Fall 2024
By Craig Moodie
Salty the non-seadog naps on terra firma where he’s the happiest. Despite his heritage as a Labrador retriever, he developed an aversion to water. Photo by Craig Moodie
I mourn the end of every sailing season, but, several years ago, “the end” took on a special gravitas: Salty, our old gentleman of a yellow Labrador, neared the end of his days. Many times, when we would otherwise have sailed, we needed to tend to him at home, which meant we got out far fewer times than usual.
That’s why the last sail of that season was such a gift.
Under blue late-September skies, crisscrossed by contrails and smears of cirrus, I dropped off the mooring in light airs of about five knots out of the north northwest. We were the second to last boat on the water. Only a lone Beetle Cat remained in the mooring field.
I swung back to the beach to drop the dinghy off, then set a course out toward Halftide Rock so I could tack into the inner harbor. The waves kissed the hull as the breeze stiffened, slackened, stiffened, slackened. Even though I was absorbed in the moment, I already missed the tug of taut lines and the thrumming tiller, the salt-smack of sea air, the slap of sail – as I already knew how much I’d miss our old pal Salty. I came about when I saw a stretch of greasy water separating us from the water riffled by the breeze so I wouldn’t lose way.
I sailed toward the rocks bordering the beach in the mooring field, then came about again and took a leisurely course back toward Scraggy Neck. Not a single other boat was on the water. Only Cleveland Ledge Light, standing on the southwest horizon like an anchored vessel, jutted from the open waters of Buzzards Bay. I let my thoughts drift to Salty. The image of his face, with its soft grizzled muzzle and sweet smile – a smile that warmed our lives for 15 and a half years – made me smile, too.
My smile turned to an audible chuckle as we clipped along, the wavelets chuckling along with me against Finn’s hull as if reading my thoughts: We had christened Salty with a highfalutin’ American Kennel Association moniker – Sir Salty Seadog – assuming that any purebred Labrador retriever worthy of the name would be a natural waterdog.
All the Labs I grew up with were aquatic to the core. Quite the opposite proved true in Salty’s case. As a pup, he took to the water as we expected, even to the degree of insisting on joining our son and daughter in the tub at bath time.
But from age one on, his swimming days diminished, and soon water became his nemesis.
What triggered his aversion baffled us. Had he suffered a nipped nose in battle with a blue claw? Did he develop an allergy to the taste of saltwater? We could pinpoint no precise cause for this waterdog’s phobia. On occasion we could goad him into the shallows to cool off on a hot beach day. He would wade around, jerking each paw up as if sea urchins carpeted the bottom. If you were unlucky enough to swim near him, he would panic and thrash toward you, raking you with his claws. Gone were the days in his puppyhood when he would swim for a tennis ball for hours on end.
I realized, as we passed C “5” on the way out to the end of Scraggy Neck, that this last sail of the season had become a sort of valedictory sail, a celebration of our quirky companion’s life. Soon he would not be with us. But he would never leave us. Coming about again, I set a course for the beacon at the end of the breakwater, the osprey’s nest now just an empty heap of sticks atop the structure.
I rounded the point, the wind holding, and weaved my way past a couple of bigger sailboats moored in the inner harbor, one of which emitted the tantalizing scent of cooking bacon. Maybe the air temperature made the scent even more enticing: I was comfortable in the chill thanks to my baseball cap, fleece vest, sweatshirt, two long-sleeve polos, old khakis and fishing boots – though the toes of my left foot had been numb earlier. But thanks to the perfume of frying bacon, now I was hungry for breakfast.
I ghosted into the slot between the pier and the floating dock. I eased the sheet to slow down as we slipped toward shore. The boat slid with a slight crunch onto the patch of sandy beach between the ramp and the dinghy dock, and we came to a rest. I was left standing in Finn’s cockpit, the harbor quiet except for the call – half laugh, half cry – of a gull standing atop a piling.
Thus had the last sail of the season ended, just as the seasons were ending for our ancient canine friend whose coat matched the color of our buff decks. But bittersweet though the moment was, I smiled, if only in a rueful way: I had to count myself among the luckiest of skippers to have such a boat and a dog, both longtime uncommon companions, to enrich my life.
The gull concurred.
Craig Moodie lives with his wife Ellen in Massachusetts. His work includes “A Sailor’s Valentine and Other Stories,” and, under the name John Macfarlane, the middle-grade novel “Stormstruck!”, a Kirkus Best Book.
