The Prodigal Sheep

The fog had come in with what seemed to be supernatural speed. One minute the lights of Westport were clearly visible, they made shimmering paths of light out over the water from one end of the small island to the other. And then they were gone, engulfed in a dense, saturated fogbank. It closed around in around us like a heavy, wet blanket and when I stretched out my arm, I couldn't see my hand. We better try for home, Johnny said cheerfully,
Reckon it might take some time.

Just finding the car was a task in itself. He took my hand and led me up the rocky beach, one careful step at a time, around the piles of kelp and driftwood, through the now wet sand and the seashell debris. Every few steps he would stop and stand perfectly still, then adjust our direction, according to what I had no idea. There was no sound save for the fog horn's calm, steady call and an occasional screech from a seagull.

We reached the car and climbed in, cold and wet despite the fact that it has been a warm summer night. He toweled my hair off with his shirt, warmed my hands, lit a cigarette and grinned at me. Here we go! And we headed down the old dirt lane that led to the main road at snail speed. Branches swept at the sides of the car on both sides, a tree limb would randomly crack beneath the wheels, but Johnny drove on, miraculously never losing the narrow, overgrown trail. We reached the main road intact and laughing.

Once on paved road, things got surprisingly harder. Inland, the fog was even thicker and wetter and visability
barely extended to the hood of the car. Johnny hung his long, lean frame out the drivers side window and with one hand on the wheel, began driving. I leaned out the passenger window as far as possible and with him watching the center line and me watching the ditch, we began the drive back. And we might have made it except for the sheep.

I never saw them. My hand suddenly made contact with something far more substantial than fog - something that felt like wet cotton with ears. I shrieked and Johnny slammed on the brakes, nearly sending us into the ditch as I pulled my hand in. He got out and felt his way around the car slowly and by the time he got to the passenger side
he was doubled over with laughter. It's sheep! he yelled incomprehensibly, Sheep!

By then there was no hope of my getting home on time and we couldn't just leave the sheep, so one by one, we
stuffed them into the back seat and when we were reasonably sure we had them all, we set off again. It was hours later when we finally reached home and the sheep spent the night in the garage while Johnny slept on the couch.
Next morning as Nana looked on, we loaded them back up and set off to find their owner, a grateful farmer who insisted on giving us breakfast for their safe return. It was, as Nana said later, a novel twist to the Bible story.