The sailor is lost in the fog. Feet wide apart, he holds the tiller as steady as he can, but he has lost all sense of direction. He has no compass, and his chart is hand-drawn. The wind, which was out of the west as the sun went down, has dropped to almost nothing, and the sail hangs limp, then fills with a loud thwack, then hangs limp again as the vessel rocks in the deep swells. A sliver of moon and the brightest stars of Orion and his dog peek through intermittently when the sailor looks skyward, but never long enough for the sailor to orient himself, and looking out to sea there is only the indistinct gray of saturated air. He maintains a firm hold on the tiller, as he drifts through a cloud. The sea laps and splashes against the hull, but he cannot see even that when he looks over the side. He peers out into the fog as if he could penetrate it with a sharp enough gaze, and he listens hard for the sound of surf. These are treacherous waters, rocks and shoals, islands big and small surround his craft. Scylla, the rock, looms out there somewhere, and Charybdis, the whirlpool, churns at Scylla’s feet.

~

The sailor stands his watch gripping the rail, peering into the fog as if he could penetrate it with a sharp enough gaze. The great ship creaks as it rocks in the swells, the knock of tackle aloft keeping irregular time. Far behind him another sailor is at the helm, attempting to hold his assigned compass heading. A sliver of moon and an occasional bright star peek through indistinctly when he looks skyward, and the sailor thinks he can piece together Orion and Canis Major, but never all at once, and never long enough to orient himself. He has not seen the charts the captain uses to navigate, but he knows that hours have gone by without a sighting. The sea below laps and splashes against the hull, but he cannot see even that when he looks down over the side. These are treacherous waters. Last night he saw the red glow of Stromboli; the captain hasn’t told the crew, but the sailor suspects that they are heading for the Straits of Messina and a port call in Calabria before the long haul to Alexandria.

~

The sailor is lost in the fog. Feet wide apart, he mans his post on the foredeck. They call this standing watch, though he can see nothing through the gray haze before him, and the only thing he can hear over the never-ending mechanical churning of the engines is the periodic clanging of the ship’s bell, gloomy and ominous. Behind him, orange sparks fly from the stack and vanish into the thick night air. Below decks, men black with coal dust and shiny with sweat shovel coal into the furnaces to keep up the steam that turns the screw, now moving the ship with just enough speed to maintain steerage. The ship pitches and rolls in the swells, but the sailor takes pride in his sea legs, riding the ship as calmly as a horseman rides his mount. A sliver of moon and an occasional dim star roll across the sky when he looks up. He peers into the fog, though his faintest dreams are clearer and brighter than the undifferentiated gray before him, and he fights to stay awake as he moves through a kind of palpable nothingness and waits for his watch to end.

~

His head aching from the diesel exhaust that swirls in the fog, the sailor stands in the bow steadying himself against the rail. With no way on, the ship pitches and rolls sickeningly in the swells. The captain is holding off the straits of Messina until the day breaks and the fog lifts. The sailor has been warned to keep a sharp eye out for other vessels in these crowded waters, but he cannot even see the water below him as it laps and splashes against the hull. The ship’s lights penetrate no further than a few yards into the fog, and the sound of the bell seems to come from nowhere and everywhere, sometimes even ringing in his head, making him wonder if there is another ship out there with its own bell, but then he talks himself out of it, keeps silent. The impenetrable mixture of oily smoke and fog that has settled on the ship makes him woozy. He puts his head against the rail, cool and wet with condensation, wipes his eyes with his sleeve. When he looks up, a sliver of moon swims across the sky, and the bile rises in his throat. He leans out, vomits over the side, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, and resumes his useless vigil.

~

The sailor stands his watch on a wing of the bridge, his binoculars useless in the fog. He barely feels the carrier move beneath him as it plows slowly forward with just enough speed to maintain steerage. Below him, he can make out the indistinct shapes of gray warplanes on the flight deck only because he knows they are there. He cannot see all the way to the bow. A few feet away from him, inside the glass-enclosed bridge, the captain sits in his chair, as the navigator plots the ship’s position relative to the coast of Sicily and the toe of Italy’s boot. Behind the captain stands the admiral, marking on his own chart the movements of the fleet clustered around the carrier, but invisible in the fog. A handful of officers and men monitor radar scopes, weather information and imagery, charts on viewing screens, satellite data, dials and readouts from the engine room, a large magnetic compass, and a smaller gyroscopic one. The sailor on watch has been told that in spite of all this equipment, his eyes are still essential to keeping the ship safe. He tries to believe it as he stares out into the undifferentiated gray night. Above him a sliver of moon peeks through, and sometimes a dim star; far below the sea laps and splashes against the hull, but he cannot see or hear it.

~

The sailor is lost in the fog. She sits in the stern of her boat, handmade from reeds woven and bound into a watertight hull, the mast spliced and lashed together from materials she scavenged on the shore. Her calloused hands grip the rusty pole that serves as a tiller, and a long oar carved from a 2 x 6 is within easy reach. The patchwork sail hangs limp, then fills with a crack, then hangs limp again as the vessel rocks in the deep swells. A sliver of moon and a few bright stars peek through intermittently when she looks skyward, perhaps a planet as well; she does not know. The sea laps and splashes against the hull, and she reaches out into the mist to catch the seafoam in her hand. She peers out into the fog as if she could penetrate it with a sharp enough gaze, and she listens hard for the sound of surf breaking on nearby rocks and shoals, but she is very tired, and the dangers of the sea worry her less than the dangers on the land she has left behind.