Heads to the left. Cameras clicking. Film whirring. I rolled my eyes. I wondered who was going to be the first person to realize we could only see twenty feet in front of us.

"If you had been here last veek, you might have been able to see Mount Rigi," joked the guide. "Last veek there vas no fog."

Laughter. Giggling. Sounds of mirth. I was delighted the group was so happy to be taking a scenic cruise on a lake where they could see nothing. Who knew? Maybe I'd reach a point in my life where I could be happy about paying big bucks to see nothing, too. But I figured I had a long wait.

When the guide began to talk about the four cantons surrounding the lake, I put my brain into neutral and nested into a comfy corner of my booth, relieved at how much better my tooth felt. The Motrin really worked. I'd have to do something nice to repay Jane for her kindness. Hmm. Maybe a fashion consultation.

After a while, the sound of the guide's voice blended into the sound of the engine in a hypnotic serenade that started to put me to sleep. But I was cooking inside my raincoat and from what I could see, the fog was growing worse. Boy, we were really getting socked in.

I squinted out the window, then on a whim, rubbed my hand across the glass, making a surprising clear spot. My imagined fog wasn't fog at all. It was condensation. There were so many people on the lower deck, and the ventilation was so poor, we were fogging up all the windows. Lovely. Now we couldn't see inside or out.

The stuffiness was so oppressive, I felt as if I was starting to smother. I needed fresh air. With the door to the companionway directly ahead of me, I slipped out of my booth and escaped to the upper deck.

Okay, so it was a little drizzly. A little misty. The air felt good on my face, and it was really quiet in the fog. Even the engine seemed muffled. And I was all alone up here. Almost. George Farkas was sitting on a bench that faced the prow. I guess he couldn't handle the stuffiness either.

"How are you doing today, George?" I called out as I headed in his direction.

He looked over his shoulder and gave me a finger wave. "I've been better," he said. "This cussed dampness is making my stump ache something fierce. Thought I'd come up here out of the crowd and unstrap my prosthesis for a spell. Didn't want to do it downstairs. Makes some people uncomfortable when you take your leg off in front of them." He'd set his prosthesis on the deck in front of him and was massaging his stump with both hands.

"Do you have anything you can take for the pain?" I asked.

"Pills are for sissies. Besides, this isn't so much a pain as it is a nuisance."