I can’t say I actually remember this, so it must have been during the summer of 1939 when I was three. Our front window looked out to where the Inside Passage wended its way among the islands south of Cognashene. One very foggy day as the grown-ups were chatting on the other side of the room, a piping little voice shouted:
“Good God! There’s the Midland City!”
Adult conversation stopped dead, and all eyes turned to the window. The fog had lifted and there indeed was the inter-island steamer away off course among the reefs west of the island. Luckily, she hadn’t run on any yet.
The spotter, myself, had obviously echoed words heard from a parent. Probably to avoid the disapproving glare from his devout mother-in-law, Dad lifted me onto his shoulders and we went outside to watch the skipper extricate the ship from the reefs and regain her course on the Inside Passage.