Honey, I shot the dog breath

By Tom Snyder
One of the things I adore about being on the ocean is the jesting camaraderie between boaters. Such peppery back and forth allows a man to feel part of the fraternity of voyagers sharing a common bond. As so often happens among able men and women, this badinage escalates to its finest vintage in the form of humor that seems, on its surface, to be aggressive and even mean-spirited. Closer inspection reveals only a heart-felt intention to draw all members into the bosom, in this case, of a nautical cabal. Let me give you an illustration of how a sailor such as myself will participate in this sporting intercourse.

My daughter and I were sailing out of Will’s Gut last summer. The wind was light, but we were determined to get everywhere by sail alone so we drifted slowly and sweetly with the breeze. I drank coffee. Amy had a Sprite, a superior beverage by a company that doesn’t need my endorsement (unless they are in a pinch: tsnyder@palm.net). At any rate, as we basked in the still of a Casco Bay morning, I noticed a 35ish-foot powerboat coming hard in our direction. I explained to Amy that soon this boat would be altering her course as a gracious way of letting us know that (1) she saw us, (2) she knew we had the right of way, and (3) she would give us a proper wide berth. When this boat had halved the distance between us, I noticed that there was no one at her helm. I asked Amy to pass me our compressed air horn so that I could give a short, courteous blast to indicate our presence. Having done that, we waited and watched, relieved to finally see a head pop up from below decks. The fellow adjusted his heading by about 2 degrees to put him on a course that would clear us by several feet.

Amy, who has not yet developed my practiced eye, screamed that the guy was heading dead onto us. I calmly explained to her that she should moderate her anger so as to not exacerbate the already heated history between the power and sailing communities. Accordingly, as this boat passed close aboard our starboard beam, we both waved. I even added a “thumbs up” to let the fellow know that we were both fine and shared in his obvious love of the automatic pilot.

This is where he invited my daughter and me into the above-mentioned world of poste and riposte – the hilarious shared jokes among seamen of all stripes. He turned to us, raised his middle finger and yelled “F— you, asshole!” I must admit that for a brief spell I caught myself wondering if he had been insulted by the short blast of our horn. Maybe he had been busy with a friend down below. But Amy snapped me to my senses when she whispered, “I thought people weren’t supposed to say those words.” Isn’t she adorable?

I said, “Oh, Amy! Honey! Sweetheart! Don’t be silly. That young man was having us on! He was reminding us in his hale way that we are all men of the sea and can pretend to be carelessly rude to one another, safe in the knowledge that we are sturdy enough to roll with the great good humor!”

“Oh,” she said. “Oh. Are we, like, supposed to do something back?”

She was right and she knew it. Wow. Is there anything better than being present when your children have not only grasped, but also transcended a life lesson? She beamed and said, “Blow the horn back at him.” I didn’t know for sure if I was more proud of her or of myself – of her because she was growing up right in front of me or of myself because of my deft way of navigating these teachable moments. I blew the horn long and loud at the stern of the departing powerboat. Almost instantly, both of her screaming engines ceased, and she turned hard to port, stopping dead in the water.

I didn’t want to hurt Amy’s feelings, but I was beginning to wonder if perhaps we had, in fact, not come back strongly enough in our return gesture. Faking contrition, I told her that I had forgotten to mention that it is customary to “up the ante” just a scootch. By way of example, I dug into my safety bag and produced a flare gun. As we passed slowly across his bow, I winked to Amy, letting her know that what I was about to do was as much from her inspiration as from mine. Why steal the thunder from our little ones? I held the flare gun at arm’s length, using both hands in just the way all professional actors are now trained. I screamed at the man, “Hey, dog breath… Bite this!” I clicked back the firing hammer. “And stay the hell out of Casco Bay!”

He jumped very quickly to the throttle and accelerated his boat impressively. When he was out of range, he again showed us a middle finger and was then soon gone.

“Daddy, why did the game end so quickly?” asked Amy. How to explain to a child that the encounter was perfect as it was and needed not a single bit more or less? A powerboater hailing from Long Island pretending to be rude meets a self-righteous sailor from Maine pretending to be crazed with indignation – it doesn’t get any funnier than that.

Tom Snyder lives in Cambridge, Mass., with his wife Anne and children. He sails his Island Packet 350, Bluemoon, out of Hingham, Mass., and Peaks Island, Maine.