Barnacle Bill & the Night of Sighs

But Max wasn't buying it. He sat at the Old man's feet and wouldn't budge.

And then the rascal just looked at me and smiled. "Is this what you call a Mexican standoff?" the old man said, his eyes smiling again.

If it was, perhaps that explained what came next. The old man walked back down the pier to Tiki IV -- with my sorry-ass turncoat hound at his heels -- and then he pointed to Tiki's cockpit and told Max to sit up there and wait for his treat.

God damn dog!

Because of course Max hopped right up into the cockpit -- something he had resolutely refused to do for me -- and then he just sat there, grinning while he waited for his next slice of nirvana. And the old man opened his carefully wrapped package and picked up a rather large slice of salmon and gently passed it over to Max.

Who looked at me as if asking for my permission.

But then Max took the slice so gently I could scarcely believe he was my dog.

And so the old man gave him another slice, and another.

"If you keep this up," I sighed, "I'll never be able to afford to feed him again."

"If he keeps this up," he replied, "I won't be having any supper tonight."

We laughed and Max smiled, and when the old man saw that smile his resolve seemed to melt away. And so, there went the rest of his supper.

"Let me take you down to the Boathouse," I said. "I don't want your death from starvation hanging over my head..."

But he shook his head at my suggestion. "I'm beyond tired. Perhaps another time."

"Assuming you survive the night, you mean."

"Yes. Quite so. Now Max, you stay there with -- oh, that's right -- I forgot, we're on a no-name basis, aren't we?"

"Call me Spud," I offered.

"Ah, that's right. That was your handle, wasn't it? In the squadron, I mean."

"Yes," I sighed, still aggravated by the depth of his knowledge.

"And I'm just Pat, to my friends, anyway," he tossed in as a kind of consolation prize. "Now Max, I've got to go now, but I'll see you tomorrow."

And as I watched him walk off, obviously without a care in the world, it struck me that he looked rather sad, and I'd say almost even lonely -- but that would have been just a guess on my part. He seemed indecipherable, not merely enigmatic -- like an obsidian wall lost in shadow. There was no way to tell what was inside the old man, or where his shadow and the black-hearted wall met.

But as we, Max and I, watched him walk out to Haiku we saw the strangest thing.

A great white bird circled overhead and at first I thought it was just another gull, but then the raptor spread its wings and slowed before it settled on one of Haiku's mast's spreaders, and then I could see that the bird was a large white owl. Rather enigmatic looking, too, even from where I stood.

And as the creature settled in up there on his perch the creature seemed to watch the old man for a while, but then its amber eyes turned to me, and then to Max, and it would be difficult for me even now to describe what I felt in that moment. Whatever it was, I was aware of a deep shiver running up my spine and into that part of the brain that commands you to run.

The Second Part of the Tale

There's hardly anything better than waking at first light in a marina, and by that I of course mean first light on a sailboat. With coffee in hand, you stub a toe at least twice on your way up the companionway to sit in the cockpit, and when you finally manage to sit, after rubbing your bruised and contused toe for a minute, you realize you've forgotten to wipe the morning dew from your sopping wet cockpit seats. And just about then your dog comes traipsing up the companionway steps, farting all the way -- because this is his way of letting you know that just because you've done your morning business doesn't mean he has, not yet anyway, and that he's ready -- right now. This means you put your coffee on the cockpit table and find your shoes and his leash then you hop down to the dock and water ski along behind your dog as he pulls you like a horse pulls a plow up to a wet patch of grass where he can squat and drop.

And by the time you return to your boat and climb back up into the cockpit, you invariably find that your coffee is now either ice old or that a passing seagull has used your favorite mug for dive-bombing practice. So off come the shoes and it's back down the companionway to the galley, stubbing the same toe along the way, to wash and refill your mug. By the time you finally manage to sit several toes are now bleeding stumps and the last thing on your mind is coffee, yet somehow you manage to sit and enjoy what's left of the moment. The mongrel who sleeps beside you settles in and sighs contentedly and for a few seconds you remember why you fell for this dream in the first place. Oh well, shit happens.

But wait! That ever-growing to-do list beckons and the first five items absolutely have to get knocked out today, so it's down to the shower and into some clean clothes we go and hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to work we go...up to the car and into the fight...

But Max came with me that morning. It was his day to be washed and dried and to get his hair cut, so we hopped down and had just started up to the parking lot when Barnacle Bill -- aka Pat -- came dragging along behind, and one look told me all I needed to know. The man was in pain and he needed help.

"You okay, Pat?" I asked, and this was met with a grimace and the slightest shake of the head you could imagine.

"No," he hissed through gritted teeth, "I may need a hand this morning."

And Max's response was priceless. He sauntered over and leaned into Pat, in effect giving the old man something to lean on, and I came up along his free side and offered my arm, and between us we helped him up to my car, an ancient Chevy Blazer almost as old as I was. Max hopped in back and I helped Pat up into the passenger seat, and when he asked me to drive him over to the ER I knew we were in for a long morning.

But the woman I'd seen walking to and from Haiku was already there and waiting for us, and she took Patrick from me and escorted him inside.

"Thanks," he said as the two of them walked inside. "So sorry to trouble you."

And that was that.

Max and I weren't even late for his day at the puppy spa, or whatever the hell you call such places. Once Max was inside all his attention went elsewhere, namely to the über cute girl with the clippers who was about to bathe him. Well hell, I'd have been smiling just like he was if that girl was about to give me a bath, but oh no, that's not for us mere mortals, not these days, anyway. No, item number two on the to-do list beckoned so I was off to yet another marine supply shop, this time in search of a hard plastic placard that had to be prominently posted in every head regarding the discharge of human waste into coastal waters. I shit you not. There's a placard for every conceivable human activity these days, too. As I'm sure all methane emissions will soon become illegal I have to assume that farting at sea will soon become a regulated activity requiring its very own placard, but where on earth will we post them? Over the crock pot in the galley, I have to assume? Before the kidney beans are so carelessly added?

After I picked up an oh-so-gorgeous Max we wound our way over to the gardens for his hours-long walk, and he pranced about the park like a Viennese Lipizzaner, high-stepping his way from tree to tree, his golden plumage almost iridescent as he went about his business. Testosterone was in the air, too, and sure enough, soon the ladies came calling. Not canine, mind you. Human females. Each one prancing over to Max, their overt displays of affection no match for him, and soon he was rolling all over their feet as they rubbed his belly. And of course these interlopers would go back to their Chihuahuas and Dachshunds, leaving me to pick the grass off his fragrant back.

But when we finally made our way back to the marina, I was surprised to see the woman from the ER waiting for me in the parking lot. It must've looked as though I was expecting bad news, as she walked right up to me and said that everything was okay and that Patrick would only be staying overnight, but he'd wanted her to make sure I knew how much our help that morning had been appreciated.

"So," I asked, "do you work for Pat?"

"Occasionally, yes."

"It's just that I've seen you coming and going a few times?"

But she just smiled.

"Do I need to check on the boat while he's away?"

"It's not really necessary," she replied. "Anyway, I think he'll be discharged by midday tomorrow."

"He seemed like he was in a good deal of pain. Is he alright?" I asked.

"You know as much as I do, I'm afraid. He doesn't tell me about these things."

"I'm sorry, but could I at least know your name?"

"Ah, sorry. Yes, I'm Carolyn. And you're...the Spud?"

"Neal Harrington," I said, trying to break the ice.

But no such luck. "Nice to meet you," she said, taking my hand. Then: "Well, perhaps we'll see you tomorrow," she said as she turned and walked back to her car.

Funny, but what I remember most about Carolyn was her hands. They were like ice, her skin cold and almost hard, like she lived in air conditioning and the temperature was set very low indeed. And as she'd failed to lavish either attention or praise on Max, he wasn't exactly sorry to see her go. Yet what was funny, but no, odd would be a much better word to use here, was my immediate reaction to her leaving. I realized it had been months since I'd touched another human being. Even the times I could remember shaking someone's hand seemed like a far distant memory, like something from another era, because maybe it was. Once the virus hit, all that stuff seemed to be one of the first casualties of this new war, and yet now that mask mandates and social distancing had been consigned to some vast collective unconscious I was beginning to realize that we'd all gotten a little too used to a new kind of distancing. We weren't coming together to celebrate surviving a pandemic; no, here in America we were shooting one another in record numbers. And even in the moribund old world people were going around killing each other like it was some new form of sport.

The net result of all this was a sudden and instant realization that I had grown far too used to a profound lack of human touch in my life, and that I really didn't like the feeling. I was in my fifties now, though just barely, but I still ran five miles three times a week and still had the same waist size I'd had in college. I had most of my hair, too. And while no one would mistake me for Robert Redford, women have told me I not exactly ugly.

But I had another problem, a fairly big one. Recruiters.

Someone at Delta Airlines heard I had retired and had more than eight thousand hours of flight time. I'd received a letter from them while still in Santa Barbara, and I'd even read through it once, scoffing at the starting salary mentioned, and I never replied or answered the calls that followed. Now, even though I'd only been in Seattle a month, I'd received another letter from them, and the salary quoted was nothing to laugh at or about. The pilot shortage was mentioned more than once for their change of position, and in just a few months I could be living the dream and getting paid real money, too.

And I wondered. Was that what had happened to Dad? Had someone dangled enough money in front of him to make it impossible to follow his dreams? Because isn't that what always happens?

But I actually didn't need the money. Sure, working for a few more years would be, literally more money in the bank, but what else could happen during those "few more years?" Get sick? How about a car accident? Either could certainly ruin your rainy day and all those dreams would get flushed down the very same drain that had swallowed my father's dreams.

There comes a point where you have to decide what kind of importance you attach to your dreams. Were your dreams ever worth anything in the first place, or were they really, really important to your conception of yourself? Were your dreams worth living right now, or were they worth so little that they could be pushed aside with ease -- for what? For a few more years? How about ten? Or even more?

As far as I could tell, my father had spent the last few years of his non-working life on his knees tending tulips and nurturing blue hasta plants in his flowerbeds. His lawn had been the stuff of every gardener's dreams, until drought and water restrictions brought all that to a screeching halt. Then he'd bought a recliner and parked it in front of a 65-inch screen and watched other peoples' dreams until Alzheimer's came calling, and all those dreams faded right alongside all his dwindling horizons. What would I be like in ten years? Still able to cross the Pacific? Was I willing to put up or shut up, to get back in the saddle again and go to work for 12 more years, or cast off my lines and head south tomorrow?

Funny, too, how such odd moments come together in our lives. I think of synergy when I manage to think about such things. The synergy of colliding souls, perhaps.

Max was sitting there beside me in the cockpit later that evening and he'd put his muzzle on my thigh again, just as he had countless times over the last year or so, and he sighed contentedly while I rubbed his head and I could feel all the cares of our world slip away from us both.

But what would happen if I gave up this life, this dream? I'd have been throwing all these precious moments right out into a rubbish heap of broken promises, not to mention that all my father's broken dreams resided in the very same landfill. I'd be gone days at a time, and who would take care of Max while I was away? More to the point, what kind of life would Max enjoy if I was home two nights a week? Would it even be worth it, to put him through that kind of emotional abuse? He'd known no one else for the first two years of his life, and wasn't abandoning him now any different than abandoning a child? Sure, I've heard people respond to that line of reasoning...as in: "Get a life, it's just a goddamn dog..." But when you get to know a pup like I knew Max, you begin to realize just how hollow some people's lives really are, and how mean some people grow over time. Duty is duty, and I'll make no apologies here -- but love is love. When you love someone you don't abandon them, and so yeah, I loved Max and I wasn't about to put him through that.

So there I was sitting somewhere on the edge of forever wondering what to do while I'd already, when you got right down to it, made up my mind. I was casting off my lines, casting my fate to the wind -- or so the song goes -- and so now it was going to be just me and Max, off to see the world, together.

There's another funny thought I have about dogs from time to time. Do we choose them, or do they somehow choose us? And don't answer that one, okay? Just think about it, especially the next time you run across a starving stray somewhere along your beaten path. Just look that soul in the eyes and think about the choices you make but you turn and walk away.

Running my fingers through his fur, feeling the pure simplicity of love and trust, movement once again caught my eye and I saw the very same snowy white owl land on Tiki's lower mast spreaders, and it hooted this time, as our eyes met. Completely unafraid, too. Huge amber eyes, and the only word that came to mind was penetrating. Maybe kinda sorta like he was not simply looking at me; no, he seemed to be staring right inside me, to a place I rarely go and seldom think about. A gray place between night and day, a hidden space halfway between fear and hope. And he was right there, too, taking a slow walk around my deepest, darkest secrets, taking a casual look -- at me.

Looking back on the encounter I feel pretty sure the owl was looking at my hands running through Max's golden fur, and yet he wasn't simply watching me, he was looking for the true measure of my feelings. And sure, I get it, it's easy to say I was projecting, that I was anthropomorphizing out of misplaced emotions brought on by too many years in relative isolation. Sure. Understood. I get it. But, then again, you weren't there. You weren't staring into this wild raptor's eyes. You weren't feeling exactly what I felt, were you?

And after a minute or so of this, the white owl jumped off the spreaders and took wing into the night; he flew off across the black water perhaps a foot or so over the mirror-smooth surface -- and then he was gone.

Max and I walked down the companionway into the aft cabin and curled up on the bed, and we fell into the deepest sleep as the boat rocked ever so gently, and as little wavelets slapped against the side of the hull the dream began. Gently, like the coming of a sigh...

+++++

A medieval castle in snow, then the coming of spring and with it the endless pink blossomings of cherry trees, yet in the distance the same castle. A tree just above, low hanging branches brushing a small, meandering brook. The castle is nestled into the side of a hill, and the castle's structure is long and low -- the antithesis of the European form. The castle's wings spread out like the roots of a vast tree, and manicured gardens are spread out among the various wings like emeralds cast about carelessly on snow.

And then the man in the dream sees a girl, her black hair pulled up tight, and yet her back is to him.

He knows this is a dream but he's never experienced anything like it before. He can feel a cool breeze running through his hair, and as he turns into the breeze he is aware of the sea and pines and he thinks that strange. He realizes he's never caught scent of things in a dream before, not once, so why now? He looks around and realizes he is on a sailing ship, not a yacht or a boat but a ship, something like a cargo-carrying sailing vessel. He sees cannons and barrels lashed on deck and the ship is sailing purposefully towards the castle just ahead and finally he realizes that he is the only soul onboard and that there is no helmsman and no one tending the trim of the sails and he runs to the bow and looks ahead. The ship is sailing fast and there are rows and rows of amber-rust-colored rocks dead ahead and he looks down into the sea and he can see more rocks as the ship closes on the rocky shore under the craggy cliffs that lie waiting just ahead.

And at the top of the cliffs, he can still just make out the castle, and the woman standing there, as the ship's keel begins grinding into the sloping seabed below. She turns to face the noise and he sees that she has the face of the white owl, her amber eyes ablaze in orange light as the ship begins disintegrating under his feet...

+++++

Barnacle Bill, or Patrick, didn't return the next day, or even the day after that, but when he did come shuffling out the dock towards Haiku the same woman was with him. Carolyn, he remembered, and there was a man with her carrying a bag of clothes and all the ancillary garbage the discharging nurse typically sends home with you from the hospital.

And Patrick seemed at once revived and yet a little more frail than he had been before the episode. His skin tones were healthier, maybe a little more pinkish, a little less waxy, and he seemed a bit more clear-eyed, maybe even more alert than he had that morning.

And Max was happy to see his friend again, too. Pat was in a wheelchair now, and he had no salmon to give Max, but that didn't seem to matter in the least. Max came up beside the wheelchair and when Carolyn stopped Max gently jumped up and put his hands on Pat's and then Max licked his chin and the Old man smiled -- and all was once again right in their little world. A boarding ramp had been put in place and Carolyn pushed his wheelchair out to Haiku and up the gently inclined ramp, and after a few twists and bumps they disappeared down below and Max looked up at me, perhaps a little confused. Pat looked different now, after all, and he wasn't walking, so Max's confusion was, I think, only natural.