It was foggy in Port-en-Bessin for the twenty-four hours we were there this week.  At times it was impossible to see the ocean from our hotel room, directly across the street.



We are having an art show there in February, with our friend Quentin.  We will fill two enormous rooms with paintings.  Right now, there is a needlepoint show, in the lower room only.



The fishing boats were heading out when we got to Port-en-Bessin.  A parade of vessels, at least 25,  passed by -- fishermen bidding goodbye to loved ones, via cell phone, as they set out for a night of fishing.



It is a pleasure to get out of Paris for a day.  I am not sure I have forgotten how to stand, to move in a crowd, or if the rest of the people are just more aggressive.  Walking up the hill, a woman is hissing and huffing behind me.  I let her pass and she breaks into a gasping run on the street.  What could be that important?  She arrives at a cafe, and sits alone.



Dredging was going on in the harbor.  The sharp smell of diesel fuel filled the near solid air.  As we went out for dinner, about 8, the dredging continued, with the tug, Willem, illuminating the fog with his headlight.  Straining motors, the clanking of the shovel and the permeating odor of oil filled the night.



Port-en-Bessin was the fueling port of the Normandy Invasion in 1944.  Its harbor is set up with two sets of locks to keep the bigger ships afloat when the tide is out.



I used to hear god speak to me at the beach.  Now, I don't hear his voice, but I have a better sense of Heaven.  I am comforted by the immensity of nature, at the beach.  I think of myself as the rocks, the shells, and the grain of sand.



We spend half an hour at Port-en-Bessin in the morning, before we leave.  The fishing boats have been in for a few hours.  Bits of scallop shell and brightly colored starfish – orange, purple, pink -- dot the edges of the nets.  It is still foggy.



At the flea market on Saturday, there are perhaps 20 percent fewer vendors.  Prices are good, although the dollar is weak.  We buy a bunch of gifts for Christmas, and a lamp shade.  We are jostled there, as well, by people going to the next stand.  I look at a bronze box in the shape of a mussel.  The price reads 150;  "I'll sell it for 75."



On the way to the Petit Lux for lunch, an Arabic friend cries, “My American friends – if you each buy me half a half-pint, I can drink a half-pint”.  Sure, we tell him. 



I am enamored with the fog, and the idea of painting in it.  Mysterious shapes emerge from a swirling smoke -- the edge of the beach disappears into nothing.



Laurie (painting and text) and Blair Pessemier

"Fog at Dawn"  acrylic on wood  20 x 6.5 inches