Fogbound in Porto

A white impenetrable wall that we can walk through but remains enclosing us; always present,  permitting no vision of anything beyond.
The foghorn hoots mournfully and the huge cruise ships chug into the harbour, lights ablaze, and wait for the sun to reappear.
Our French friends set out in their small sail boat one evening when it was still bright, but we know there was fog out at sea so we are hoping to hear they have reached Lisbon safely. The sea is cruel, I never lose a threatened sense.
Here in the marina the fog presses silence on all activity.
David and I went for a walk along the front, where a couple of days ago people lay sunbathing on the sand. Now even the breakers seemed hushed. A few black shapes moved into view, cycling or walking, and then were gone again.
Here is our dear Stroemhella, waiting at the mouth of the Douro, for the mist to lift, a week ago.

Happily, the sun does return. So we could chug round the corner to Paco do Palmeira where, in a more down-market marina, we find all the heart could desire.
Now I have started writing a short story about two brothers at sea (ha ha, the metaphors are plenty!) trying to sail through the mist ...
When we were off the northwest Scottish coast (Outer Hebrides) many years ago, we encountered a mist like this. It makes everything quiet and mysterious.
Through that stillness we heard the melancholy sound of bagpipe music and slowly through the mist came a small yacht with the bagpipe player standing on board. We sounded our (also musical!) ship's horn. He responded. I plan to merge this unforgettable scene into my story...