Through the White Mist

Would five thousand liters of fermenting pear juice survive an emergency anchor drop?

Liselotte did not intend to find out.

The wheelhouse went from cozy sanctuary to an echo chamber of ticking instruments in three seconds flat. Outside the thick glass, the dark Limburg riverbanks simply ceased to exist. In their place hung an impenetrable, milky blanket of Maas river mist, glowing eerily against the amber bow lamps. On the console, the green radar sweep smeared into a fuzzy mess of surface backscatter, blinded by the sudden moisture.

"Radar is useless inside fifty meters," Sander said, his voice flat and clipped. His large hands gripped the teak wheel, knuckles taut. "River fog off the gravel flats. It’s sitting right on the deck plates."

"Is it possible to push through to the Lanaye basin?" Liselotte stepped closer to the chart table, her boots quiet against the floor mat.

"Not blind." Sander pulled the brass throttle back two notches. The deep drone of the Deutz diesel dropped to a low, guttural vibration that rumbled straight through the floorboards into Liselotte's shins. "If we catch a stray gravel barge or a breakaway dredge pipe at four knots, we tear the bottom out. We hold position until it lifts."

"Holding position means dropping the hook," Liselotte said, holding his steady, slate-gray gaze. "If we drop anchor, the hull stops rolling. The yeast cakes settle, the temperature stratifies, and the whole batch goes sour by sunrise."

Joost hovered between the navigation desk and the companionway hatch, biting his thumb. "The current at this bend pulls toward the Dutch shallows, Captain. If we sit dead in the water without an anchor, we drift onto the riprap."

Sander didn't answer immediately. He stared out into the swirling white wall, calculating currents, draft, and risk in the quiet rhythm of a riverman.

"You need eyes ahead of the blind spot," Liselotte stated. "The wheelhouse is thirty meters behind the stem. Down at the bow rail, under the searchlight beam, you can see twenty meters of open water."

Sander turned his head sharply. "The foredeck is slick as grease, Liselotte. It’s two degrees out there."

"I have rubber soles and good balance." Liselotte rested her fingers on the chart table. "I'll call the distance. You steer the boat."

Joost scrambled to the gear locker before Sander could countermand her. "Wait, wait! Take the heavy gear!" The deckhand thrust an enormous, fluorescent yellow oilskin jacket toward her. "If you fall in, whistle three times. Actually, don't fall in. The water is four degrees and Sander will murder me."

"I'm not falling in, Joost." Liselotte slipped her arms through the stiff, oversized sleeves of the slicker. It smelled of linseed oil, salt, and diesel. She zipped the heavy storm flap and lifted the waterproof VHF handheld off its charging cradle on the console, clipping its lanyard around her wrist.

She caught Sander watching her as she tested the volume knob. His mouth was set in a tight, unyielding line, but when his eyes met hers through the dim glow of the instrument panel, the warning gave way to something fierce and resolute.

"Channel sixteen on the handheld," Sander said, his tone dropping an octave. "You see anything—a branch, a shadow, a ripple that looks wrong—you shout. You don't try to be brave. Understood?"

"Loud and clear, Captain."

She pushed open the heavy wheelhouse door. The damp cold slapped her face instantly, biting and clean, smelling of river silt, dead reeds, and cold iron.

Liselotte made her way along the narrow starboard catwalk. The heavy steel coaming of the cargo hold gave her a firm handhold on her left, while the black, invisible river slid past silently on her right. Below her feet, she felt the gentle, steady warmth rising from the auxiliary engine loop beneath the hold floor, keeping her heritage casks safely cradled at eleven degrees. She wasn't going to let that heat go to waste.

When she reached the raised bow deck, the world shrank to a five-meter bubble of pale, shifting vapor. The yellow halogen spots from the mast cut through the white soup like two dull spears, lighting up tiny droplets of suspended river water that danced across the bill of her knit cap.

She keyed the radio. The squelch popped. "Sander. I'm at the stem."

His deep voice came through the small speaker against her collarbone, warm and immediate despite the static. "Copy that, Liselotte. Coming ahead dead slow. Keeping her in the green channel."

The barge crept forward at barely two knots. The bow wave made no sound except a soft, oily hiss as the blunt steel prow sliced through the glassy dark water. Liselotte leaned her hip against the welded steel bulwark, leaning forward, every sense tuned to the river.

Sound carried unnaturally far in the cold fog. Somewhere far to the west, a dog barked behind a levee. To the east, water lapped against stone riprap.

Two minutes passed in tense, suspended silence.

Then, dead ahead, a strange hollow clink broke through the mist.

Liselotte stiffened. She leaned farther over the rail, squinting against the yellow halo of the fog lights. The surface of the water was flat and black, but ten meters out, an oily vortex was swirling backward.

A dark, rust-streaked shape broke the surface of the white vapor.

It wasn't a log. It was a massive, unlit steel conical navigation buoy, torn loose from its concrete sinker upstream, drifting sideways with its jagged mooring shackle pointing directly at the barge's starboard waterline.

"Sander! Obstacle dead ahead!" Liselotte barked into the mic, her voice cutting sharp and steady through the speaker. "Rogue steel buoy, twelve meters and closing fast on the starboard bow! Port rudder, hard!"

"Hard port!" Sander's voice snapped back over the channel.

The deck shuddered beneath her boots as Sander swung the heavy rudder. The engine groaned, water churning furiously at the stern as the bow began its slow, deliberate swing to the left.

The heavy steel buoy drifted closer, riding the dark swell. Six meters. Four meters.

Liselotte held her ground at the rail, tracking the distance with an unblinking gaze. "Two meters. Still turning... hold the swing... hold it..."

The black steel cone scraped past the barge's starboard shoulder with a dull, hollow thud-scrape against the heavy oak rub-rail, barely six inches from the hull plating. The jagged iron chain rattled harmlessly along the fender and slid away into the wake, swallowed once more by the white mist.

"Clear!" Liselotte breathed into the radio. "Obstacle is behind us. Channel is open."

"Channel clear. Coming back to midships," Sander replied.

Liselotte let out a long breath of white vapor, her fingers tingling through her fleece gloves. The heavy adrenaline surged through her veins, leaving her skin flushed and alive in the freezing damp. The barge was gliding smoothly again, its rhythmic rolling motion intact, her casks gently rocking in the belly of the vessel.

A heavy latch clicked open behind her.

Heavy, hurried bootsteps rang out across the steel deck plates. Liselotte turned just as Sander emerged from the white fog.

He hadn't stopped to grab a coat. He wore only his dark woolen sweater, his broad chest rising and falling from running down the length of the catwalk after handing the helm over to Joost. His hair was damp with river mist, his jaw set in fierce concentration.

Before she could speak, Sander crossed the remaining distance and grabbed both of her shoulders in his large, gloved hands, his grip tight, solid, and undeniably possessive.

"Did it hit you?" he demanded, his voice low, rough, and ragged around the edges.

"No," Liselotte said, looking up into his face. He was inches away, his breath coming in warm, white clouds that mingled with hers in the freezing air. "It only clipped the timber fender. The hull didn't take a scratch."

Sander didn't release her. His thumbs pressed firmly through the stiff fabric of the oilskin jacket, anchoring her in place against the cold river wind. His gaze dropped to her mouth before locking onto her eyes.

"You called that out with two seconds to spare," he said, his voice dropping into a rough, quiet register that made her pulse jump.

Liselotte tilted her chin, refusing to step back. "I told you I was good on my feet."

"You're reckless," Sander murmured, his grip tightening as he pulled her half an inch closer. "And you're staying right where I can see you."