FOGGY FOURTH

I don't know why they call them the dog days. The dogs look even more miserable than I feel. This essay is in honor of our nations birthday.

Foggy Fourth

Every year I suggest to Jules that we spend the Fourth of July on our boat in Edgartown Harbor. For one reason or another we always found ourselves with something more attractive to do. A party on the parade route, a neighbor’s BBQ, there was always something that made the boat second choice. Besides, getting to the boat on the Fourth could be an ordeal. We usually park at the Deep Woods lot and take the free shuttle into town. But a few years ago they put up a sign that prohibited overnight parking. Unfortunately the closest twenty-four hour parking is in Oak Bluffs. That doesn’t help us. So it was either beg a ride from a friend or take a taxi. If we were feeling really energetic we could shlep our stuff a half mile out to Herring Creek Road and catch the South Beach bus into town. This leaves a bit of a hike to the harbor launch (the harbormaster had talked us out of our own dingy-no place to leave it, they get stolen, etc.), and since we never travel light this would certainly be a last ditch choice.
A couple of years ago, after a stretch of lousy weather and no other offers, we finally did our overnight. We got a ride downtown from my friend Janice, early, before the streets were closed, had lunch in town and, carrying enough baggage for a week, took the launch out to our boat. Normally I refuse to go anywhere that doesn’t have room service but our boat is relatively comfortable. It’s supposed to sleep six but, as Jules always says, you’d have to be very good friends.
The day was simply gorgeous, one of those ‘perfect Vineyard days’ that had been few and far between. The wind was favorable and we sailed farther than we ever had for a day sail. Back at the mooring, tired and gratified, we enjoyed a nice dinner while listening to the Edgartown parade. The harbor is always packed for the weekend of the Fourth and that year was no exception. Most of the moorings had two or three boats rafted together. The mooring anchors must be the size of refrigerators to keep them from drifting.
There were three modest (for Edgartown) power boats moored nearby. They were the most patriotic group I’ve ever seen. Balloons, streamers, every imaginable type of red, white, and blue decoration was draped over these boats. It was obvious the families loved this holiday and equally obvious the children were waiting for the fire works with baited breath. Their excitement level and voices were rising like a siren. While I finished cleaning up after dinner my first inkling that the night was not going to go as planned was a low moan above decks and a soft “Uh oh,” from Jules. “What’s the matter?” I asked, popping my head up through the hatch. He didn’t have to answer. I could see for myself. The fog was rolling in from Katama, not on little cat feet, more like a tidal wave.
Unaware of the fog’s potential our neighbors continued their gleeful celebration. The show was to begin at nine. Shortly after eight thirty, hoping to salvage the night, the loud booms began, but by then it had become so murky we could no longer see the other boats in the harbor much less the fireworks. After each concussion the sky would be tinged with pink or green. Used to the fog--we live in Katama after all--I took it in stride and went below out of the damp.
Boaters, however, don’t let adversity spoil their fun. After each boom and tinge of sky I could hear our fellow sailors ooh and aah. After all, it was the Fourth of July!