Stillness. Silence. The anchor light glows against greyness.
Under the tent everything was dry. I was warm in my sleeping bag.
Outside the tent dampness everywhere. A thick layer of moisture
coats the boom tent and sail covers. The fog softens everything,
including the few cries of birds in the marsh.
I cannot see the shore. Under power, idle speed. Stands
of trees appear and disappear port and starboard.
We slide by crab pot floats, the only color in the otherwise
grey mist and water. I find my way gps.
Tiny drops of moisture cling to the spider webs that cover the dock.
I brush them away and grab the wood piling at 6:20.
We've had everything from high wind to cold rain,
thunderstorms and a searing sun. Gentle breezes
and calm waters. Why not a little fog to end the trip.