Shrouded

This morning we got up early and went down to Stonington to try out a newly opened restaurant that serves breakfast. Fog was thick as we drove close to the water's edge. By the time we reached our destination we could barely see to the end of the inner harbor. The ghostly white veils settled in tightly, keeping all but the heartiest of fishermen at their moorings. Most washed their boats, or made those repairs they were meaning to get to, or filled bait bags for better weather. Those who did venture out were quickly swallowed by the unknown leaving me feeling uneasy for the wives of those men who go to sea in all weather conditions.

It made me wonder how, in the age of sail–without engines or radar–sailors managed the treacherous shoals and shallows to come home again.



After breakfast, we drove to an overlook to watch the scene unfold. There were harbor seals bobbing up around the boats, and crows vying for pecking rights on the bait boxes just in case a fisherman got careless and slopped some of the putrid fish over the sides. All the while, the fog rose and fell, much like a living entity, allowing us to see the village for a brief moment, then swallowing it up once again, leaving us to feel entombed.

Life along the coast is slower and the people who ply their trade from the waters are very in-tune with the earth and her fickle weather, much like farmers. And there's a certain charm and romantic vision one gets when visiting. Living it is a whole different story, and it's not always a pleasant one.

But for the visitors, the comments are always priceless and worthy of a spot here. Such as the woman from Connecticut who said how meticulous the fishermen were for parking their boats facing all in the same direction... Or perhaps the one where a couple from nowhere near the ocean commented on our drought not knowing our low tide is 13 feet from high tide...