Which to those who do not live there is
Old fishermen in coveralls and heavy boots
Delight in telling about heading home to shore
In densest fog, in deep of night
In wind and rain without
A light or GPS
And what is that, you say?
Should you find yourself at sea
At nightfall, in the fog
And haven't got the wherewithal to find your way
Here's what you do:
Assuming your entire stock
Of spuds - the vegetable of state
Did not comprise the meal that you just ate
You drag the bag up to the bow
And when you sense your boat is getting
To the jagged, bottom-tearing rocky coast
You take a Maine potato in firm in hand
If you hear a splash, then all is good.
You're in the deep.
You may be heading where you should, or not
Of course, you do not know; there's all that fog.
You could be anywhere.
But knowing that you're not upon a rock
You can go on.
But if you hear a thud...
You grab the wheel and steer like mad.
I don't do much sailing now
And never chose to fish
But I know well enough the sense
Of being lost at sea in fog so dense
I put aside the finer instruments
And toss my soundings, like potatoes, to the wind.
So far, so good, but
It's a system I don't recommend.