"By 6:00 a.m. the fog had enclosed the boat in dense, clammy, frogspawn grey. Waking to the electronic beeping of the alarm, I could hear the hollow, unrequited blare of a diaphone, a long way off on some rockpile. I sat up and peered through the cabin window into the gloaming: the customs dock, at sixty feet, was vague but recognizable; beyond it, nothing existed. The wooded cliff, the marina, and the town of Sidney were gone.

The process of advection, which had gone on steadily overnight, had not missed the opportunity afforded by the clothes I'd left hanging in the saloon. There was fog in my shirt, fog in my trousers, fog in my socks. I set up the cabin heater, set the kettle to boil for coffee, and found a CBC station on the radio. The morning news was firmly dismal.

Jonathan Raban, in "Passage to Juneau", ed. Picador, 1999.

A melhor coisa que me foi dado ler nos últimos duzentos e cinquenta anos, sem sombra de exagero.

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