The Adventures of Scallywag the Sea Dog, Part 3

VII

I stood at the bow of The Dolphin, my front paws on the gunwale, and my nose poked out underneath the railing. After a year as a Sea Dog, I had concluded that this was a perfect day. Mostly blue skies. Puffy clouds. And wind. Lots of wind, that curled waves into foamy whitecaps. The bow of The Dolphin would lunge up over the crest of a wave, then slam down into the trough, sending a wash of seawater over the railing. The spray drenched me, filling my nose with the sweet smell of brine, burning my eyes for a brief moment, and crusting my coat with salt. A landlubber might find this nauseating, but a Sea Dog loves a day like this. It made me feel strong. It gave me purpose. It made me feel alive.

I did not know for sure where we were headed – and neither did the rest of the crew. Only Captain Carver knew our course. All we knew was that we were headed to a “rafting,” which is a meeting of mariners on the open sea, with ships lashed together and forming a floating island. The location of the annual gathering is a secret known only to the mariner captains. In the past, the location of the rafting was known to many, even in the taverns of seaside towns, such as Harbortown.

Then, years ago, pirates decided to crash the party. Though mariners own little worth stealing, other than the clothes on their backs, that did not deter the pirates from attacking a rafting in the wee hours of the morning. The pirates killed dozens, took many others hostage, and sent many ships sinking to the depths of the ocean.

The sun rose blood-red that sad morning, and the mariners counted the dead and tended to the wounded as the pirates sailed away. That afternoon, the mariner captains agreed that the time and place of the next rafting had to be secret; a tradition that continues to this day. The captains come to an agreement and lock the secret up tighter than the vaults of the richest bank in any city.

So, our purpose was clear, but our destination was not. And as the sun faded into the horizon, I crossed my paws in the hope that the sun would not rise red in the morn’.

We were sailing the Wild Sea, headed northward. the Wild Sea did not get its name because of the weather; it is no more thrashing and violent than any other sea. It actually may be the calmest and most peaceful of seas in our part of the world.

So why is it called the Wild Sea? Because it is far from land, and anything - and I do mean anything – can happen there. Sailing the Wild Sea is like going to a party at which you don’t know who the guests will be. Mermaids, nymphs, sea dragons, mariners, and pirates all plied those waters, as well as many creatures only known in legend.

After another day, we came across another ship with a sea-green pennant with a yellow trident, much like our own – a mariner’s flag.

Other ships loomed on the horizon, and first mate Annabelle’s keen eye through the seeing glass identified they were all mariners – no pirates or fishermen to be seen. The rafting was coming together!

I was so mesmerized, I jumped when Stick patted my head. He paused as I caught my breath.

“Easy, girl! When we raft up, you’re going to meet lots of other Sea Dogs, and many have been out on the water for years. Some of the old-timers will be suspicious of you until you have proved yourself on the seas. Don’t take it personally – just stay quiet and listen. You can learn a lot.

Stick turned and walked aft.

The first ship to arrive was The Flying Fish. Beulah and Stick hurled lines to the other ship, and the two vessels were lashed side-to-side.

The mariners merrily greeted each other with all manners of insults.

“You’re so ugly not even a gypsy would buy ye!”

“What a pathetic looking sea rat! Now I remember why I’ll never sail on The Dolphin.

“You smell like a bucket of cuttlefish vomit!”

These are a few examples actually fit for young landlubber ears.

The rafting had begun!

Mariners hopped back and forth between the ships, exchanging hugs and introductions. Captain Carver climbed onto The Flying Fish and politely bowed to Captain Dree.

I was happy to see the other Sea Dog, Kelp, was young like myself, so I hurtled over the railings and crashed on their deck. We sniffed each other’s bottoms, and soon we were nipping and biting each other playfully.

As the afternoon went on, more and more ships sailed in and lashed to one another. By sunset, more than 40 ships formed a floating island, with mariners freely hopping from ship to ship for whatever struck their fancy.

As Stick had predicted, the older Sea Dogs ignored me, but there were a few younger mutts to play with. We rolled and romped and played tug-of-war with a line. I was having a merry time.

Tonight was going to be a party to remember!

VIII

The sun set orangily on the horizon of the Wild Sea, and the sky began to darken. The blackness of the moonless night made the stars seem like thousands of tiny candles far off in the heavens.

Kelp and I had become fast friends. As the mariners dined on all manner of seafood, we bounced from ship to ship, begging at every stop. The kind mariners were generous, and soon our bellies became so full, we could barely move. It was a feast of the sea.

After everyone had eaten, the mariners gathered on the decks of the ships at the center of the rafting, The Dolphin and The Flying Fish. Several barrels of grelm were brought aboard. Grelm, for you landlubbers, is a fermented beverage made of seaweed and squid ink. Frothy, dark green, slimy, and chunky, it is a favorite of mariners, but for land folk, a small sip will make them throw up for days.

With the grelm flowing freely, the music and dancing began. There were songs of the ocean, ships sinking in storms, and some inappropriate for a young dog’s ears.

With boots stomping rhythmically on the deck of The Dolphin, they sang raucously:

When I was a lad

I met a girl

The prettiest girl

In the whole wide world

She was a fine

And bonny lass

With a lovely smile

And really cute…

Cheeks

As the night grew long, the party began to wind down. The younger mariners, surprisingly including First Mate Annabelle, continued the party, but the elders settled into tales and news of going-on about the seas.

The Sea Dogs all gathered on the deck of a ship called The Wanderer, and Kelp and I, along with two other new Sea Dogs, sat quietly and listened to the older dogs, heeding Stick’s advice.

“Pirates have been about,” said a gray-muzzled black lab mix.

“Aye,” said an ornery little terrier. “We got attacked off Catalina Island. Drove ‘em off, I had to.”

Exactly how a twelve-pound mutt could chase away a crew of pirates, I hadn’t a clue. But then again, a little dog’s bite is often worse than its bark.

My eyelids grew heavy, and I curled up beside my new friend, Kelp. With the old timers still yammering about thus-and-such, I drifted off to sleep beneath the blackest, most perfect sea sky you can imagine.

I arose the next morning as the sun began to rise above the horizon – orange and then white – a good omen for the day’s weather. The Wild Sea was calm, which was probably for the best for the younger mariners who had stayed up very late emptying barrels of grelm and were asleep in a heap on the deck of a ship called The Mystic.

The amused, but unsurprised captains gathered buckets of fish slop, and with a boisterous, “1! 2! 3!” tossed the slop onto the sleeping mariners. They awoke and jumped up, and Carlos and the other fishermen lassoed the entire squealing (and in some cases, vomiting) group with a heavy line, like a herd of goats being readied for slaughter. With a strong push, the fishermen pinned the sleepyheads against the railing, and with a laughing “Heave Ho!” the younger mariners were toppled and splashed into The Wild Sea.

With great laughter, the soggy sailors were dragged and hauled back on board. Breakfast was served, and my friend Kelp and I continued our highly successful begging strategy, and soon we were so full, we didn’t even have the energy to chase off the pesky squawking seagulls flitting around.

After breakfast, everyone said their farewells, and the captains discussed the location of next year’s rafting. After they came to an agreement, they returned to their ships, along with their crew and Sea Dogs.

“Goodbye,” Kelp said.

“I can’t wait to see you next year,” I replied.

“I’m so glad I made a best friend,” she answered.

“I’m your best friend?” I asked.

Kelp tipped her head to the side. “Of course.”

I looked down to the worn wooden beams of the deck.

“I’ve never had a friend before, at least not a dog one. But the peopleses are real nice to me.” I looked back up.

“I know exactly how you feel,” Kelp replied.

We nuzzled for a few moments, and with a hint of a tear in her eye, Kelp turned, sprung over the railings, and back onto The Flying Fish.

The rating was over, as far as I was concerned. Throwing off the lines and going our separate ways was just a formality.

When the rafting was over, the forty-plus mariner vessels sailed off in forty-plus directions, not likely to see one another until they met next year. Such is the way of a mariner, and I was happy to be along for the voyage.

I was standing, tongue out, with my paws on the railing as Captain Carver and First Mate Annabelle discussed our course. With all due respect, the normally gorgeous Annabelle looked like a sea cucumber dragged up by an anchor.

“Where are we a-headed?” she asked with a handheld against her head.

“To the Coral Islands,” Carver said, holding onto the ship’s wheel and staring to the horizon.

“Are you a-serious?” she asked. I wasn’t sure if she was asking a question, about to regurgitate grelm, or both. “We’ll be going into choppy waters this time of year,” she said with dismay.

Captain Carver hollered from the bridge, “Carlos! Can we find Bomaloos off the Coral Islands this time of year?”

The salty-haired fisherman yelled up to the captain, “Aye! Loads of them. Perfect time of year.”

“We can handle some choppy waters, First Mate. If your breakfast isn’t sitting well, you may go over there and feed the fish,” he said, pointing to the railing.

I made a doggy giggle as Annabelle stomped away. As much as I loved and respected her, it was quite amusing to see the ornery redhead put in her place.

As Annabelle stormed away, Captain Carver took us on a northerly course. I had never been to the Coral Islands, and for that matter, had no idea what a “Bomaloo” was. But Carlos began preparing the nets, and Beulah began singing as she worked:

Bomaloo! Bomaloo!

I will boil them to a stew

I will boil them in a pot

Bomaloo are best hot!

Beulah pointed at me frequently as she worked and made up silly songs. I wasn’t sure which I liked better; her singing or her smile.

A day later, we reached the fishing grounds just south of the Coral Island. As expected, the seas had grown much choppier; not a storm, but not flat water, either. Because of the chop, Captain Carver decided not to lower the launch boats, but instead to drag the net behind the keel.

Carlos had the net ready, while Stick and Peg awaited his signal. He went to the bow and scanned the waters.

At last, he hollered, “Drop the net!”

Peg and Stick obeyed, and in just a few minutes, I could tell this would be a massive catch. The surface of the water boiled with the fish, and hundreds began to jump, little rascals – only 4-5 inches long.

The crew hauled in the net and emptied it, and thousands of the oddest little fish flopped around on the deck.

Bomaloo are half fish and half squid – little piscine pancakes with tentacles for propulsion. The crew scooped them into barrels, and I did what I could to herd them and keep the Bomaloo from hopping over the railing.

Once they were all corralled, Stick and Peg helped Carlos fold up the nets, while Beulah went below to get a fire going.

Before long, Beulah brought up a basket of fried Bomaloo – an amazing culinary teat. The preparation couldn’t be simpler: chuck them whole into hot oil and pull them out when they get crispy. Guts and all. They’re as sweet as lobster, but crunchy.

After we all gorged, we settled into our evening routine of games and music under lanternlight. But as the night progressed, Carlos began to pace with his gaze steadily westward.

“First Mate,” he said calmly, but quietly.

“Yes, Carlos,” Annabelle answered.

“Do you see that?” he questioned, pointing to the sea.

“No, I a-don’t,” she said, “Let me a-get my lookin’ glass.”

She returned and scanned the blackened horizon. Then she looked over her shoulder.

“Captain are any of the other mariner ships in these waters a-now?” she asked.

Captain Carver scowled. “No. What do you two see?”

“A ship is approaching,” Annabelle answered.

“The gypsies don’t come out this far,” Carlos said.

“And the Coral Island Fishermen rarely do,” the captain added. And he certainly knew, since it was his boyhood home.

“Most likely pirates,” Carlos said.

Carver’s shoulders slumped and he looked to the deck. We all grew silent and waited for his command.

He looked back up and scanned the crew with a serious look. Then he bellowed, “Raise the sails! Douse the lanterns! We sail east under cover of darkness. We may have pirates on our trail.”

Scallywag was written for my son when he was young. I read it at bedtime, and he requested it repeatedly. I hope he will read it to his children in the future.

Copyright 2019, Ted A. Lacksonen