The span to the Newport Bridge disappeared, and Fort Adams, from which we had come, was cloaked in gray. The masts of the tall sailing ship Oliver Hazard Perry and those of the Volvo Ocean racers were fading. The bay was flat except for wavelets pushed by a southerly wind.

“We should be able to make it in less than an hour,” Claude Bergeron said confidently of the run from Jamestown to Warwick Cove. It had taken us about that on the way down. We picked up my son Ted and his family at Jamestown and then hopped over to the Volvo Ocean Race Village at Fort Adams to take in all the excitement. The place was humming. There’s still time before the boats leave on the next leg of the around-the-world race Sunday afternoon to visit the village (admission is free), tour the Oliver Hazard Perry and feel proud for what Sail Newport, Brad Read and the state of Rhode Island and the city of Newport have pulled off. Hosting the world’s premier sailing race is a remarkable accomplishment.

Don’t miss the movie in the dome. The 15-minute clip of the Vestas Wind and footage of it hitting Cargados Carajos Shoals in the Indian Ocean gives a feel for what this sport is about and the dangers of being at sea, even in today’s high-tech world.

Now Claude and I were headed up the bay, in familiar waters. Claude’s 19-foot Trophy, an open boat ideal for fishing and excursions as long as conditions are reasonable, could easily do 20 knots. We’d be back at the dock by 4.

We passed under the bridge, although we couldn’t see the deck above, and followed the dark outline of the Jamestown shore. It grew fainter and fainter until it, too, disappeared. Claude didn’t cut back on the throttle. Visibility was maybe 200 feet. The sun brightened. We both figured conditions would improve further up the bay. They usually do.

“You would think more people would be out today,” Claude said.

I couldn’t resist. “Maybe they are,” I answered.

Claude laughed. There could have been quahoggers, fishermen, sailors and, who knows, maybe even another bulky car carrier headed for Quonset, as we had seen on our way down. But if they were there, they couldn’t be seen. We were in a cocoon of mist.

“We’re steering a straight course,” Claude said, looking aft at what we could see of our wake. I had the feeling, however, we weren’t exactly on course. Claude followed my inclination and adjusted course about five degrees, although that was a guess because we didn’t have a compass. Claude hadn’t brought the GPS, although the fish finder was aboard.

You laugh, but knowing the depth can be vital.

Before the days of GPS, I raced from Newport to Cuttyhunk Island using dead reckoning for the last three legs of the race as the fog rolled in. Knowing the bearing from one mark to the next and our speed, we calculated when we would arrive at the next mark. It worked perfectly for the first two marks. Visibility was 300 to 400 feet, and marks appeared just where we thought they would. Then as we approached the island, we were socked in. We thought we heard voices and a bell buoy. The voices, we believed, came from a competitor, but we weren’t sure. It was pea soup. I kept my eye on the compass and the depth sounder. Suddenly, the sounder went from 40 to 15 feet. This wasn’t good. Quickly, the crew dropped the spinnaker, the boat slowed. We could hear waves crashing on the rocks. I headed into the wind and let the mainsail luff for what seemed like an eternity but was probably 20 minutes. Slowly, the fog lifted to reveal the island and the finish boat no more than 600 feet away.

“What took you so long?” a member of the race committee quipped. We waved as he sounded the horn. We didn’t say anything. That delay cost us. We were the last boat in but in one piece.

The episode come to mind as the outline of a rock came into focus. We were at the southern tip of Hope Island. We followed the west coast of the island and then set off for Warwick Neck.

Visibility dropped. The water, silver and gray, blended into the fog. It was difficult to tell where one started and the other stopped. There was nothing to see anyway except water and fog and the occasional lobster pot that would jump out of the waves.

After 15 minutes I suggested Claude slow the boat. Maybe we would hear something, but I was hoping if I asked Siri on my Apple phone for Warwick Light, a map would pop up and we’d be good.

I tried it. My question appeared on the screen, only it read “where’s Warwick white?” I didn’t get any satisfaction with Warwick Country Club either. No voice was telling to take a left or right.

Claude tried it on his cell. He came up with an outline of the neck and a pulsating blue dot at its end.

“That’s us,” he said triumphantly.

Just then, the light foghorn sounded. It seemed to be coming from above us. We must be really close. The outer pilings of the adjoining dock emerged like eerie sentinels. We never saw the light, but we didn’t need to. We followed the shoreline, and in minutes the fog lifted and we could see the country club and the entrance to the cove.

I told Ted the story the following morning at a Mother’s Day breakfast he’d prepared for Carol.

“Just go to Google Maps,” he said, “you would have known where you were.”

I handed him my phone and he showed me.

Makes you wonder.

Not knowing where you are and figuring it out is surely more satisfactory than pulling out the cell phone. But then the crew of the Vestas Wind obviously thought they were somewhere where they weren’t. And that can be dangerous no matter whether you’re on a boat or not.