Sometimes sea critters need the helping hands of humans. Charlie Hagglund sails to the rescue.
She was ugly in the most beautiful way. A two-masted schooner with trapeze hung square-rigged top and mainsail she sought the wind in every way imaginable while following a full-blown foresail billowing with ample canvas. She stood out of Morro Bay with the sea buoy to port, then headed southwest on a joy ride to Port San Luis.
Abeam of Point Buchon Charlie Hagglund took Azalea across the three-mile line to be sure of clearing the security zone isolating the Diablo Nuclear Power Plant where, as urban legend had it, security forces mounted on speedy rigid-hulled boats were heavily armed and devoid of humor.
Hagglund loved Azalea as only a sailor with generations of mariner blood coursing through his veins could love a sailing vessel. With full canvas hung out and the wind at her back Azalea could manage almost a full six knots as she cut cleanly through the moderate swell. He thrilled to the challenge of sailing her single-handed in the open sea but would have to douse sails and light off the gray marine diesel before rounding the breakwater and entering port.
Charlie sailed solo but not alone. Faithful and friendly Colleen, the lady Labrador, filled the billet of “sea dog”. A cold can of local brew swung in gentle rhythm perched in the gimbaled cup holder next to the helm. A sober sailor Charlie would allow himself a second beer only after anchor was set.
Time for lunch. After checking Colleen’s ration of dog chow and fresh water, Charlie unwrapped the generously stuffed roast-beef sandwich he had picked up at the Dockside Deli on Morro Bay’s Embarcadero. Ahead, just off the starboard bow, a boil of disturbed water caught his eye.
“Baitball?” Charlie pointed Azalea seaward with thoughts of netting a mess a fresh sardines. Quickly fried up in a hot skillet lubricated with fresh garlic and extra virgin olive-oil the silver-sided delicacies could round out a simple evening meal of clam chowder, crispy saltines, and sharp cheese.
As Azalea drew nearer the baitball increased in size and turbulence. “That’s no ball of bait fish,” Charlie reported to Colleen who had joined him in the cockpit. “Something bigger stirring things up.” He slacked off mainsail sheets spilling wind to slow his approach to the unknown source disturbing the surface of the sea. Flapping canvas is a sailor’s sin. He worked halyards to cock the yards into the wind in search of forgiveness.
“Dorsal fins. Sharks?” Grabbing binoculars he quickly focused in on the widening pool of disturbed ocean.
“Dolphins! A fair-sized pod. Never seen ‘em bunched up together like this.” Colleen answered with a soft whine.
Charlie had seen lots of dolphins in his years at sea. He watched them from a deck ninety feet above the water while aboard the amphibious force ship Whetstone in the South China Sea. They seemed to laugh at the “Rolling Stone”, racing far ahead as she plodded along at twelve knots. Ashore, at an aquarium performance in Tokyo, he had been selected from the crowd to feed several bottle-nosed dolphins winding up with a soaked set of dress blues to the polite applause and embarrassed laughter of the Japanese crowd.
As Azalea closed on the pod Charlie reset the mainsail and headed shoreward to avoid too close an approach to the large group of mammals. He was too late. The boat now found herself in the middle of the pod. He watched in amazement as a group of dolphins herded one of their number up against the boat’s hull. He leaned over the gunwale to see if he could reach the dolphin for a friendly pet. He could. He delighted in the close personal contact with a beautiful species in a wild habitat.
The strange behavior of certain members of the pod continued. Charlie realized that individual members were taking turns swimming beneath the one he had touched while others were stationkeeping it alongside the hull. Then he figured it out. They were keeping their pod mate afloat. As she rolled away from the boat Charlie’s eyes widened as he saw two perfect flukes extending from the bottom of the otherwise streamlined mammal.
“Jump’n Jesus the Carpenter’s Mate, she’s giving birth! Having a tough time of it too.” Colleen gave a sympathetic whine as though sharing an experience only females, except for seahorses, could understand. But Charlie understood one thing, she was exhausted and if she didn’t get help, she would drown, and her calf would die with her.
Charlie grabbed a sail cover from the gear locker, affixed a braided cord on each leading edge and a heavy sinker to the tail, forming a makeshift sling. He went forward to get ahead of the laboring dolphin. With care, he lowered the sinker into the water just ahead of her, then payed out the outboard line slipping the sling beneath her. Luckily the outboard wing of the sling passed under her starboard pectoral fin while the inboard wing stayed forward of its mate.
Realizing she would need to kick to release the calf and break the umbilical Charlie eased aft and returned to the cockpit, securing the sling lines to an empty sail winch. Slowly taking strain he raised the animal’s head high enough for taking breath on a lee roll. As though directed the grateful escorts gave way giving the mother room to buck. And buck she did, releasing the calf in a cloud of bloody foam. Charlie quickly released the outboard sling line freeing the mother who immediately swam below the newborn to bring its head above water for the first breath of a lifetime. Charlie felt but ignored the tear streaming down his cheek. Colleen gave him a lick.
Sometime later while sipping a fine scotch with a life-long friend, Charlie was quizzed about the green leafed Cuban cigar mounted in a finely crafted display case on the forward cockpit bulkhead.
“That?” Charlie grinned. “That was in celebration of the time I served as midwife to a mother dolphin.”
“Oh,” said his friend. “A fish tale.”
Colleen whined.
It may have been fiction, but I believe you observed it in some form. It's a good thing Dolphins are mammals or it would've been a "fish" tale. Didn't smell anything fishy here
Ron
I'm writing a fish tale right now… About two fish, actually… Will post soon.
This is the trade paperback edition of the mythopoeic paranormal novel recounting the attempts of one Danny Blue and his friends to come to terms with a series of unusual events in his life. A Kindle eBook edition is also available.
London: Lashed, Lacerated, Lampooned and Lambasted satirizes 18 popular Jack London novellas with adult content and language and the work is author Jay Dubya's 37th published hardcover/paperback book.
