Boating with Amy

Dogs might not always make the best sailors, but their tail-wagging enthusiasm always adds fun to a boating trip. Besides, they wouldn’t dare let you leave them behind

BY ANNE VIPOND

In our years of cruising, Bill and I have often had a canine crewmember with us. Our first dog was a plucky Scottish terrier named Tuck. His was a seafaring life, having moved onto our liveaboard Spencer 35 while still a puppy. In the course of his waterborne travels Tuck faced all sorts of weather and was happiest in the cockpit when underway, even in wet and windy conditions. He crossed major bodies of water, including the Gulf of Alaska, and strolled the remote shorelines of such faraway places as Geographic Harbor and Kodiak Island, sniffing the air for grizzlies before hopping out of the dinghy. Whenever we pulled into an Alaskan fishing port, the local dogs—usually three times Tuck’s size and eager for a quick sniff—were greeted with a snarl as he brushed them aside. Tuck had attitude, in droves. And like all pets, he was a treasured member of the family. I still have the collection of Christmas sweaters my mom knit for him, one of which Tuck modeled for his cover photo on Pacific Yachting

(December 1993). When Tuck died at age 14, a boating friend penned us a poem in his memory and Pacific Yachting ran an obit on the editorial page.

NEEDLESS TO SAY, Tuck was a hard act to follow when, a decade later, Bill and I got another dog. This decision came after months of pleading from our nine-year-old son John. Eventually, we relented and began pondering what breed to get. Our friend and mentor Bill Wolferstan recommended a wire fox terrier. He and his wife Clementien had one and it was apparently very adept at canal barging in Europe. They knew a breeder in Victoria and a five-month-old puppy was available. Her name was Amelia but we promptly shortened it to Amy. It was hard not to compare Amy to Tuck, and in many ways she shone. Tender, playful and bursting with energy, she was a lively addition to the household that first winter. When spring arrived, we took her to our sailboat, moored at a marina on the Fraser River, to acquaint her with being on a boat. That’s when Amy’s talent for leaping gave us a bit of a shock. We were with her in the cockpit when she hopped onto the gunwale to take a look over the side. She must have thought the silty water was muddy ground because, after a moment’s hesitation, she jumped—into the river. Despite her initial surprise, Amy immediately displayed her swimming skills by paddling—against a flood current—back to the boat. Bill was able to scoop her on board before the current swept her away.

After that incident, we hoped she had learned her lesson about jumping overboard. But, to riff on a lyric from Showboat, “fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly and wire fox terriers gotta leap.” On Amy’s first boating trip to the Gulf Islands, she exhibited her agility at every anchorage. Not only did she delight in leaping from the boat into the inflatable dinghy, she would perform the reverse move when we returned from shore. To our amazement she would spring from the dinghy’s bow as it drew close to the boat, somehow propelling herself up and over several feet of freeboard and threading her body in between the rope lifelines like a pole vaulter clearing the bar, but without the aid of a pole.

THIS WAS SOMETHING Tuck, with his short legs and stocky body, would never have tried. He always waited to be lifted in and out of the dinghy, his splayed toes often snagging one of the rope lifelines. Upon approaching shore, Tuck would hop out of the din ghy only when we had reached ankledeep water and even then he would hesitate, seemingly reluctant to get his paws wet, usually waiting for some one to take the painter and pull the dinghy further onto the beach. Amy, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to leap into the water and swim the remaining distance. She would continue paddling even when lifted clear of the water, her dripping wet legs cycling through the air.

We all marveled at Amy’s athleticism but bemoaned her nervous energy when the boat was underway. She did not like sailing. Just the sight of a sail being raised would send her hurtling down the companionway into the cabin to hide. However, like most things in life, Amy’s nervousness while underway was manageable. Then, to Amy’s dismay, we got a bigger boat—a Tayana 48.

Her agitation began the instant the engine started. It was much louder than the smaller diesel on our previous boat and the sound of it thundering into action would send Amy dashing to the forward cabin. Soon the rattling of anchor chain would drive her aft to hide in the shower stall, where her bed was tucked under a bench seat. She seemed OK there until, heaven forbid, the sails were raised and the flapping of sailcloth, snapping of lines and grinding of winches would flush her out of her den in search of human company.

Yet, despite Amy’s anxiety about sailing, as soon as we reached our destination and the anchor was set, she was back in her element, eager for the next dinghy ride. Which brings me to another issue Amy had with the bigger boat. They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks and Amy, at the age of five, now had to relearn her signature move of leaping into the dinghy.

Such a move required greater precision because of the boat’s higher freeboard and this was something Amy miscalculated. The first time she tried it I was in the galley making morning coffee when I heard Bill on the aft deck ordering Amy to ‘stay’ followed by the sound of a loud splash. Amy had missed her mark.

We learned to promptly strap on her life jacket and tether her to a stanchion until the dinghy was ready and manned for heading ashore. Despite these precautions, John’s logbook entries from our first voyage in the bigger boat include a number of Amy’s failed aquatic feats.

WE PICKED A calm day to round Cape Caution, but the swells in

Queen Charlotte Sound made for an uncomfortable ride. Upon reaching Rivers Inlet and anchoring in the cove sheltered by Fury Island, we were all happy to have completed that leg of the trip. Amy, however, was nowhere to be found. We knew she was hiding somewhere and sure enough, upon calling her name, the muffled jingling of dog tags could be heard coming from beneath the propane stove. Somehow, she had flattened herself like a cat into this tight space and now appeared to be stuck. However, with a bit of coaxing, she was able to crawl out on her belly.

Yet nothing, not even the rolling seas of Queen Charlotte Sound, can douse Amy’s enthusiasm for boating once it’s time to go ashore in search of adventure. And what an adventure she had on Calvert Island when we hiked the trail from Pruth Bay to West Beach—a stunning stretch of beach with ocean swells sparkling in the sunlight as they rolled onto shore. This is where Amy found her nirvana.

Terriers like to dig, and Amy couldn’t believe her luck when she trotted onto this beautiful, deserted beach and felt the fine sand beneath her paws. She galloped along the edge of the surf with the boys, then ran back to Bill and me strolling at a slower pace, then caught up again with the jogging boys, then sprinted back to us. When she finally stopped running, she started digging. Sand flew as she furiously burrowed down in search of some elusive, nonexistent prey. At last, exhausted, she flopped on her side beside Bill, who was now sitting at the base of a smooth rock face and lay there as contented as a dog can possibly be.

I’m sure it never crossed her mind that in a week’s time she would be making the dreaded return trip past Cape Caution. Dogs live in the moment, which is probably why they enjoy life to the fullest. No wonder we humans love them so much.