Fairweather farts. That’s what I call the tourists I overheard on my first day home. They were bitching about the fog and how they wished they could have picked a sunnier day. It was all I could do to refrain from rolling my eyes and heaving a huge sigh and keeping my big mouth shut. Stay in your high faluting la ti da Cape Code Kennebunkport comfortable condos if you can’t handle the weather. I’m a litle prejudice. I’ll take Monhegan rain or shine, snow or sleet. That includes fog like this, too:
I’m standing 100 yards away. Maybe less. The fog drifting over everything, blanketing the island with a fine mist that swirls around our legs and drenches our hair. Boats in the harbor bob in and out of view with the rising tide. Gulls disappear into thin air as they settle over barely visible rooftops, only their territorial cries giving their locations away. Around me are exclaimations of the innocent. How did you steer that boat? Someone asked the captain. “Did you use equipment or do you just know the way?” I could tell Jeff was barely holding back a grin and a smart remark. “The fog makes the seas rougher,” another announced. “Next time we’ll come when we can see something.”
This is the time I become protective of the place I call home. This is when Monhegan is my Brigadoon.