When I was a child I read a poem about fog, and how it came on little cat feet. Nowhere is that more appropriate than in the middle of the ocean.
The fog simply comes down and engulfs you, muffling the ship – muffling your entire world – in this eerie white silence. The world washes out, like a modern painting “white on white”. You can see the horizon to one side of you, denoted by a slightly darker line separating it from the sky, but nothing in front. And if the fog gets thick enough, you can’t even see that. The ship’s horn is a voice in the whiteness, warning all and sundry that yes, there is still something large and moving – though not breathing in the typical sense – in this misted snow-like blanket.
When the fog gets thick enough – like it used to when I was in Glacier Bay last year – you can see only a few feet away from the edge of the ship, and it feels like you’re not moving at all. You feel like you’re suspended in this strange motionless bubble, floating in space.
No sound, except the whirr of the engines, and the padding of little cat feet…