Vignette 4: Fog

Four—Fog



A cold, damp misty morning has an air of mystery and foreboding. It threatens to shrink a man’s very soul and leave him a breathless empty shell. The waterfront, a beehive of industry all day, is the most desolate on such a morning.

The fog rolls in from the sea in that half-dawn world between night and day. Silently it swirls about the masts of the ships at their moorings. They stretch their hawsers until they creak like an ancient rocking chair on a pine wide-board floor in protest against associating with this evil apparition.

The fog continues to envelop the ship at the wharf, not a might dismayed. It reaches clammy fingers about the face and neck of the mate who stands watch on her bridge. He pulls his knitted cap down over his ears, rolls up his thick collar, shivers, and disappears inside the wheelhouse.

Silently and stealthily, the fog encompasses the wharf, blurring the outline of warehouse and elevator. Clammily it oozes between the buildings, sucking the life from all that stand in its way: donkey engines, trucks, and loaders that have been resting for the night, now lifeless deserted carcasses strewn about the wet slippery wharf in confused disorder.

Silently, the fog rolls on, but not in silence. A foghorn moans even as the murky substance clutches at it. Bell buoys peal notes of the impending doom which lies beneath them. Canvas flaps dully in time with the swell on hatches not made secure with battens. Dinghies, set in motion by the rising tide, bump tiredly against the pilings; their oarlocks rattle cheerlessly. Two snarling tom cats fight noisily and unseen undaunted by the damp cold shroud.

The ship’s cook, concealed by the fog, swings out of his galley. Pots and pans clang a discordant note against the side of the ship as he empties his refuse and mistakes into the harbor.