ENVELOPED by the sound of a mournful ‘moo cow birthing’ foghorn reverberating through the dank air we sailed away from Halifax, Nova Scotia, into a rippling curtain of fog.
In Nova Scotia’s thicker, wetter, colder kind of fog the litany of shipwreck sagas are palpable along its shoal, rock and island littered coastline. No visibility, tides and currents pulling boats this way and that, no chance of a sun sight to settle dead reckoning positions; no wonder, in times gone by, hulls and souls were destined to disappear.
Certain our course was empty of other vessels and hazards, via the telltale tablet and unfogged radar, we assuredly sailed full pelt into the murkiness, past fog hidden Brig Rock, Sober Island, Tom Fool shoal, The Lump and corroborating waypoint buoys each…