Fog Pie

Writing is often shaped by the characters and moments we carry with us long after they’ve passed. Sailing with Angels was born from those memories, especially the ones left by the generation before me.

One of those figures was Mr. Dickson.

To young sailors, he was an icon. He could usually be found perched on the bench by Race Committee, always in uniform, wearing one red sock and one green sock to remind us of port and starboard. On foggy days, when nerves ran high and visibility was low, he’d reassure us with a smile and tell us that a small slice of “fog pie” might be just the thing to soothe our spirits.

When I began writing Sailing with Angels, reflecting on the quiet ways elders shape us, Mr. Dickson rose quickly to the top of my list.

Years later, after my own father passed away, a dear college friend sent me a long, heartfelt voicemail. His words wrapped in a familiar Southern drawl. “Laura,” he shared, “grief at first is like fog. It will break soon enough.”

In that moment, memories of Mr. Dickson came rushing back. Fog, I realized, is a stage we must navigate, even if you are in the moment feeling all brave and determined to cut through it quickly, it does roll in.

Grief is fog,” he slurred with grace,

“A mist that veils the harbor’s face.

When sight is lost, stay put, stand tall,

Serve and savor fog pie until the cannon call.”

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