Thirty Miles Out

By daybreak they were thirty miles out onto open water - twice that by noon - and too occupied throwing and hauling nets to even notice the spectacular sunrise. They had headed out in the predawn darkness as they did every morning, up at 4 and casting off by 5, and would not return until late afternoon, when they would not notice the approaching sunset. It was a fine day to fish, captain and crew agreed, and a fine day to be alive.

They happened on the remains of the dory - washed up on what the old timers called The Ledge, an uninhabited and forbidding spit of land surrounded by jagged outcroppings of rock - on the way home, just past Seal Point. It lay on it's side with a jagged hole in the keel, hung up on the rocks and being battered to and from by the tide. As there was no sign of life, they might have kept going but for the sound of a dog barking. Rusty shaded his eyes and peered toward the shoals - sure enough, above the small wrecked boat, a big old yellow dog stood, barking and prancing about on the kelp covered rocks. Rusty turned The Alma sharply, never stopping to think how the dog came to be there or how exactly they would effect a rescue - getting too close would certainly cause his own vessel to to be lodged on the rocks, no one on board was a strong swimmer, and taking their own dory in might end in its loss and no dog to show for it. Cutting the engines, he dropped anchor and called the crew together - the dog paced anxiously back and forth, more frantic with every passing minute. Tide'll get 'im iffen we don't, Rusty muttered as the crew called, coaxed, whistled, shouted encouragement and slapped their thighs all to no avail. Fetch me a rope, boy, Rusty finally said reluctantly, Could be he'll meet us halfway.

They drew lots for who would make the cold swim then fashioned a harness. Davey, Rusty's youngest, slipped into it and wrapped a makeshift sling over his shoulder then plunged into the unforgiving water. He swam like a maniac while the men played out the rope and Rusty watched, hands gripping the railing until his knuckles were white. Davey reached the shoals with rope left over and his daddy breathed a deep sigh of relief as the boy managed to climb out of the water and approach the dog. It took several minutes but he wrapped the sling around the animal's midsection then pulled, dragged and nearly carried him into the sea - the crew furiously reeled them in against the stubborn waves. You tell your mama about this and I'll skin you alive, Rusty warned the boy as they wrapped him in blankets. The dog shook himself vigorously and accepted a half bacon sandwich and a cup of fresh water that Rusty offered then sat at Davey's feet for the remainder of the trip home.

Once on dry land, explaining the dog took some creative thinking - Rusty never being one for telling an outright lie,
told his wife they had simply found the dog on the way in and dismissed her questions about details. Davey was equally elusive and knowing that her husband and son were safe was enough for Lynnie. When the true story was told and she heard it, she offered up a small prayer for the protection of all fishermen and forgave the small white lie. The yellow dog was christened Sonny and from that day forward, accompanied The Alma on every day out to sea and spent each night beside Davey's bed. The mystery of his origin was never solved and the rescue crews who searched The Ledge a half dozen times found nothing except the remnants of the damaged dory. If the sea had taken a life that summer afternoon, as the crew of The Alma mightily suspected, it had spared another. Neither the waves nor the dog would ever give up the secret.

The sea hath no king but God alone - Dante, The White Ship