The Fog
A snapshot from my childhood
Goosebumps.
My little arms were covered in them.
It was July, the hottest time of the year, but the temperature had just dropped.
I began to shiver as the cool salty ocean spray clung to my skin. Water splashed over the bow of the boat, dampening the deck where I sat. A haze was beginning to set in. Behind it hid the warm, drying sun.
I looked to my older brother sitting cross-legged beside me. He stared off into the distance, unfazed by the cold.
I stood up and headed back toward the cockpit where my mom sat. Her hand was on the boat’s tiller, steering us toward land after a long day of sailing.
Ducking into the cabin, I dug through my bag for my favorite sweater and a dry towel to sit on.
My dad was hunched over the small cabin table beside me, examining a nautical chart. He looked at his chart, then over to his compass, then back to the chart.
Picking up his divider, a small metal device that looked an awful lot like a handheld nutcracker with pointy ends, he began inching it over a section of the worn paper.
My dad had many of these charts, and they mostly looked the same to me — various shades of blue with squiggly lines. But I loved the peace and…
