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We nosed into the channel and cautiously made our way toward the Intracoastal Waterway. The fog clamped down. I stood on the bow and peered into the deepening gloom. Once I picked up a marker I shouted steering instructions and we crawled from one marker to the next. Of course we didn’t have radar—this was Florida, and I remembered once telling Ed that his money was better spent on a bimini top to keep the relentless sun at bay than on an expensive radar unit.
After an hour of creeping along, we’d managed two miles or about half the distance to the bridge. Although the water outside the channel was very shallow, our fear of running aground had been replaced by the terror of being impaled by a marauding powerboat. Mind you, when it comes to speculating on the IQs of powerboaters, I am more charitable than most sailors: I think a few of them need three digits. Or at least I did before this recent fog-shrouded Saturday morning. I was incredulous as one boat after another charged past us. More than once a boat had to veer sharply when suddenly encountering our slow moving stern. The skippers would throw the wheel hard over and look annoyed as they disappeared into the scud. My ever-increasing blasts on the air horn were useless; these morons couldn’t hear a bomb blast over the din of their twin 200-hp outboard engines.
 Under foggy conditions, the relationship between powerboaters and sailors can deteriorate very quickly, as the author learned firsthand. | |
The fog refused to yield and we finally decided to drop the hook. Working our way as far out of the channel as we dared, we hid behind a marker and hoped that it would take the first impact should a small boat skid our way. A few hours later there was a sudden break in the fog. I hauled up the anchor and Ed fired the engine and we hurried toward the bridge. Once through the narrow span we shaped a course to clear the shoals south of Sanibel—then at last we’d be in blissful open water.
Unfortunately the fog soon returned; indeed, it was thicker than ever. We were gliding slowly south, under sail, which I hoped would help us hear the fog signals of other vessels without the rumble of our own engine. After a near collision with a drift fishing day boat I realized that adherence to the COLREGs was second to disturbing the fish or the paying customers with occasional toots on the horn. The NOAA forecast hinted that fog was imbedded all along the coast and was only vague about when it might possibly lift.
At this point I did something I rarely do on a boat, I acted sensibly. “Why,” I asked Ed, “are we doing this?” He looked at me, surprised. “What do you mean?” Ed has accompanied me on many deliveries over the years. “We don’t have to sail to Marathon and deal with this stress all night,” I said. “ We could sail back to the dock, you can cook a great dinner, we can visit that special bottle of Scotch and just relax.” Now he looked at me with concern. “Are you feeling OK?” “Yes, I’m fine really. Listen Ed, we can press on for Marathon, that’s fine, but we don’t have to; it’s OK with me, that’s all I am saying.” Suddenly we both broke out laughing. “To heck with the fog.”
 Radar is the instrument of choice when piloting in the fog. So if you sail in areas frequently haunted by this nebulous matter, consider having such equipment on board. | |
We made sure the anchor was well set and then poured a round of Oban. Ed, who loves to cook, began brewing up my favorite of his many superb dishes, Fifteen-Bean Soup. With the soup cooking below and filling the cockpit with a delicious aroma ,we nursed our drinks in the Catalina’s comfortable cockpit. We were feeling pretty smug. We’d outfoxed the fog. Somehow this felt like a sea change for me, but I wasn’t sure if it was good or bad. To prove that we hadn’t lost our moxie, Ed and I began to rehash our many passages. There was the wild encounter with Hurricane Mitch and a miserable delivery of a big cruising catamaran with a gale in the Gulf Stream. There was a delightful passage to Mexico the year before and a hellish delivery to the islands with an overbearing owner. The Scotch was succumbing to our stories, and the fog was even beginning to lift.
 Simply anchoring and waiting for the fog to lift is often the most appropriate course of action. | |
Ed and I couldn’t help ourselves—we’re hopeless romantics. Naturally we compared the approaching sailboat to the noisy, irresponsible powerboats we’d encountered earlier. “Who needs an engine?” Ed demanded—it was a statement not a question. He recalled the purity of sailing his first boat, a salty Sovereign 18, “Now that was sailing.” As the boat neared, we could see a young woman on the bow, clutching the forestay, obviously guiding her companion back at the helm. When they were just 50 yards off, Ed and I stood on the rail and raised our glasses. Before we could offer a toast, the woman’s shrill voice pierced the air: “Hey, do guys know anyplace around here where we can buy some gas?”
Piloting in the Fog
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