The Fog of Life (standard:non fiction, 813 words)
Author: Cyrano	Added: Aug 20 2018	Views/Reads: 1951/1304	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A Reverie

The sea fog sullenly hangs about the hills above Sausalito, clinging to
the atmosphere and the Golden Gate Bridge rendering the whole of 
existence a dull gray colour. 

Every little while sliding down the yacht masts, creeping along Main
Street, fog fits into doorways, and everywhere else, so that only the 
ferry can be seen but not San Francisco across the Bay. 

The yacht has not been cleaned since sometime during winter, and I don't
feel ambitious enough for such an undertaking this late into the 
summer. 

One morning, about nine o'clock, several weeks ago the bank of fog came
ashore. First, with an opening about the size of your hand, and through 
it the western sky showed a bright blue. Then another opening, and 
through it shone the sun, because where there is sunshine there is 
always fog to threaten its warmth. 

I call such openings a morning promise—implying, nothing reliable. But
it was more. The fog began to show thinner and move faster along the 
headland ridge. Then it gathered and lay heavy on the bridge, heaped up 
like snowy wool. 

Were I to venture through the Robin Williams tunnel, after my visit to
the doctor in Sausalito, there will be nothing to see save the clear, 
blue sky and the sunshine. 

I felt somewhat weary with walking—and idleness—and looked forward to
the doctor's couch and conversation. 

“A cigar?” asked the doctor. 

“Yes, a cigar,” I answered. “I have smoked only six today.” 

“Beer or whisky and water?” 

“Whisky,” I replied. 

I lit my cigar, inhaling deeply of its fragrance—then exhaling through
mouth and nostrils. I sighed with contentment; the cigar was excellent. 


We drank the whisky at our leisure. I reclined against the head of the
couch, stretched out my feet, was conscious of a luxurious 
sensation—and sent my thoughts for a moment across the Bay, where they 
preferred to remain. 

The doctor was in low spirits. He talked about the State of his country
being divided by Trump. I didn't care. I wanted him to tell me how it 
would feel to die. 

My favourite pastime is to listen to others speaking. I never seem able
to think of any topics worthy of conversation myself, but I am almost 
inclined to say that my ability to listen amounts to an art. I can 
remain silent with an air of absorbing interest, and once in a while 
offer brief comment, not to set forth an opinion or display any 
knowledge—for I have none to spare—but merely to suggest new channels 
to the speaker and introduce variety, that he may not tire of hearing 
himself speak. 

I felt extremely comfortable on the couch. I thought it particularly
entertaining to hear the doctor tell how it felt to die. 

There is always something pleasantly exciting about death—when it is
reasonably far away from you. It seemed so beautifully far away from 
the perfume of the tobacco-smoke, the flavour of whisky, and the 
restfulness of the couch, and when my mind wandered to her—as wander it 
would in spite of my studied attention—then death seemed so far off 
shore that I could scarcely follow the description of how it felt to 
die. 

I don't want to die, I really don't. Can it be that the old devil in my
heart is tipsy—at the height of the romantic season—and the coming of 
the fog? I mentally queried. 



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