Fog comes up on the River quickly. It hangs like a dense cotton cover, hushing all sounds except for the close movement of the water. The shapes of islands, shorelines, and other boats come out at you, so much closer then you expect them to be. When you are floating alone in it, you cannot determine which direction your bow points in. You have to rely on instinct and blind faith in order to reach your destination. You can choose to sit in it and wait until it lifts, but that may not happen for hours or even days. Or you can take a risk and go forward slowly, making out the shapes that loom out of the fallen clouds and steer towards home.