Fog: all you need to know

I DON’T KNOW anybody who has seen a fogbow, and I’ve never seen one myself, but I’m prepared to believe they exist because fogbow is one of the terms that the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) uses when describing different types of fog.

A fogbow, according to NOAA, is a rainbow that has a white band that appears in fog, and is fringed with red on the outside and blue on the inside. I think you’d know it if you’d seen one.

NOAA seems to be well informed about fog in general. Here are some other terms they use, and their descriptions:

Ø Advection fog — Fog that results from the advection of moist air over a cold surface, and the cooling of the air to its dew point. The most common type of fog in coastal regions.

Ø Dense fog — Fog in which visibility is less than one-quarter mile.

Ø Fog — Water that has condensed close to ground level, producing a cloud of very small droplets that reduces visibility to less than 3,300 feet. (Why 3,300 feet, you ask. Sorry, I just don’t NOAA.)

Ø Ground fog — Fog that’s less than 20 feet deep. It’s produced by the cooling of the lower atmosphere coming into contact with the ground (or, presumably, cold water). It’s also called radiation fog.

Ø Ice fog — It’s composed of minute ice crystals suspended in the air, or water droplets at temperatures below 0°C, down at surface level and restricting horizontal visibility. It’s also known as freezing fog, and usually occurs at minus 20°F and below.

Ø Mist — Mist is very much like fog, being composed of tiny water droplets suspended in the air. The difference is that it doesn’t reduce visibility as much as fog does.

Ø Overrunning — This is a combination of low clouds, fog, and steady light rain. It comes about when a comparatively warm air mass moves up and over colder, denser air on the surface.

Ø Shallow fog — Fog in which visibility is 5/8 of a mile or more, viewed from 6 feet above ground (or sea) level.

Ø Steam fog — That is what happens when very cold air drifts over comparatively warm water. It’s also known as sea smoke.

Today’s Thought

The fog comes

on little cat feet.

It sits looking

over the harbor and city

on silent haunches

and then, moves on.

— Carl Sandburg, Fog

Tailpiece

As I was laying on the green,

A small English book I seen.

Carlyle’s Essay on Burns was the name of the edition,

So I left it laying in exactly the same position.

(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday for another  Mainly about Boats column.)

What to do about fog

EVERY NOW AND THEN I run into some sailor who has just been scared witless by running into fog in the islands somewhere. We don’t get a lot of fog around here, but when the tidal currents are flowing fast and Washington State ferries are blowing their horns all around you, it can be a very frightening situation. I’m often asked: “What’s the best thing to do about it?”

Well, to tell the truth, there isn’t much advice to give about getting caught in fog that isn’t covered by common sense. If you see a fog bank forming ahead, and you have a chance to turn back to a safe anchorage, do so. It’s the seamanlike action to take.

Fog is treacherous. Go slowly and listen very carefully. If fog catches you out, try to get into shallow water and anchor there. Oftentimes that’s easier said than done, of course.

You should raise a radar reflector as high as you can so other vessels with radar sets will detect you. And you should be meticulous about making the right sound signal every two minutes or less. I have noticed that too many skippers are very lax about this. I have even traveled on a Washington State ferry that made no sound signals in thick fog, presumably relying on radar and clearance from Seattle Traffic Control, which can’t possibly tell the ferry if a small craft, invisible to radar, is in its path.

If you’re sailing, the correct signal is one long blast and two short blasts. That’s also the signal by a vessel not under command, or restricted by her ability to maneuver. The same signal comes from a vessel engaged in fishing, or towing or pushing another vessel.

If you’re under power, the fog signal (and the signal in any kind of restricted visibility, by the way) is one long blast every two minutes or less.

And one last tip – take along a horn that you can blow into. The fog horns that work off cans of compressed air don’t always work. I can vouch for that. I can also tell you that blowing the damn horn as loud as you can every two minutes as you motor along cautiously is a pain in the you-know-what. You can’t go anywhere or do anything that lasts more than one minute and fifty-nine seconds. It puffs your cheeks out and raises your blood pressure. It makes you dizzy and produces black spots before your eyes. But it’s better than being run down at sea. So do it.

Finally, if you’re in an area where authorities such as Seattle Traffic Control are maintaining a radio and radar watch over congested traffic lanes, call them on VHF and ask if there is any ship traffic headed your way. Make sure you know your approximate position first, of course, so they can check to see if they’re picking you up on radar. You’ll find the appropriate VHF channel on the chart or in a cruising guide, but in a pinch you can use Channel 16, either to ask for the correct channel or to broadcast a message to all stations in your area advising them of your name, position, speed and heading.

Finally finally, if you boat is big enough and you are rich enough to afford an AIS transceiver there is very little reason to panic in fog. You will know the position and speed of all nearby vessels over 300 tons, and they will be aware of your position, speed and direction. With any luck, you’ll all miss each other. (Yeah, they said that about radar, of course, until the Andrea Doria and the Stockholm ran into each other, guided by radar. Try Google for the whole story.)   

Today’s Thought

He that bringeth himself into needless dangers dieth the devil’s martyr.

— Thomas Fuller, Holy War

Tailpiece

“I’ve found out why production has slowed down since we got that second computer.”

“Good. What’s wrong?”

“The big computer’s shoving all the work on to the little computer.”

(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday for another  Mainly about Boats column.)

What to do about fog

WHEN THE CLOUD COMES DOWN to water level we call it fog. Fog is very scary stuff and it can happen at any time of the year in our coastal areas. In fact, on the West Coast of the United States, fog occurs frequently from the Strait of Juan de Fuca, north of Seattle, to Santa Barbara, down south in California.

On the East Coast they experience fog from the Canadian Maritimes right down to Long Island Sound, New York. On average, these coastal areas experience areas of fog about 10 percent of the year, and some particular areas are blanketed in fog for twice as long. 

As I said, fog is scary. What can you do about it?

Actually, there isn’t much advice to give about getting caught in fog that isn’t covered by common sense. If you see a fog bank forming ahead, and you have a chance to turn back to a safe anchorage, do so. It’s the seamanlike action to take. Unfortunately, you don’t always have that choice.  You can run into a thick bank of fog at night without even seeing it. Been there, done that, didn’t like it.

Fog is treacherous. Go slowly and listen very carefully. Your ears are your eyes in fog. If fog catches you out, try to get into shallow water and anchor there. Once again, oftentimes that’s easier said than done.

If you have radar, use it, and practice often. Use AIS if you have it, also, but don’t expect everybody else to have it, especially that 40-foot ferro-concrete ketch with the long metal bowsprit that’s bowling along under power toward you.

You should raise a radar reflector as high as you can, so that other vessels with radar sets will see you. And you should be meticulous about making the right sound signal every two minutes or less. I have noticed that too many skippers are very lax about this. I have even traveled on a Washington State ferry that made no sound signals in thick fog, presumably relying on radar and clearance from Seattle Traffic Control, which can’t possibly tell the ferry if a small craft, invisible to radar, is in its path.

If you’re sailing, the correct signal is one long blast and two short blasts. That’s also the signal made by a vessel not under command, or restricted by her ability to maneuver. The same signal comes from a vessel engaged in fishing, or towing or pushing another vessel.

If you’re under power, the fog signal (and the signal in any kind of restricted visibility, by the way, including rain or snow in daylight) is one long blast every two minutes or less.

And one last tip – take along a horn that you can blow into. The fog horns that work off cans of compressed air don’t always work. I can vouch for that. I can also tell you that blowing the damn horn as loud as you can every two minutes is a pain in the you-know-what. You can’t go anywhere or do anything that lasts more than one minute, fifty-nine seconds. It puffs your cheeks out and raises your blood pressure. It makes you dizzy and produces black spots before your eyes. But it’s better than being run down at sea. So do it.

Today’s Thought

He that bringeth himself into needless dangers dieth the devil’s martyr.

— Thomas Fuller, Holy War

Tailpiece

“I’ve found out why production has slowed down since we got that second computer.”

“Good. What’s wrong?”

“The big computer’s shoving all the work on to the little computer.”

(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday for a new Mainly about Boats column.)

Lost in the fog

FOG IS PROBABLY the greatest challenge most coastal cruisers will ever face. The statistics show that the chances of being run down in fog by a larger vessel are quite slim; it doesn’t happen that often. But what the statistics don’t show are the hours of tension, stress, and even stark fear that result from the disorientation of being wrapped in a cloak of mist that robs you of your sense of sight.

      On America’s east and west coasts, particularly, fog may occur almost any time of the year, and it can occur with startling suddenness. Before you know it, you’re in the thick of it, wandering blindly through swirling mist with a rising sense of panic and vulnerability.

      Your thoughts turn immediately to what can happen now:

      Ø  You’re going to get lost.

Ø  You’re going to reach port late and miss your plane.

Ø  You’re to hit the rocks or run aground.

Ø  You’re going to get run down by a large ship.

Ø  You’re going to die.

      If you think this sounds melodramatic, you’ve never been caught in fog. Fog does strange things to you. Even seasoned boaters suffer a nervous reaction when the cotton cloud hugs them to its breast and obscures the outside world, when your ears become your eyes because your eyes become useless.

      I can remember listening in astonishment one evening on my little VHF radio to a Mayday call broadcast by a powerboat on San Diego Bay. The local Coast Guard station asked what the problem was.

“We’re lost in the fog,” a man said anxiously.

      “Can you see anything at all?” asked the Coast Guard.

      “We’re circling a flashing red buoy with a 16 on it, but we don’t know where to go.”

      It was a channel buoy a few hundred yards from their home marina, and in ordinary circumstances it would have been ludicrous to put out a Mayday call. But fog is like that. It’s a panic-maker. In any case, the Coasties were very patient. They didn’t sneer or say anything sarcastic, much as they must have been tempted to do. They gave the lost powerboaters a compass course to steer at dead slow speed — something they wouldn’t normally do for fear of being sued if anything went wrong — and the boat made it home safely, to everyone’s relief.

Today’s Thought

The fog comes

on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over the harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then, moves on.
— Carl Sandburg, Fog

Tailpiece

“Waiter, there’s a fly in my soup.”
(15)“He’s just looking for a friend, sir. You haven’t swallowed her by mistake, have you?”

(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday for a new Mainly about Boats column.)

Fright in the fog

MONDAY BEING THE 22nd day of the month of Foggust, and having read recently a number of stirring tales by sailors caught in fog on the shores of Washington state, I thought it appropriate to relate today one of my own experiences.

My wife June and I were on the last leg of a circumnavigation of Vancouver Island in our 25-foot Cape Dory sloop. We motored out of the tiny fishing port of Sekiu on the Strait of Juan de Fuca at 3 a.m. to catch the flood to Port Angeles. It was a clear, pretty night with brilliant moonlight. The lights of Sekiu and Clallam shone very bright to starboard as we set course to landward of the shipping lanes. June went below to sleep while I took the helm.

And then, after about 20 minutes, without any warning at all, we ran into thick fog. I slowed down to 3 knots. Thick tendrils of mist came swirling aft. I could see nothing ahead, and I could only just make out the dinghy trailing 75 feet astern.

I reduced speed to 2 knots, so as better to be able to hear signals from other vessels, and we idled along with another 2 knots of current pushing us along our course, as if we were shoving our way through a thick wrapping of cotton wool shining white from the light of the moon.

All of a sudden a dual-tone hooter blared out three times. I got the fright of my life. Without thinking, I immediately reversed course in case we were running to a ship coming our way. Then, after a minute of two, when the adrenaline was starting to wear off, I reasoned that it would be cleverer to head straight for the shoreline, into shallower water.

As I changed course, there were three more blares, and my heart started pounding again. I put the engine in neutral and stared ahead, wondering all the while what three blares could mean. It was the signal, of course, for “My engines are going full astern.” But it didn’t add up. Something didn’t seem right. The signal for a fishing boat or tug is one long, two short. Could this be a submarine or some other naval vessel?

After a while, and hearing nothing, I continued in toward the shore for 15 minutes, and then resumed our old course to Port Angeles, hooting dutifully once every two minutes, with no response.

June came on deck, having slept through all the action and we shared the lookout duty, though there wasn’t much point since the fog was as thick as ever and we had no radar or AIS.

“I bet it was a fishing boat,” she said. “He must have seen us approaching at the last minute on his radar and given three equal blasts in his hurry, instead of one long, two short.”

“Well, he left it very late,” I said, adding that judging by the intensity of the noise we couldn’t have been much more than 100 yards apart, even allowing for the strange effects fog has on noise signals. “If he’d been giving the proper signal, I would have heard him in good time and got on the radio,” I added.

Dawn came soon after, and the sun starting burning holes in the fog. Patches came and went. We found our flood tide running out on us, and soon we were making only 1 1/2 knots over the ground as we neared Tongue Point, west of Port Angeles. I calculated we should not make Port Angeles before the tide turned, but it would be favorable for a dash from there across the strait to Deception Pass; so that is what we did.

The wind was light, from aft, so we motored all the way, getting to Bowman Bay about 8 p.m. after 17 hours of non-stop motoring. We anchored in Bowman Bay near the east beach and collapsed in bed about 10:30 p.m. after having celebrated clinching the circumnavigation of Vancouver Island with a hot meal, a beer for me and a sherry for June.

Today’s Thought
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over the harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then, moves on.
Carl Sandburg, Fog.

Tailpiece
After years of toil and research, Eli Whitney emerged from his workshop one night with great news.
“I’ve just invented a cotton gin,” he declared proudly.
“Big deal,” snorted his wife. “So who needs a fluffy martini?”

(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday for a new Mainly about Boats column.)

Fog and fear

I’VE JUST BEEN READING Frank Dye’s book about his wanderings in a 16-foot Wayfarer sailing dinghy. Year after year this Englishman returned to the USA to complete various stages of a voyage from Miami to the Great Lakes via Maine and the St. Lawrence River.

I can think of no book more likely to put people off the sport of dinghy cruising. Night after night Dye complains of being wet and cold, wrapped in two sleeping bags and flannel pajamas on the bottom boards of his boat. And when he’s not being wet and cold, he’s being frightened by howling winds, breaking waves, contrary currents, and thick fog.

His book is called Sailing to the Edge of Fear, but he tumbles over the edge on too many occasions for my liking, and often enough it’s because of fog. Fog is very scary stuff. What can you do about it?

Actually, there isn’t much advice to give about getting caught in fog that isn’t covered by common sense. If you see a fog bank forming ahead, and you have a chance to turn back to a safe anchorage, do so. It’s the seamanlike action to take.

Fog is treacherous. Go slowly and listen very carefully. If fog catches you out, try to get into shallow water and anchor there. Oftentimes that’s easier said than done, of course.

You should raise a radar reflector as high as you can so other vessels with radar sets will see you. And you should be meticulous about making the right sound signal every two minutes or less. I have noticed that too many skippers are very lax about this. I have even traveled on a Washington State ferry that made no sound signals in thick fog, presumably relying on radar and clearance from Seattle Traffic Control, which can’t possibly tell the ferry if a small craft, invisible to radar, is in its path.

If you’re sailing, the correct signal is one long blast and two short blasts. That’s also the signal made by a vessel not under command, or restricted by her ability to maneuver. The same signal comes from a vessel engaged in fishing, or towing or pushing another vessel.

If you’re under power, the fog signal (and the signal in any kind of restricted visibility, by the way) is one long blast every two minutes or less.

And one last tip – take along a horn that you can blow into. The fog horns that work off cans of compressed air don’t always work. I can vouch for that. I can also tell you that blowing the damn horn as loud as you can every two minutes is a pain in the you-know-what. You can’t go anywhere or do anything that lasts more than one minute, fifty-nine seconds. It puffs your cheeks out and raises your blood pressure. It makes you dizzy and produces black spots before your eyes. But it’s better than being run down at sea. So do it.

Today’s Thought
He that bringeth himself into needless dangers dieth the devil’s martyr.
— Thomas Fuller, Holy War

Tailpiece
“I’ve found out why production has slowed down since you got that second computer.”
“Good. What’s wrong?”
“The big computer’s shoving all the work on to the little computer.”