The Fog

A dense fog drifted along the dark streets, tendrils probing among the houses of my neighborhood, accompanied by the mood music of the fog horn.  It’s that time of year again in San Diego.  I’m reminded of the Stephen King short story entitled, “Strawberry Spring”, even though it’s the wrong time of year.

I’m also reminded of another story about Maine…

A New Yorker accustomed to early morning walks at home continued the habit during his vacation in Rockport.  He was especially impressed by the determined lobstermen, heading out into the impenetrable fog that rolled in every day before dawn.

He’d noticed that none of the lobster boats seemed to have radar, so one morning, he asked one of the lobstermen how they managed to navigate the rocky, irregular coast with no radar and no visibility.

“Potatoes,” said the lobsterman, as he shoved off and disappeared into the swirling mist.

As you might have guessed, the New Yorker was thoroughly confused by this characteristically brief response, and he returned to the dock the next morning, hoping to talk the lobsterman into elaborating, even if only a little bit.

“Sir,” he asked, “how can you navigate the foggy coast with a potato?”

“Not a potato, Mister,” said the lobsterman.  “I said ‘potatoes’.  See this sack down heyuh by muh feet?”

The New Yorker nodded.

“Well, every few seconds, I reach down and grab me one them theyuh potatoes, ‘n I chuck it out ahead o’ m’boat.”

Feeling he’d been had, the New Yorker sputtered, “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard!  Throwing a potato can help you navigate?”

“Ayuh,” said the lobsterman.  “If I don’t hear a splash, I stop.”