Fog Horns

While we were out on the west coast of Washington state last week, I woke up one morning (always a good start) to a dense cold fog. I could see the tree across the street but the ocean at the end of the block was completely obscured by the solid white cast of fog. And then, a fog horn. One long low blast. Coming through the dense fog it's a sound that is simultaneously beautiful and frightening. An alarm, the call of warning, to all those at sea: You can't see where you're going-- use caution, slow down, look twice, use your senses, expect the unexpected.

How often do I wish I had had that kind of device in life? Often. How often did I? Often. Unlike the disciplined captains of ocean going vessels-- at least the ones that don't carry oil-- in my life I've been slow to heed those sentinels of danger.  Siblings, friends, mentors. I've had more than one or two trusted and well-meaning individuals try to steer me clear of the rocks that jut from the rough surface of life's sometimes stormy sea-- especially treacherous with one's head in the fog.

Like those unfortunate captains in maritime history-- Exxon Valdez,  Costa Concordia, Titanic-- sometimes we're just destined to screw up. With luck, however, we find our way. Unlike those unfortunate sea captains, a couple of dings in our hull but we remain afloat. Even better, we learn to recognize the sound and significance of the fog horns: They don't mean to stop the ship, just slow it down, make one take a second look, redouble one's effort to take care and stay on a steady course to safety.

I don't know how you teach a child, especially an adolescent or young adult, how to recognize a fog horn. Maybe it's human nature to resist such advice, to ignore the warnings, to run head long and full speed ahead in the personal fog banks of life. So far I've been fortunate in not having to run any rescue operations. I have sounded my horn a time or two, and will continue to do so, as long as the noisy thing works.

Here's hoping for clear skies and happy sailing.