The fog blanketed the low tide over the entire entrance to the cove. It brought to mind the heavy fog along the coast of Wales during many of my fishing expeditions there over the years. Only a few hearty lobster men had ventured out at dawn this morning before the tide turned to empty out to the sea. Much like seamen of the past, these men don their heavy hip boots bundled up under their rain jackets to collect the various traps along the Kennebunkport shoreline.
The foghorn sounds ever so faintly like a solo flute in the back recesses of a symphony orchestra. The unmanned lighthouse at Gates Island is barely visible in the fog. The usual runners, bikers and visitors are absent this morning. The fishermen’s designated parking spaces are only half full. I walk over to the office of the Harbormaster to visit and walk the empty dock. He is friendly but quiet, reflecting the fog calmness in the air. Not the usual dock bustle of activity with the comings and goings of fishing boats loading up and unloading their traps. Some of the fishermen are congregated on the dock discussing amongst themselves whether they should venture out into the fog. Most return to their trucks and perhaps head to the VFW for morning coffee.
I gather myself to step over the rocks to sit at my favorite bench overlooking the harbor. Intent on reading today’s New York Times, I seat myself on the wet bench. My paper is already damp from the moisture in the air. I handle each page delicately to avoid getting the wet ink on my fingers. The news does little to uplift. The fog feels like it is encasing me. I can hardly read the print on my damp paper. The time at the harbor this morning is still invigorating. I never feel despair watching over the seagulls and the tide moving back and forth over the course of the day. A never-ending mass of water driven by the moon to settle and resettle over shores throughout the world.