At first on that early mid-July morning in Old Saybrook, Connecticut, on Long Island Sound, we could still see the end of the outer dock. We got underway. Half an hour later, a blanket of wet cotton spread over the channel, our ketch’s bow only vaguely looming ahead. Dots, thick as measles, pulsed on the radar screen — the start of weekend boat traffic on one of the most congested bodies of water in the nation. Unseen runabouts buzzed around like mosquitoes. The Automatic Identification System display didn’t help much in such close quarters, as scores of signals came from boats on moorings or tied up, their units still transmitting. We could breathe easier once we crawled out into the wider waters of the sound. With the motor off as we ghosted along under sail, engine noises from other boats resounded through the fog, and most of the time we could relate them to the radar returns. We hoped the powerful electric horn on the mast screeched loud enough to announce our presence to the speed maniacs.