Episode 19: Lovely Lady
A change in the weather
The photo is our own sweet Cape Dory, Abrazo, under spinnaker. Like Tom’s boat, Abrazo had a tendency to break down in rather spectacular ways at the least convenient moments, but we loved her anyway.
Reminders: Instructions for finding episodes on Substack here. Cast of Characters here or on The Dogs of Looser Island website here.
Episode 19: Lovely Lady
Tom hums along to Jimmy Buffett’s “A Pirate Looks at 40” as he adjusts the spinnaker, his thoughts tacking this way and that as if in response to the fickle wind: I suppose it’s bad for a sheriff to sing about being a pirate . . . I wonder if this wind will hold—it was a flat calm like the small of a woman’s back yesterday . . . I wonder why I’m one of the few on Looser Island who sails . . . I think I read we’re up to almost two thousand people, maybe? . . . only a few of us have a sailboat . . . lots of folks have a row boat or a sea kayak . . . or a damn motor boat stinking up the water, bellowing and growling like some kind of monster, disturbing the orcas and everything else around . . . considering we live in the middle of the best sailing waters in the world it’s weird there are so few sailors . . . .
The CD ends, and the portable CD player clicks off, but the sound waves of Jimmy Buffett’s crooning hang on the air for a split second longer.
And then for a while his mind is silent, reveling in the clear cold sounds of the wind in the rigging and the water as it yields, momentarily, to the boat.
Periodically, he pulls on “bits of string” (the lines that adjust the sails), without regard to whether or not the point of sail actually needs tweaking. Because that’s what sailors do, what they love. It’s weirdly sunny for February, though still cold. He knows this—sunshine sparkling on calm waters—is only a temporary reprieve, knows the howling winds and torrential downpours that are the norm for February are waiting in the wings.
Change is coming.
Make no mistake, Tom’s sailboat is no fifty-foot schooner with a mermaid on the bowsprit and a mahogany wet bar below. The sheriff of Looser Island brings home as paltry a salary as sheriffs everywhere, and his purchase of a boat was less wild splurge and more an agreement to take a boondoggle off the prior owner’s hands.
A decade or so ago, Tom acquired a 1974 twenty-five foot Cape Dory, a poor bedraggled lady who limped into his life begging to be allowed to retire as someone’s yard ornament, or distributed in parts for other boats the way a human donates her organs after shucking the mortal coil.
“Would you?” Tom asked, not sure how to frame the question, afraid to reveal his whole heart. “Would you take a thousand for her?”
The answer would be No. The seller’s eyes confirmed it.
“I must be crazy,” the seller said, sighing. “Yeah, I’ll take a thousand.” He turned quickly toward the boat, listing in its slip at the dock as if she knew she was doomed. Tom could have sworn there were tears, and a muttered “Sorry,” whispered in the boat’s direction.
For months after that, Tom spent every spare dollar and every spare hour repairing and sanding and varnishing and patching and replacing, and although he can now say without exaggeration that she’s a pretty little thing, she has barely room for two to sleep below (and between work and working on the boat Tom has no time for romance, so there’s never a second mate joining him when he sails overnight). Then, too, the head is a miniature port-a-potty next to the V-berth, with nothing but a thin curtain for privacy, another barrier to romance. And she has a disturbing tendency when least expected to spring a leak or malfunction in some unpredictable manner, so Tom tends to hug the shorelines of the islands when he goes out on the water.
Just in case.
In other words, this is not a boat in which to sail around the world in search of adventure, not unless the desired adventure involves Going to Meet One’s Maker at sea.
Also, there’s this. The first principles a new boat owner learns are: a boat is a hole in the water into which you pour money; and B.O.A.T. is short for Bring Out Another Thou. Tom is not now nor is he ever likely to be a rich man. Owning a boat just sealed his fate.
Nevertheless he dotes on his boat the way some men dote on their spouses or their grandchildren. Her name is Lovely Lady, after the Buffett song “My Lovely Lady,” which came out the year she was built. The name was what sold Tom on her even more than the price—Tom is prosaic and stodgy, not given to flights of fancy, but when he saw her and heard her name, he knew it was meant to be.
Tom was an experienced boater even before the purchase of Lovely Lady. All the county sheriffs have access to one (singular) ancient Hews Craft and two (just two) Roberts cruisers, for hopping between the islands. Tom knows they serve a purpose, but he doesn’t like them. There is no comparison to his beloved sailboat, who demands every ounce of seamanship he can muster, and gives him, in return, a peace he finds nowhere else.
It’s time to turn back, Tom knows, yet he lingers for a while longer.
Undersheriff Nancy and Sheriff Tom alternate weeks on duty and weeks on call, and their shifts overlap every week from six in the morning on Friday through noon on Sunday (when something important that might require two officers is likely to happen). It is Thursday evening of Tom’s week off duty, and darkness is closing in. He would prefer to stay out another night. He’d rather spend a little more time navigating the dark expanse that is both loud and quiet as only the ocean can be, and anchor off one of the uninhabited islands, but if he did that he’d be tired before he even reported for duty the next day, so he reefs the mainsail against the coming winds and prepares to return to his real life.
“Morning, Haley,” Nancy says.
Nancy is the only one who calls him by his last name, a name the rest of the islanders have in all likelihood forgotten. He is just “Sheriff Tom” to everyone but Nancy, and Tom has never figured out how he feels about that.
While Nancy makes another pot of VBC (Very Bad Coffee), Tom looks over the Sheriff’s Log that comes out every Thursday. The Log covers all the islands on the US side of the border, every call and report and false alarm. The names of the islands range from the mundane to the truly odd: Looser Island, of course; Dragon Island; Wing-and-a-Prayer (presumably due to the fact that some ship barely made it into the sizeable harbor there); Shoehorn Island (just big enough for a blighted freighter to anchor, perhaps?); Ronald’s Mistake (the identity of Ronald and the nature of his mistake have been lost in the annals of history); Mary’s Island (ditto on the identity of Mary).
On the other side of the invisible international border, the Canadian Gulf Islands sport names that are, in some cases, just as nonsensical: Chipper Sweet; Bird Island (though it is not now and has never been any kind of official bird sanctuary); Pistachio Nut Island (likely aspirational, since pistachio nuts are not grown, and would not thrive, in the Pacific Northwest), nicknamed by locals PNI, perhaps to forestall ridicule at the island’s name; Calm Bay. The Sheriff’s Log does not include the Gulf Islands, though occasionally the Canadian Coast Guard will notify the American Coast Guard of some cross-border activity, and the Americans in turn will notify the San Jan County Sheriff’s Department.
The Sheriff’s Log reads like a poem, and something about the litany of petty crimes feels soothing to Tom. If these disputes and misdemeanors are the worst of the worst in his purview, the world has not yet completely lost its moorings.
Mary’s Island. A tractor belonging to Mr. Sylvester Lange was taken from his garage. Mr. Lange said he had two tractors, the other one was not taken. The tractor was found by the side of the road. Mr. Lange said he guessed the tractor didn’t want to be stolen, and up and quit on the thief.
Shoehorn Island. Five hundred dollars’ worth of items were taken from Ms. Melissa Pearson’s Volvo while it was parked in the parking lot of the Shopper’s Paradise. The stolen items included a bottle of Mystic Moonlight perfume, a Danny Devito travel mug, a flashlight, two energy drinks, and a box of rice krispie treats. Ms. Pearson said the items were in her Coach bag, and Coach bags cost a lot of money. She said she didn’t care about the rest of the things, but she was hoping to get the bag back, because her husband bought it for her.
Dragon Island. A 63-year-old man received a citation for violating the county noise ordinance after a complaint was filed by a 59-year-old woman who complained that her neighbor was listening to KISS very loudly, and it was upsetting her and her cats.
KISS? Tom thinks. Who listens to KISS any more?
Ronald’s Mistake. A five dollar bill was reported stolen from a coffee can Mr. James Smith said he kept in his refrigerator, for emergencies. Update: Mr. James Smith said he found out his wife took the money because she needed it to donate to the Quilting Club.
Dragon Island. Two bicycles were left in front of the post office with a note that said, “Sorry stupid drunk prank our bad.” The owner of the bikes was notified.
Wing-and-a-Prayer. A man responding to a cry for help couldn’t gain entry into his neighbor’s home. There was no answer to a knock on the door, so the responding deputy broke in. The resident was found to be fine. The damage to the door was documented.
“So who cried for help?” Tom asks Nancy, sipping the coffee and trying to hide the grimace. (They both know the coffee’s terrible, but he feels bad making a face since Nancy was thoughtful enough to make the coffee and then bring him a cup.)
“The neighbor’s Myna bird,” Nancy says. “Apparently the old man’s grandson taught him to call out ‘Help,’ thinking it would be a good substitute for one of those call-buttons they give elderly folks.”
“Did he teach the bird to call 9-1-1 too?” Tom says.
“Good one,” Nancy says.
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