Remember how I was just talking about fog, the other day? Well, we’re still experiencing our fair share of it here on the West Coast—this week under the guise of an “inversion”. Inversions are terrific fun because the skies are clear up on the mountain tops but down here by the water, we’re socked in with fog. Normally, it is the other way around.
One of the by-products of living with a bank of fog slowly moving in and out of the harbour and throughout the city at all times of the day, is that the many freighters parked in the waters of the inlet, as they await their turn to drop off their load at the dock or to pick up their next and depart, are needing to keep in touch with each other and all of the surrounding vessels. They have to keep an eye on who is moving and who is parked and they do this, in part, by sounding their foghorns. Because of the low dense ceiling of fog, their calls back and forth are clear and resounding and have become the soundtrack of January for us as we inadvertently eavesdrop on their slow paced discussions.
Back in the early 1800s, a man named Robert Foulis knew all about the perils that could befall a vessel trying to navigate in the fog, having grown up in Scotland. Robert tried to move to America in 1818 but when the ship he was on got caught up in a storm at sea and blown off course, he landed in Halifax Nova Scotia and decided it was close enough. He put down roots in Saint John New Brunswick and opened an iron foundry and also an art school—not that the two were related.
One foggy night, as Robert was walking home, he realized that he could hear his daughter playing her piano. The thing that struck him was that it was the lower notes that he could hear first and clearest through the fog, while the higher notes seemed to be thinner and get lost. From this observation, he reasoned that any sound alerts being used by lighthouses to warn ships of the dangers, would be more effective if sounded in a low register rather than the higher peeling of a bell or whistle which were the common instruments used up to that point.
Robert Foulis then invented the foghorn!
His was an automated system using a steam powered compressor which would force air through the precise slit (called a fipple of all things) of a horn in order to make a sufficiently loud and low sound. He also developed a code based on the rhythm of blasts used, in order to give a vessel even more information from a distance. For the next 6 years, Robert tried to get his invention embraced by the local Commissioners of the Light House who were in charge of the lighthouse on Partridge Island, which stands almost in the middle of the mouth of the bay in Saint John, but they wouldn’t agree to see its potential.
There was clearly political nonsense going on because somehow the plans for Robert’s foghorn ended up in the hands of a railroad builder and Civil Engineer named T. T. Vernon Smith, who submitted them to the Commission as his own and was granted permission without further ado to build one on Partridge Island. The world’s first lighthouse foghorn was set up in 1859.
Robert was pissed because it was his design and he launched into an ownership dispute with Vernon Smith. Eventually in 1864, the provincial legislature would agree that it had all been Robert’s idea and he was given credit as the inventor. The unjust part was that while the controversy with Vernon Smith was being settled, an American from the East Coast filed a patent for the device, making him a lot of money, while Robert would die in poverty two years later.
The original concept for the foghorn would evolve and be tweaked as time went along, and by the 1960s/70s Canadian lighthouses would swap out their manually operated versions for the foghorns that we have today. The current lighthouse model is operated by a laser beam that is automatically sent out over the water. If it bounces off any fog that has blocked its intended path, a sensor is tripped and the electronic foghorn is activated.
On ships, foghorns are still activated by humans, who also decide which codes to use to alert all other water traffic of their intentions. One short blast announces that a ship is passing another on the starboard side. Two short blasts indicate that the ship will pass on the port side. Three short blasts report that the ship is backing up—much like what the garbage truck does when it decides to back out of the alley. Nobody seems to use 4 short blasts during regular boating conversations, but 5 short blasts say to all in the area, “WHAT IN THE BLAZES ARE YOU DOING??????”. It is the code for danger and “You’re going to run right into me if you don’t pull yourself together and change your course”.
One long blast can either mean that the ship is coming to a blind corner and giving a heads up to anyone who can’t yet see it approaching. Or in fog, a long blast is sounded every 2 minutes to warn any others that it is moving in their direction. Two long blasts together announce that a vessel is parked and, taken one step further, one short + one long + one short blast tells the parking story but also warns that other boats shouldn’t run into it while it’s minding its own business at anchor. I wonder why that isn’t just assumed.
All of these nautical statements, and others not listed here, are the sounds that have been woven into the backdrop of our week here in Vancouver while we have been enjoying the many mysteries of fog. It is comforting to know that the ships in and just outside of the harbour are secure. If it weren’t for Robert Foulis and his invention of the foghorn, the whole inlet would be in shambles, voices and fists would be raised in frustration, and lives would be threatened. While Mr Foulis may not have benefitted financially from his groundbreaking invention, we can be grateful that at least the government and the history books have acknowledged his genius and have told his side of the story.
