We spoke of foghorns on the night I dined at Southern Roots, a restaurant at the Grand Hotel at Point Clear on the Eastern Shore of Mobile Bay. A fog advisory had been issued and a thick fog sat on the waters of the bay outside the window wall of the restaurant.

Years ago, while I was staying at the Grand, a similar fog had come through. As I was sitting on the balcony before I went to bed, foghorns started sounding on the bay. That deep and mournful sound moved up and down the bay. It was the first time I had heard foghorns anywhere but in the movies and I sat for a long time savoring the moment. Finally, I went to bed. The haunting sounds of the foghorn were still audible in the dark room and I fell into a sound and deep sleep.

It was an experience I have longed to repeat. I began to mention the foghorns to other people around the Eastern Shore and was surprised that I seemed to be the only one who had heard them. Some of the locals said they had never heard foghorns on the bay. Before long, I began to wonder if I might have dreamed or imagined them.

I looked up foghorns on Mobile Bay and found enough information to assure me that my memory of foghorns years back was not delusional. But I also found out that foghorns are nearly extinct due to modern technology such as radar and GPS. Nowadays, “the Coast Guard has converted the vast majority of foghorns so that they no longer sound automatically in fog, only on an as-needed basis when activated by mariners with radios.” So I did hear the foghorns that night, but only because some boat in the bay was trying to navigate the waters on a foggy night – an idea that retains the mystery and romance of the sounds, resonating beyond my seeing, and makes me miss them even more.

I asked my server at Southern Roots if she had ever heard the foghorns; she had not, but she found the idea intriguing as we both gazed into the fog of the bay. She agreed that the sound, if she heard it, must be magical and full of intrigue. I told her that I had read of residents’ complaints about the sound back when they were more common. Also, I told her of my night listening to the sounds from my balcony perch. We agreed that only a grump would find the sound offensive or obtrusive. But there are always grumps to find offense.

The server decided that they should bring the foghorns back, that she should tell somebody. I agreed, but countered that there was now technology to supersede the need and the effort would probably be useless. She understood but decided that foghorns should be brought back, “if only for the tourists.” She was caught up in the mystery and romance of my lived experience, remembered so vividly after so many years. She wanted that for herself.

I ended the meal with the requisite brandy Alexander, in memory of my friends Janet and Russell, and took the long way back to my room, walking in the silent fog along the bay. I wondered if my memory of that long ago solitary experience of foghorns might be lessened if the sound were to become more commonplace. In these days, it is the memories that sustain us. It is the longing that moves us forward.