ÒLost in a FogÓ
By
Julia Maine
Greely High School – Cumberland Center
The Bates Island race is the best race of the
year. We sail out to Bates, have a
picnic on the rocks, and sail back.
My first year brought screaming winds and frightening swells. It was awesome. I could only hope for similarly
exciting conditions this year.
Anna couldnÕt come this time because she had to work, but Abby and I
woke up early to make sure we didnÕt miss it. The sun was warm and bright when we left my house at nine
oÕclock. Its warm rays seemed to smile
down at us, encouraging us to hurry.
We
sped down the dusty road on our bikes without noticing the change in atmosphere
as we neared the boat yard. The
air became thicker, wetter. Our
visibility diminished. Mist clung
to our skin and hair as we made the turn onto John Small Road. It wasnÕt until we coasted past the
BirkettsÕ house and reached the top of the road to the boat yard that we
noticed it: fog. It hung in
patches. We were encased in a
pocket of sunshine, our foreheads glistening with perspiration. From our vantage point, we had a full
view of the cove and could see that it was plagued with lesions of disgusting
gray mist. Crow Island lolled quaintly
in the warm rays of the sun, but just behind it, Bangs Island donned an eerie
mask.
ÒCrap.Ó AbbyÕs terse statement hung in the air
like a slap.
As
we headed down the road our bikes careened over rocks, dirt, and debris left by
fishermen and boaters until our tires met the welcoming sand of the beach and
halted to a stop. Everyone else
was already there.
ÒWhatÕs
going on,Ó Abby asked Taryn. ÒAre
we going out?Ó
ÒDunno. WeÕre waiting for Bob.Ó Bob—president of the Yacht Club,
commander in chief of the Chebeague Island Community Sailing School—he
had the final say as to whether we would put out to sea. We lathered sunscreen on each other and
devoured an entire bag of Goldfish before we heard the familiar footsteps of
Bob hurrying down the wooded path from his house. He emerged from the wilderness accompanied by Nancy, Scott,
Jay, and Toby.
ÒAre
we still on?Ó It was Taryn who
asked the pressing question that was on everyoneÕs mind.
ÒWe
canÕt decide. It seems as if itÕs
going to blow off, but we canÕt be sure,Ó Bob said. He seemed stressed.
We all knew he didnÕt want to cancel, but he didnÕt want to be
irresponsible either. Good olÕ
Bob, always careful. He
decided to go ask Paul, who ran the boat yard, what the fog was supposed to
do. A few minutes later he
returned with a big grin. The race
was still on.
It
didnÕt take long to get the sail boats rigged and off to sea. There was a great array of small boats;
Bob was on his 32-foot Ensign, Ripple, and the older boys—Scott, Jay, and
Toby—had commandeered a powerboat.
I was in the Foxy, a sixteen-foot JY, with Taryn and Stuart. The Foxy is by far the best small boat
there is. It is the fastest, and
heels the most so you cut through the water like a bullet. ThereÕs also a trapeze to keep us
aboard on windy days. I would love
to say that the Foxy looked magnificent that day, but that is a hilarious
overstatement. The Chebeague
Sailing School fleet consists of six small boats, two 420Õs and four JYÕs; they
all look exactly the same. It
seems at first that all these boats, because they look the same, are
equivalent, but each sails quite differently. Their personality isnÕt in their appearance, itÕs in the way
they glide through the water, or how they tack. The Foxy is an extremely difficult boat to handle, but itÕs
a lot of fun. The Foxy is that
friend you have who drives you crazy, but you love to be around. The other boats are fine, in fact
theyÕre great, but the Foxy has the most personality, the most spunk.
But
I digress, so back to the story it is.
It was obvious when we reached Bangs that the fog had not blown
over. It hung like a large,
looming brick wall between Bangs and Stockman Islands. We were now enveloped in the dank
mist. It clung to us, making the
boat slick so we couldnÕt get a good hold on anything. Emma, Abby, and Alice were in another
boat nearby. We could hear their
pirate songs, accompanied by the ding, ding, ding of loose mooring balls. The effect was chilling. It wasnÕt long before we lost our
sailing counterparts to the fog.
It was odd, we could hear everybody, but we couldnÕt see them. After awhile the girlsÕ voices drifted
away and the chug, chug of the powerboats faded into the distance. We were completely and totally alone.
Stuart
assured us, with a flip of his red hair, that all was well, he was a Boy Scout,
but Taryn and I were not so confident.
I could sense TarynÕs tension as she ran her fingers through her blond
curls, setting her sunglasses askew.
Despite her anxiety, I felt quite comfortable. Sailing is relaxing in itself, but sailing in the fog is
something else entirely. Of course
IÕve been out on the water in the fog before, but always with radar. This was a new experience. Being totally surrounded in fog is like
being cut off from everything. You
are the only people in the world; itÕs empowering. The soft hush of the hull sliding through the water was as
loud as a jet engine. Our voices
carried for miles, but did not echo.
I loved it. It was so
exiting, refreshing, at least until we got lost.
Taryn
had been keeping track of all the landmasses we passed, locating them on the
chart, and determining where we were and where we needed to go. Stuart and I tried to figure out his
compass, and though by all appearances it was a simple instrument, using it was
deceptively difficult. Taryn was
confident we were on the right track and everything was going relatively well,
except for the whole fog thing, untilÉ
ÒWhatÕs
that?Ó Taryn asked, an alarming
question when asked at sea. Stuart
and I tried to follow her line of vision.
ÒThe
green can?Ó He was referring to
the green marker buoy that was bobbing up ahead. ÒThatÕs on the chart.Ó Stuart brought the battered chart to his face. The can was certainly on the chart, but
if we were near it then we were about 300 yards off course. ÒWhoa, thatÕs not good.Ó I took the chart and compass from
Stuart. We were certainly near the
can, which confirmed that we were off course, but the compass disagreed, it
seemed to think we were going in the right direction.
ÒUh,
Taryn weÕre headed straight for Bates, like were supposed to be. ItÕs the can thatÕs in the wrong
place.Ó
She
examined the chart, discarded it on deck and told us to keep an eye on the
compass. We did. About twenty minutes later we saw some
breakers up ahead. They seemed to
be crashing onto something. Was it
Bates? No it was a ledge of
uncharted rocks that lay lurking beneath the surface waiting to gouge out our
hull. I closed my eyes and waited
for a deafening crack, but I had forgotten that Taryn was very skilled skipper
and she dodged them with ease. My
heart still fluttered, but I was relieved.
ÒWeÕd
better find Bates before we crash into something else.Ó Taryn studied the chart,
perplexed. She no longer trusted
it. Before we could fret over
being truly lost in the fog, or facing the Rock Ness monster, a huge dark
shadow appeared in the distance, an island with a single, tiny house on it. Taryn sighed with relief. She was convinced it was Bates, but
Stuart and I were not so sure.
ÒNo
guys, this is it. I know Bates
when I see it. ItÕs got the little
house on it, see?Ó We did see, yet
we still consulted the chart and compass a few more times before finding
ourselves convinced. Finally, we
had made it. The journey was not
very long, but it was treacherous.
We may not have been faced with life or death, but each of us gained
some insight from the experience.
We had been young and alone at sea; all we had to keep us afloat were
our wits. I was unnerved by the
experience, but I had enjoyed it.
I leaned my head back, dipping my ponytail into the water; I smiled,
catching a song on the wind.