# 768
As a cruising sailor, my ultimate worry was always a devastating storm, one that would overwhelm my little vessel or crew. Luckily, storms come around infrequently, and 95% of the time I cruised in relatively placid conditions.
For sailors, storms are not the only worry, however. Another threat, appearing less dangerous, but in reality just as unnerving, is fog. A pea soup that would engulf my vessel, obscuring threats around me and, over time, erode my confidence as to exactly where I was.
My sailing days began before I could afford such niceties as Loran and GPS, which would give the navigator a precise, real-time, indication of the vessel's position.
Instead, we navigated by dead reckoning.
Basically by keeping track of where we'd been; and by adding our direction and speed over time, along with factors such as wind and tide, we could deduce where we were.
The problem with dead reckoning is, you need a way to double check your position along the way; landmarks, buoys, even a sun sight with a sextant, in order to make corrections. Over time, errors creep into your calculations, and the longer you go without confirming your position, the farther astray your assumed position may wander.
In clear conditions, there are ways to double check yourself, and it is easier to see that storm on the horizon, or outcropping of rocks in your path. In a fog you lose that advantage.
Add in the surreal, and often unnerving aspects of sailing blind, and you begin to appreciate why they call it `dead reckoning'.
Today, the world is sailing in a fog when it comes to the H5N1 virus, and as time passes, we are less certain as to our actual position.
The fearsome storm over the horizon is a possible pandemic, and we have little forecasting ability as to when, or if it will strike. Our charts are old, out of date, and mostly comprised of data from nearly 90 years ago. We lack equipment sophisticated enough to tell us exactly where we are, and so we must rely on dead reckoning.
The fog obscuring our view, and masking dangers just beyond our vision, comes from multiple sources.
China and Indonesia have withheld vital virus samples that might give us a clue as to how the virus is changing. There are also genuine concerns that we aren't getting the whole story from these two countries, and that for reasons not entirely clear, we are denied knowledge of the full extent of the problems there.
Our vision is also obscured by countries like Bangladesh, Myanmar, Nigeria, Cambodia, and Laos, where poor surveillance makes it difficult to know the situation on the ground. Poor nations, faced with a multitude of critical problems and few resources to deal with them, often put avian flu on the back burner.
And even in western nations, a few scientists have been slow to release crucial information, jealously guarding data until they can publish, or perhaps profit from it.
Add in politics, a fierce determination to protect local economies, fear, and corruption, and our ability to see beyond our own bowsprit degrades even more.
As more time passes, and the fog grows thicker, we lose confidence in our position. Soon the charts become meaningless, for knowing that there are dangers out there does little good when you don't know how close you are to them.
Like sailors of old, we tend to see monsters in the swirling mists, often imaginary, but no less frightening. But one need only look to the charts to see evidence of ships lost and sunk to know that real dangers exist.
Reports of mystery swine diseases decimating herds in China, like stories of the feared Kraken from sailing lore, permeate the anxious discussions of those standing watch. Rumors from news services like Boxun, telling us of strange epidemics in China, vigorously denied by officials, only add to our sense of dread.
We try to tell ourselves that there are no such things as sea serpents, or Krakens, and that all we need to is stay the course, maintain a lookout, and all will be well. Those words, however, ring hollow as the hours pass.
The fog, we pray, won't last forever.
In the eerie stillness, we begin to see things looming in the distance, and unable to discern exactly what they are, assign fearsome traits to them. Some may really be threats, while others may be nothing more than the fruits of our imagination.
But in the fog, it is impossible to know which is which.
As the world gropes along in a pre-pandemic fog, we, like the sailors of old, must be ever vigilant. We can scarcely afford to ignore threats, even those that might ultimately prove to be imaginary, when we can't see where we are or where we are going.
For there are rocks out there, ready to hole our ship, and storms able to batter and sink us. It doesn't take a kraken or a sea serpent to ruin our entire day.
As we make our way through the darkness, unbeknownst to us, shoals in our path may be shifting or the barometer may be dropping unnoticed, and we must be ready to reef our sails and batten the hatches. Just as aboard a boat, life can go from normal to chaos in an instant.
Standing watch, peering into the darkness, can be mindnumbing. The hours pass by with intolerable slowness. Minutes drag on, and seemingly last for hours. There is a very real danger of fatigue induced carelessness.
And so it is with our prepandemic world. We haven't run aground yet, and thus far, no monster has leapt up out of the sea, and we begin to think if it hasn't happened by now, it won't.
The tendency is to ignore the unseen threats, and go boldly forth without maintaining a proper watch. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. Romantic perhaps, but unrealistic. A prudent sailor knows better.
There is an old saying amongst sailors. There are old sailors, and there are bold sailors.
But there are no old, bold sailors.
A cautionary tale, one worth remembering, as we plow through this pre-pandemic fog while crossing an unknown and merciless sea.
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