island Sound to get some work done on her.
I planned my trip with full attention paid to the tides, and the current charts for the East River, which I'd be traveling for the first time in my own boat.
Based on my calculations, my best time for departure would be at 0530 hrs.
Yes, that's 5:30am, or as I sometimes refer to it "Oh Dark Thirty".
The appointed time arrived.
I was on deck, starting the engine, and getting ready to drop the docklines.
Did I mention I was doing this alone? Did I mention the farewell party the night before, where my fellow live-aboards plied me with waaaay too much rum? Clutching a badly needed cup of coffee, I backed out of my slip and headed for the bay.
Sunrise that day was to occur at 5:24am, it was now 5:45am.
I was in Gravesend Bay, and my foggy head was starting to clear.
The fog was NOT, however, lifting before my eyes!I had gotten about 100 yards, a mere football field, from the exit of the marina.
I turned my head aft, and could see maybe 10 feet beyond the stern.
I could barely see forward past the mast.
I was awake now! I looked around the cockpit in a panic.
I realized I needed to prepare for the worst - which was that I was going to be lashed to the tiller for several hours.
I dove below, grabbed the air horn, and dived back on deck.
I grabbed a bucket out of the lazaret.
Well, I wasn't going to be able to go below to use the head.
Clutching the chart, I calculated that on my current heading, I should be going under the Verrazano Bridge toward the eastern side of the channel, which was critical.
The WESTERN side of the channel under the bridge is where the monster container ships traveled on their way to Port Elizabeth.
And we ARE talking monsters here - some of these babies are over 600 feet.
It takes them over two miles to stop, and several miles to turn.
If I got in front of one of them, it would be "Sayonara, Casey.
" I kept an eye on the compass and the depth sounder, picking my way toward the bridge.
Using both, I was somewhat confident I would be able to stay out of the way of the Sunoco Star and the Toyota Maru.
After what seemed like a week, but was probably 40 minutes, I heard something over my head.
I looked up, and through the murk I could make out a gray mass.
The sound was CARS! I was under the Verrazano Bridge! HALLELUJAH! Then, I heard..
..
MWAAAAAAH This was the loudest fog horn I had EVER heard.
This fog horn was sounding right over my head.
I slammed the tiller to port, gunned the diesel, and SineWave spun to starboard.
I was literally running under the bridge, away from the SS whateveritwas and toward the Brooklyn shore.
I was glad I had that bucket in the cockpit.
A minute or two later, I saw the eastern bridge support stanchion dead ahead.
I swung the tiller starboard, and spun the 'Wave back on course for New York harbor.
The fog was lifting past the bridge, and my heart rate was coming back down into double digits.
As the fog lifted, I saw a container ship off to port, the one that had been under the bridge with me.
Based on our relative positions and current headings, I estimated he'd been about 200 yards off my port beam when the horn-from-hell had sounded and sent me scrambling.
I took a deep breath, and looked ahead.
Looked pretty clear, could see the NY skyline.
The trip up the EastRiver past Manhattan was uneventful.
HellGate, which had been my biggest worry before the trip, was on its best behavior and only tried to grab the tiller from me twice.
I went under the Triboro Bridge, passed lovely downtown Riker's Island, and approached the Whitestone Bridge.
And another wall of fog.
By the time I made it under the Throg's Neck Bridge, the fog was thicker than it had been off Brooklyn.
And even though I knew these waters like the back of my hand, I couldn't see that, either.
I steered a course from eastern support of the Throg's Neck that would, with any luck, put the red nun off NY Maritime College on my bow in about 10 minutes.
I counted off the minutes.
Nine.
Ten.
Eleven.
Still no red buoy.
Twelve minutes.
Just off the port beam, almost invisible, I saw it! Now the tricky part.
I had to take a course with that buoy on my stern.
I got up to the marker, circled it, put it on my stern, and steered dead east, 090 magnetic.
If I'd positioned myself correctly, I'd thread the needle between Stepping Stones light and Big Tom, and be heading strait for Execution Rock light.
If I was wrong, I'd be aground on some particularly nasty rocks.
I was right.
Took me almost an hour to know it, during which I did a lot of praying.
Once I found Execution Rock, I only had one more needle to thread - the channel into Glen Island, my final destination, which was surrounded by some more particularly nasty rocks.
I put Ex Rock on my stern, and steered for the first channel marker, which was about 3 miles away.
At five knots, I had about 35 minutes of sweating to do.
And since fog is NOT warm, this was definitely a cold sweat.
Then, there it was.
Wow, I can see all of them! Even the one that's right next to that really really nasty rock! I picked my way down the channel, sounded my horn to ask that the bridge be opened, and putted in to the dock at Glen Island Yacht Club.
One of the guys was on the dock to catch my lines, and I tied up, turned off my engine, and sat down hard in the cockpit.
It was 1230 hrs, I'd been underway for almost seven hours.
I'd managed a single handed passage for the first time, on a boat I'd owned for all of two months.
And with nothing but a chart, a compass, and my own skills, I'd made it.
I put my hand out to pat the compass.
I stopped cold.
The compass that had been my single guiding light in this entire ordeal was cracked from side to side, and the indicator card had fallen off its swivel.
That's when I knew I'd not been alone on my voyage.
All the seagoing men in my history had seen to it that I made it safely to port.
And they then broke my compass to make sure I never again left port without LISTENING TO THE WEATHER REPORT! In my early morning hangover fog, I had completed my entire checklist, with that one exception.
It was a mistake I'll never make again.
And it's been a continuing reminder to always prepare fully for whatever I'm undertaking.
Because being lost in the fog, literally or figuratively, can be deadly.
It sits looking over harbour and city on silent haunches and then moves on.
" Those lines, from a poem by Carl Sandburg, make fog sound all warm and fuzzy, don't they? Fog is certainly fuzzy, but it is definitely NOT warm.
And it can be downright dangerous.
I grew up on the west coast, the daughter, granddaughter and niece of US Navy men, where fog is a regular event.
The sound of foghorns in San Diego Bay said "home" to me.
Fast forward a couple decades, and I was once again living on a bay - literally.
I was living on my Westsail 32, SineWave, in a marina on Gravesend Bay, outside the Verrazano Narrows in Brooklyn.
It was June, and I was moving my boat up to a work yard on Long Island Sound to get some work done on her.
I planned my trip with full attention paid to the tides, and the current charts for the East River, which I'd be traveling for the first time in my own boat.
Based on my calculations, my best time for departure would be at 0530 hrs.
Yes, that's 5:30am, or as I sometimes refer to it "Oh Dark Thirty".
The appointed time arrived.
I was on deck, starting the engine, and getting ready to drop the docklines.
Did I mention I was doing this alone? Did I mention the farewell party the night before, where my fellow live-aboards plied me with waaaay too much rum? Clutching a badly needed cup of coffee, I backed out of my slip and headed for the bay.
Sunrise that day was to occur at 5:24am, it was now 5:45am.
I was in Gravesend Bay, and my foggy head was starting to clear.
The fog was NOT, however, lifting before my eyes!I had gotten about 100 yards, a mere football field, from the exit of the marina.
I turned my head aft, and could see maybe 10 feet beyond the stern.
I could barely see forward past the mast.
I was awake now! I looked around the cockpit in a panic.
I realized I needed to prepare for the worst - which was that I was going to be lashed to the tiller for several hours.
I dove below, grabbed the air horn, and dived back on deck.
I grabbed a bucket out of the lazaret.
Well, I wasn't going to be able to go below to use the head.
Clutching the chart, I calculated that on my current heading, I should be going under the Verrazano Bridge toward the eastern side of the channel, which was critical.
The WESTERN side of the channel under the bridge is where the monster container ships traveled on their way to Port Elizabeth.
And we ARE talking monsters here - some of these babies are over 600 feet.
It takes them over two miles to stop, and several miles to turn.
If I got in front of one of them, it would be "Sayonara, Casey.
" I kept an eye on the compass and the depth sounder, picking my way toward the bridge.
Using both, I was somewhat confident I would be able to stay out of the way of the Sunoco Star and the Toyota Maru.
After what seemed like a week, but was probably 40 minutes, I heard something over my head.
I looked up, and through the murk I could make out a gray mass.
The sound was CARS! I was under the Verrazano Bridge! HALLELUJAH! Then, I heard..
..
MWAAAAAAH This was the loudest fog horn I had EVER heard.
This fog horn was sounding right over my head.
I slammed the tiller to port, gunned the diesel, and SineWave spun to starboard.
I was literally running under the bridge, away from the SS whateveritwas and toward the Brooklyn shore.
I was glad I had that bucket in the cockpit.
A minute or two later, I saw the eastern bridge support stanchion dead ahead.
I swung the tiller starboard, and spun the 'Wave back on course for New York harbor.
The fog was lifting past the bridge, and my heart rate was coming back down into double digits.
As the fog lifted, I saw a container ship off to port, the one that had been under the bridge with me.
Based on our relative positions and current headings, I estimated he'd been about 200 yards off my port beam when the horn-from-hell had sounded and sent me scrambling.
I took a deep breath, and looked ahead.
Looked pretty clear, could see the NY skyline.
The trip up the EastRiver past Manhattan was uneventful.
HellGate, which had been my biggest worry before the trip, was on its best behavior and only tried to grab the tiller from me twice.
I went under the Triboro Bridge, passed lovely downtown Riker's Island, and approached the Whitestone Bridge.
And another wall of fog.
By the time I made it under the Throg's Neck Bridge, the fog was thicker than it had been off Brooklyn.
And even though I knew these waters like the back of my hand, I couldn't see that, either.
I steered a course from eastern support of the Throg's Neck that would, with any luck, put the red nun off NY Maritime College on my bow in about 10 minutes.
I counted off the minutes.
Nine.
Ten.
Eleven.
Still no red buoy.
Twelve minutes.
Just off the port beam, almost invisible, I saw it! Now the tricky part.
I had to take a course with that buoy on my stern.
I got up to the marker, circled it, put it on my stern, and steered dead east, 090 magnetic.
If I'd positioned myself correctly, I'd thread the needle between Stepping Stones light and Big Tom, and be heading strait for Execution Rock light.
If I was wrong, I'd be aground on some particularly nasty rocks.
I was right.
Took me almost an hour to know it, during which I did a lot of praying.
Once I found Execution Rock, I only had one more needle to thread - the channel into Glen Island, my final destination, which was surrounded by some more particularly nasty rocks.
I put Ex Rock on my stern, and steered for the first channel marker, which was about 3 miles away.
At five knots, I had about 35 minutes of sweating to do.
And since fog is NOT warm, this was definitely a cold sweat.
Then, there it was.
Wow, I can see all of them! Even the one that's right next to that really really nasty rock! I picked my way down the channel, sounded my horn to ask that the bridge be opened, and putted in to the dock at Glen Island Yacht Club.
One of the guys was on the dock to catch my lines, and I tied up, turned off my engine, and sat down hard in the cockpit.
It was 1230 hrs, I'd been underway for almost seven hours.
I'd managed a single handed passage for the first time, on a boat I'd owned for all of two months.
And with nothing but a chart, a compass, and my own skills, I'd made it.
I put my hand out to pat the compass.
I stopped cold.
The compass that had been my single guiding light in this entire ordeal was cracked from side to side, and the indicator card had fallen off its swivel.
That's when I knew I'd not been alone on my voyage.
All the seagoing men in my history had seen to it that I made it safely to port.
And they then broke my compass to make sure I never again left port without LISTENING TO THE WEATHER REPORT! In my early morning hangover fog, I had completed my entire checklist, with that one exception.
It was a mistake I'll never make again.
And it's been a continuing reminder to always prepare fully for whatever I'm undertaking.
Because being lost in the fog, literally or figuratively, can be deadly.
Source...