Back when Jimmy Carter was president, I joined a sailing club on Boston Harbor to soak up some of the riches I was accumulating as a bartender. After taking some advanced sailing and navigation classes, the day finally came for my check sail. The club fleet included a gaggle of 26-foot, three-person, open keelboats called Solings, which were sailed in the Olympics until 2000. They are pure sailing machines with no engines or electronics.

The early summer day dawned sunny and warm—perfect for showing my instructor what I had to offer. As we sailed out down the main channel toward the rocky Boston Harbor islands for what I assumed would be an easy bit of buoy hopping and channel surfing, a dirty smudge appeared on the horizon. Anyone who’s sailed in New England, or any other cold-water locale, knows what that means: fog.

By the time we got to Castle Island at the threshold of the Inner Harbor, the fog bank had overtaken us. I could barely make out the pointy end of the boat, much less the numerous hazards lurking all around us. Suddenly it was me, a paper chart with hand tools, a watch and a compass. With my eyes rendered useless beyond the gunwales, I had to revert to my backup sensors: ears, nose, skin and sailing skills. My instructor must have trusted me because he hardly opened his mouth.

Using what I’d learned in the classroom, mixed with a splash of guts and dash of luck, I managed to tack and jibe my way around all manner of trouble, hopping from buoy to buoy, identifying bells and gongs and whistles on my sodden chart. When we sailed out of the fog bank and back into the sunshine and relative safety of the Inner Harbor, I thought I was the biggest badass in Massachusetts. My mostly mute instructor flashed a thumbs-up and said, “Pass.”

Fast forward to the late ’90s. I was in Maine on a lovely Hinckley Sou’wester, steering up a narrow, twisty channel through a salt marsh under power in foggy darkness. I neglected to mention to the owner when I took the helm that I’d never driven a boat with nothing but an electronic display to guide me. I was honestly surprised that the boat, represented by a moving shape on the screen, went right where I told it to go, and stayed between the cans. I was grateful when the owner took the wheel for the landing, but I left him thinking I was a pro.

When I went to the airport the next morning, my flight was canceled because of the lingering fog. I noticed America’s Cup icon Dennis Conner, who’d been skippering a boat in a regatta the day before, and whom I knew casually, in the same predicament. We ended up renting a car together and driving down to Portland to catch a fogless flight back to New York. We shared stories—mostly his—for hours. He’s a great storyteller, and I enjoyed every minute. Credit the relative humidity.

I’ve been in fog many times on the water and ashore, and I must say, it’s one of my favorite atmospheric conditions. It’s rich, it’s moody and it’s disruptive. Working around it can present challenges, but in every challenge lives the potential for enrichment of mind, body and soul, right?

Thumbs up. “Pass.” 

This article was originally published in the Winter 2022 issue.