SEA FOG.

New Zealand Times, Volume XXX, Issue 6492, 11 April 1908, Page 11

SEA FOG.

The fog-looms are at work early, and already the first gauzy wob ha? been woven and laid upon the sea. AH the afternoon tho spinners have been preparing; collecting yellow, smoky wisps of cloud from the south-east, carding them, fringing them about the sky, ready lor the distaff. Now, in tbo cool of tho evening, the looms are running fast and easily, and, film by * film, thjo fog is spun and spread. There will be gnashing of teeth in tho London river to-night, and from Swin to Swale will be raised tho voice of lamentation. '• Wh<x?-oop, whoo-00-oop, whoo-ee-cocp! A torpedo boat prowls anxiously along the borders of the Mapliu Sand, whimpering like a lost puppy. She has a boat across tho shoal-waters, and is fretting for its return before the fog grows thicker. Tho peevish whine creates a little flutter among the sailing craft crawling in over the weak ebbtide. It is as if everybody had been watching, anxiously and silently, the trouble that is brewing, and now some one had spoken. For there are choicer thoroughfares than tho Swin, with its ceaseless stream of North Sea traffic, in which to -find one’s self belated and befogged. Chcapside in a London "particular” would b© more preferable, for there is a pavement to step on if a smash occurs, and a policeman with a pocket-book to note the damage done. Whoo-ce-eeop I The stolid barge-skippers run an anxious eye from the misty waters to the BARGEES LANGUISHING AT THE TRUCKS, and set to work to improvise strange sails out of discarded canvas; booming them out to catch the dying breeze. As for the white-sailed yacht, picking her way daintily down river, she whisks about 'ncontincntly, shakes out her _ rustling skirts, and runs for refuge. We stifle a waking desire to follow her example and press on, hugging the edge of the Maplin. The deep waters we resign to the steamers. They are not companionable creatures for small sailing craft at the best of times, and to-night they will bo in. a particularly grumpy mood, for they have had more than their fill of fogs recently. They are overdue, and they are angry. You can read that in tho vicious "champing” of their screws. Therefore w© stand aside on the kerbstone, eo to §pcak, and bob meekly as they churn past us, grey and ghosdy, through tho haze. . . . Bzoom, Bzoom ! go their deep-throated sirens. Whoo-eep, wheep! The torpedo boat is still yapping peevishly a long way astern; and now a sharp "whinging note, not unlike the trumpeting of a mosquito, pipes from the south-east, erases, and pipes again. This is the fog-horn of the Mouse, the lightship with the green, revolving eye, which sits in mid-Swin, between the Oaze and Blacktail Spit, . . • It is to the little notch in the Maplin, behind the Spit buoy, that we arc groping our way blindly; using leadline and boathook shaft for antennae. W(> onward in a level fathom, drifting with the dying ebb, and only keeping steer-age-way on the boat by tugging on tho ©weeps. Bzoom! Some old tramp, with her propeller "’swop-swopping” and

A WEIRD COUGH, ns if the fog hnd got into her bronchitic tubes, comes stumping up stolidly tfcroncrh the smother, draws n*nd plods? on her way. invisible. By the racket of her engines, she seemed to pn.*s quite close to us. and we pause in our stroke to watch for the Ion? curling waves to come slanting in f.om her bows; but the seconds and we are reminded that there is nothing so deceptive as sound and fo?. Toot, toot! A cracked and dismal note hns been sounding at intervale, ever since the bronchitic tramp chanced our way. Other tin trumpets hare taken up the chorus, suphlving n ridiculous treble to the solos of the sirens. Wo arc in only a fathom of water, even a barge would have some difficulty in reaching us, but we are. o’ soiling ship under way. and regulation demands thrjt we -should blow (a tin trumpet too; so we fish our rusty, reedhnrn out of its locker and "toot, tobt with the host. And still the fog-looms run merrily and the gauzy web is woven thicker and thicker, until the dying breeze m stifled at last. A plunge and a. jarring rattle of an anchor cable announce that our fellowwayfarer with the cracked voice has given up in disgust. But we decide to struggle on. We have Bet our hearts on the Blacktail Spit, and so long as the ebb tide serves and the sweeps can give us headway we mean to persevere. THE TALL, SOLITARY BEACON with the triangular cap, which loomed up out of the fog to watch us go by, was the easternmost mark of the Measured Mile, the official sprint track over which the steam craft try their paces. Wc left it behind a good twenty minutes ago, so that unless wc have blundered in our calculations, we should now be abreast the East Shocbury Buoy. We are gliding into deeper water, too, but the skipper makes no sign, and wo go on tugging at the heavy oars. . “There she is/’ murmurs the skipper; for it comes as natural to hush one s voice in a fog at sea as it doses I?) speak in whispers v.-hilo moving about an emptv house at night. . We turn and watch a black conical mas®, shaped like an onormon6.Jishing Coat, .stealing towards us. apparently, swaying uneasily in the tide. This is the East Shocbury at last, and somewhere to the left is one sheltering horn of the lonely little haven we are seeking. The ebb has all but run its course, and we can hear the ripple of the waves on the dried-out sand banks -which are to bo our bulwarks for the night. Something large and mysterious looms up on our port bow, as the eddy swings ns gently round the Spit. It is only a hay barge, drowsing peacefully at anchor, so our haven is not to be so lonely after all. We give her a hail as we glide past her stern. The riding light blinks sleepily, but otherwise 1 there is no response, The bargee must snatch his rest where he can .

The sweeps are shipped, for the eddy has taken charge of us now. The ; ekipper gives a final glance at the

GLIMMERING COMPASS CARD and makes a last past with , the lead. A full fathom and a half is still under our keel, and it is dead low tide.

“Let go." The anchor chain rushes out, checks, clatters, and checks again; and so we swing while we down-sail and stow.

"That’s all right,” -runts the skipper in the same subdued voice. ' “Nothing on earth can hit us here.” He meant "nothing on sea,” no doubt, but the crew is content to let the verdict pass unchallenged. Down below, when the coke stov© has been got going and the frying pan sizzles cheerfully, tongues are loosened, and we talk in ordinary tones. On deck tho riding light keens lonely vigil. Tinkle, tinkle, tink-a-link-a-tangtang! Muffin bells, dinner bells, bells of every sort and tone are tolling dismally on the Swin to-night. Even frying pans make barbarous music under the persuasive touch of a marline spike. Being where we are, with the crescent sand encircling ns. we see the necessity for contributing to the pandemonium. An hour later the skipper lights his pipe and, lifting back the little fo’c’ale natch, puts his head out into the inky darkness. "How goes-it?” asks the cabin-boy. "Not a sound,” replies the skipper. The last restless, craft has com© to anchor; the angry clamour of bells has died away, and the Swin dosses with both ears open. Then sharp through the ruffled stillness sounds the "Whing-whing” of the fog-trumpet of the Mouse. The lightships never sloop.