Sinking in the fog.

What is it about fog that lends itself to: romance; fear; danger; mystery; sadness; and a whole host of other emotions? Personally, I like fog. I like how it quietly transforms whatever it envelops into something new and somewhat other-worldly. It lends itself to the imagination. Sounds change. Landscapes can disappear, reappear, and disappear once again as if attempting to hide themselves and their secrets. It is the stuff of Sherlock Holmes.

One evening while sitting in a St. John’s restaurant situated on top of a hill, I watched the fog slowly climb up that hill as if devouring everything in in its path. It was like watching a city sink into a calm sea. With it came the transformation of sight and sound. Fog horns, doleful sounding all on their own, took on a particularly melancholy tone. Street lights became Spielbergian in quality with an anticipation of something unexpected and not necessarily good about to happen. People magically appear out of nowhere, as if lurking, waiting for the right moment to reveal their intentions.

As a come-from-away (not from Newfoundland), I enjoy the fog. Newfoundlanders, not so much. It makes fishing and driving that much more dangerous and slow. It also obscures the sun. In a land of rain, snow, and fog, the sun is much desired. When it shines on Newfoundland, it is glorious and friendly. I like the sun too, but the mystery inherent in fog calls to me.

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