Summer, 1943 Gloucester, Massachusetts

When the lobsterman had first told his story about the submarine and the dog to some local guys down at the Boiler Room in the summer of forty-two, they had all laughed and recommended he drink a better brand of booze. Someone suggested he might find a golden-haired mermaid with a green flopping tail next time if he’d only sample the top shelf. Even McNulty smiled at that one.

It came to the young man slowly, but even through the fog of a half-dozen beers he could see how fantastic his story was. How improbable. He looked around the smoky waterfront bar and saw the weathered faces all peering at him and grinning. Nobody said any more after that, they just hunched over their glasses and each man seemed to find a different focal point, and go there, shaking a head maybe, drawing blue smoke from a wooden pipe, scratching a three-day stubble on their necks.

The young man turned in his seat and watched the night's first rain angle in from across Gloucester Harbor and streak greasy down the dirty windows that looked out at the light on Ten Pound Island. He watched how the rotating yellow beam diffused on the wet glass panes and fractured around the room, highlighting the unfinished edges on faces that were all but finished. These were good men, he thought, Gloucester fishermen.

The war had come at a time when they were deemed too old to serve, but each had been exposed to more dangerous moments on their patched-up fishing vessels, seven hundred miles from shore, than any soldier hunkering in a French foxhole, or ducking Japanese machine gun fire on a South Pacific island.

They didn’t tell their wives and girlfriends about what a northeast blow could do to the ocean that moments before had been flat as a billiard table, and was now launching forty foot combers that crashed down on decks that shielded tons of codfish wrested from the sea by men educated to the sixth-grade, but graduated from a college that killed the stupid, the slothful, and the lazy.

It was at that moment, gazing around that working bar, that the lobsterman decided to keep his mouth shut and try to save some semblance of credibility amongst these men. If they didn’t want to believe him, that was okay. But the story was true. Every word of it.

It had been an early August night in nineteen forty-two, a little past one o’clock in the morning. Clouds the color of forged iron slipped past a waning half moon, and it was warm. A small sea was running and that was fine - the rise and fall making it easier to work the lead jig in the deep water off Halibut Point.

The young man was after cod that evening and found himself about three miles offshore probing the sunken ledges. He had already boated two good twenty-pounders when he paused to look back at the blackened coastline.

From the west he could hear the soft rhythmic toning of the Essex River channel buoy. It would rise on a wave face and be sent leaning backwards, its bell clanging softly once. Then it would plunge headlong into the trough and sound again with two distinct gongs, only to start the trip back up the next roller, clanging softly once, then gonging twice with energy. Over and over, it would continue, always mirroring the endless wave cadence. If a man were blind and trapped on shore, he need only feel the wind direction on his face and hear the buoy dance to know precisely what the ocean was up to.

The young man listened with half an ear and lightly massaged his long ago injured ankle, feeling the hard places where there should be soft. It was his ticket out of the war, though he had tried to enlist. Hell, everybody was trying to get in. Maybe when he was older he’d realize how lucky he had been. But not now.

He sat quietly in his boat and watched the summer moonlight shimmer like quicksilver on the racing wave tops as he played the heavy jig in two hundred feet of water. He thought about the war and wondered what that was like. The answer lie closer than he dreamed.

In front of him the ocean started to well-up, and there was a deep gurgling rumble, then a more distinct sound, like water pouring off a barn in a spring downpour. The wooden skiff started to pitch even more and the hydraulic sounds threatened to consume him. Earthquake, he thought, or maybe a whale. Yeah, that was it, a goddamn whale! He’d read Melville’s book about that vengeful bastard, Moby Dick. He knew that whales could be bad news for a guy in an open boat.

But a whale doesn’t have a hatch that opens with a metallic clank, and a whale doesn’t make the sounds of many hard shoes on a steel deck. And the voices. Not whistles and clicks, the snorts and exhalations of a multi-ton leviathan, but voices from another world. Foreign and clipped, guttural sounds. German voices, that were trying to strangle his heart!

One of their submarines had come up to run the diesels and charge the batteries. Probably a dozen men clamored on deck for a cigarette or a chance to breath real air.

The young man was kneeling in the bottom of the skiff. An agnostic, praying that the codfish wouldn’t choose this precise moment to flop one last time and turn his boat into a giant drum. He tried to remember prayers the nuns had beaten into him years earlier. But they wouldn’t come, and the U-boat was only seventy yards away through the gloom.

He could make out its conning tower, blacker than a nightmare, and its number glowing fuzzy-white, U-351. He’d forget his own birthday before he lost the image of U-351 ghosting in the night.

The fisherman watched the submarine and hoped the German eyes were focused on shore. He noticed the clouds had a good firm grip on the moon and the offshore breeze was effectively sliding him further to sea and away from the sub.

If only he could think of one of those little ditties the nuns got such comfort from. The ones they used to mumble when the Cardinal came to visit. Yea, though I walk through the valley. . .or shadowed valley. . .or valley of. . .or some nonsense like that. He was about to try some other prayer, or maybe make one up when the soft buzzing started.

At first it sounded like the bees he’d caught in a jar as a kid. Then the tone changed, hardened, started to shake things. The thick humid night air wrapped him in vibration. Airplanes! Two of them, tracing the coastline from out of the north.

A muffled claxon sounded and a panic of men tried to jam themselves down the sub’s forward deck hatch. There were frightened voices and something else. . .a dog barking! It was clear and unmistakable, a dog was on deck, too!

The airplanes were Grumman Widgeons, small amphibians used by the Coast Guard and Navy for coastal observation and submarine defense when armed with small wing bombs. They approached Ipswich Bay and roared overhead. The fisherman ducked and covered his head with his arms. He’d have preferred a whale, even that devil-fish, Moby Dick!

Luckily, the patrol didn’t detect the U-boat and they growled away to the south, towards their base at Winter Island in Salem.

The young man uncurled himself from his fetal position and looked all around. What surprised him was how fast the submarine had vanished. Seconds were all that it took. Nothing but swirls and bubbles where more than two hundred feet of steel had just been. An incredible magic trick!

He sat still in his lapstrake skiff, gently rocking and all alone. The moon got loose from the mantling clouds, and cast him in its pewter glow. No motor this time. He grabbed up his oars and eased over to the very spot where the sub had just been. Even with the moon, visibility was limited. But the smell of diesel hung heavy in the air and a hint of tobacco remained. This had not been a dream.

The fisherman peered into the water alongside his boat and watched the phosphorescent swirls and tried to imagine the dozens of men beneath him slinking away, bodies tensed and covered with sweat, eyes focused on overhead decks and bulkheads, waiting for bombs that this time would tear them apart.

Then he heard a rasping sound, and in the moon’s half-light, saw a dog swimming towards his boat. It was coughing and choking, but headed straight for him. The young man moved towards the gunwale and reached over at the same time the animal arrived.

It was the eyes he noticed first. In the moonlight they were alert and deep, dark like shiny coal. They were trusting eyes. And she had a feathery silver tail that lay out on the water’s surface like a fanciful marabou plume. He already knew that she was a female, because only women had eyes like that.

With both hands he hoisted her up and aboard. Thirty-five pounds he figured, maybe thirty-two dry.

The dog calmly shook and fluffed herself up. Like she always did this sort of thing - bail out of a submarine on the other side of the world. She pawed at her ears then stood near the codfish laying on the bottom planks, sniffed them, and turned toward the fisherman.

He sat there dumbstruck, reaching for the gunwales with both hands, trying to get a grip on reality. Mind spinning, but trying to think!

A German sub surfaces in the night, then crash dives when they believe they’re under attack. The men scramble below, and in the frenzy, the ship’s mascot doesn’t make it to the hatch? Or maybe she fell overboard in the panic and they couldn’t save her? It was probably the commanders pet, he thought. No other sailor would have the authority to get a dog on board, especially during a war.

And what a dog she was. A beautiful creature with a silky black muzzle and ears that were upright, dark in color, and pointed. She had a ruff like a lion and it was gray, blending to black along her back. Mackerel stripes of platinum played along her sides and they melded to silver-white under her belly. Her legs were the color of old snow and her feet were small, well formed, and softly padding towards the fisherman.

He cautiously reached out a hand and she stopped to scent his finger tips, her whiskers moving like spider legs. Now he could see her distinctive tail more clearly. Light charcoal with a black tip. She kept it curled and nestled on her back, and it didn’t wag like most dogs. Instead, it merely pulsed up and down in one piece. Like it was doing now.

The fisherman watched the dog before him and only one thought filled his mind. He spoke to her gently.

“Holy shit, girl. . .nobody, and I mean nobody’s gonna believe this!”

The dog showed no fear, not after the requisite sniff, and he examined her more closely. She didn’t wear a collar and had no other kind of identification. Not that it mattered, he thought. How do you return a kraut dog in the middle of a war anyway?

Suddenly the young man was filled with an emotion that at the moment he did not fully understand. It was a sinking sorrowful remorse for this gentle animal, violently separated from her adoring master, then thrown into cold dark water at night, and then into the hands of a complete stranger.

And what of the man who lost her? A German, yes. The enemy, yes. But still a man capable, like he was, of feeling the pain of losing a beloved pet. It made him think about the German officer. What did he look like, and what was he feeling at this precise moment, gliding away under the sea with his men, safe for now, but without his dog. His pet that just drowned, because he couldn’t bear to leave her behind in Berlin, or the Black Forest, or wherever the German called home.

The enemy had become human to the fisherman and this was conflicting with everything he’d ever been taught. The war had reached the young man’s shoreline and it wasn’t what he expected. He was confused because he found it impossible to hate the German while sitting there with his dog.

The fisherman watched the animal, and she watched him. He would tilt his head and make clucking sounds, the way people do around horses. The dog never flinched, she stood absolutely still and held him in her lonely but attentive, poignant stare.

The night sky had almost fully cleared of clouds and with the war time coastal blackout, the Milky Way looked close enough to run a hand through, come away with some stardust on your fingers.

The young man had once spent an evening on the granite bluffs of Halibut Point with a pretty teenaged girl named Laurel, on a starlit night like this. She was from Sydney, Australia, and she and her parents would summer in Gloucester where the fisherman first met her.

Sometimes, she would sneak away from the big house in East Gloucester and ride around the cape with the young man in his skiff. She loved the water and the young man’s company, the way he could make her laugh with stories he’d heard or made up himself. Other times they would follow the maze of trails that intersected Dogtown in the heart of Cape Ann and have picnics in the terminal moraine.

Then the war came along and swept her away. She became a nurse and was now somewhere in London. He didn’t expect to ever see her again.

The dog moved closer to him and her dark eyes reflected the starlight above. He named her Sydney, while thinking of Laurel, and scratched her under the chin. Then she stepped around him and started hunting under the seat. Making herself at home, he thought. Looking for a midnight snack.

The fisherman shipped his oars and stepped aft to the outboard motor. He asked the dog if she was hungry, and she stood stalk still looking at him. Obvious language problem. He grinned and made a mental note to visit the library and find a German-English dictionary.

The outboard started on the first pull and when the skiff started to move, Sydney walked to the bow and watched the darkened shoreline start to take form.

Off to the west, the regular toning of the Essex River buoy could be heard over the outboards drone. For him it was a comforting sound, a call to home. He lived in Lanesville, a part of Gloucester, on the northwest side of the rocky island that is Cape Ann.

He motored along listening to the buoy’s tone and thinking about the dog. He didn’t know what breed she was, or even how to care for the animal. This he would work on, but first he needed a drink. A big one.

* * * * * *

One year later:

The lobsterman kept one elbow on his traps and his free hand on the tiller as he and Sydney cruised past the Annisquam lighthouse and worked up close to shore as they passed Babson Point. The water was quickening and they made better time staying out of the main current and using the back eddies along the cobbled beaches.

A tanned young woman wearing a dull beige skirt sat on the rocks with her two small children and waved at the trap-laden lobster boat as it passed by. She smiled at the sight of a dog standing in the bow. She said something to her children, and they waved, too.

Behind her, summer homes sprouted from the rocky heights. They were old and weather-beaten. Most looked deserted, and probably were. All the country’s handymen off being handy in ways they never imagined as boys. In the river’s mouth several small dories tugged at their lines and one tired-looking sloop kept watch over them all. Lobster floats lay all around.

Sydney liked riding in the river. There were more things to see, more things to bark at. She was alert and watching, waiting for Lobster Cove. It was a favorite place of hers. A long, fiord-like slice in the granite that reached back more than half a mile. Inside its confines, hidden from the open ocean, was a collection of elegant homes and fisherman’s shacks. At its opening, the Annisquam Yacht Club. An incongruous arrangement of blue collar and blue blood, all making up the heart and soul of Annisquam Village.

When they were abreast of the entrance she barked and listened to the echoes that rattled down between the granite walls and lifted her ears, listening, wondering where all the other dogs were hiding.

The lobsterman grinned at Sydney, then eased off the throttle. The skiff slowed and settled more deeply into the water. It plowed a solid green bow wave as they idled over to what locals called the Mouse Hole, the boulder clogged entrance to Goose Cove.

It was only an oar’s length wide, and accessible only for a few hours at the top of the tide. The young man had wondered about the cove for years. Thought there might be lobsters in it. Virgin lobsters. Lobsters that had never seen a wooden pot, been told by their elders to stay clear of rotten fish in a lattice box. But they had always been plentiful out in the bay. He really had no reason to come in here before. Besides, the old timers never bothered with the place, maybe they knew something.

Goose Cove is a glacial oddity inside the Annisquam River. At first glance it appears to be an abandoned quarry, but closer scrutiny will reveal sheer granite walls untouched by drills and explosives. It also lacks the terraced configuration of a quarry - all the sides sliding directly into the water below at odd and precipitous angles.

Along the top edges grow blueberry bushes and gnarled, stunted cedar trees. During the war a single dilapidated hermit’s shack looked out over its waters. Its owner long gone. Just the seagulls guarding the tin roof, giving the place a whitewash now and again.

Along the west side of Goose Cove runs Route 127. It’s a narrow road that runs the perimeter of Cape Ann. But before it can make its circuit, it must pass over the Mouse Hole, helped along by a rusting steel span.

The lobsterman considered the small opening and the bridge. He looked at the natural stone quay that held the road aloft and pictured the water beyond. No sub interference back there, he thought, and opened the throttle a crack.

He glided easily through the opening with only a foot to spare on each gunwale. The bridge passed over his head. Here the water was stretched tight on the surface, the current strong. He coaxed the outboard for a few more revolutions, and, as he broke free from the bottleneck, felt a sharp rap through the tiller. The dog turned and examined him, she had felt it, too.

“Nothing to worry about,” he said. “You’ve got to hit ’em harder than that if you’re looking to do any real damage.”

Sydney cocked her head and looked at the lobsterman. Then she barked and registered her opinion. She turned around in the bow and seemed excited to be in a new place.

He motored slowly into the cove’s middle and before he could take a good look around, heard a shrill screeching from the outboard motor. Instantly he killed the ignition, grabbed up a trap with the red float attached and fired it over the side. Glaring at the water he cut loose with all of the bad words he could think of. Doubling up on the best words, the ones with all the syllables, and weaving them into an obscene blue fabric that stretched from one side of Goose Cove to the other.

Sydney took it all in from the relative safety of the bow, listening intently, expanding her English vocabulary.

The young man stood with both hands on his hips and turned to the dog. “Sydney, I don’t even have to look. Broken shear-pin, lost prop.”

He tilted the motor forward and looked at the naked drive shaft. Shook his head. He said to the dog, “Guess you don’t have to hit ‘em that hard after all.”

Sydney hopped off her perch and ducked under the middle seat to have a peek over the stern. She watched the water droplets running off the damaged motor and probably thought, now what, Herr Jackass?

The young man stood contemplating the gin-clear water and the buoy that marked the spot. He knew what came next. Not many spare machine parts around Gloucester, Massachusetts during World War II, especially bronze propellers.

The sun felt hot on his bare shoulders when he took off his cotton shirt. He glanced around quickly, saw that there was no traffic on Route 127 and peeled off his canvas pants. He didn’t wear any shoes. Next to the dog he placed his watch and told her to sit tight, this would only take a minute.

The water was shallow, about fifteen feet, and ten degrees warmer than out in the bay. He dove near his marker and felt around on the granite slab bottom. Without a mask everything was gauzy and out of focus. But his hand found a crevice, and in it, the propeller. Clutching it to his chest he moved towards the surface, racing his bubbles along the way.

The dog watched him frog-kick over to the gunwale and drop the propeller into the boat. She gave it a quick inspection, checked out a new ding in one of the blades, and watched the young man drag himself back aboard.

This was not going to be a problem, he thought. Simply slid the prop back on, stick the spare shear-pin in place and be about his business. Just like that.

Then he picked himself up and sat on the middle plank seat and watched Sydney pawing at the brass propeller. A sparkle caught his eye. He petted the dog’s shoulders, ran his hand down onto her head and then picked up the propeller. Sydney followed it with her nose. She jumped onto the seat with him and watched his every move.

The propeller was dull brown from age and had a shiny new cut on one of its blades where it struck the rock. And at its center, where the drive shaft connects, was a brilliant yellow disc.

He pushed at it with his thumb but it wouldn’t move. With the butt of his knife he tapped it free. And when he had it loose, and felt its weight, saw the strange markings and the way the sun made it glow, he knew. It was a gold coin!

He ran a fingernail along its edge and found it crude, and thick, and heavy in his hand. The young man could feel his heart doing strange innovative things, fluttering rhythms he’d never felt before. At least not since that submarine popped to the surface off Halibut Point the summer before.

He looked over the rail and stared at the mirrored surface of the cove. Then he stood, naked and oblivious, water droplets rolling down his muscular sun-browned skin. When he found his voice it was soft and dream-like. It didn’t seem to be his, just something floating on the summer air, distant. Like one of those outer-body experiences he’d read about in the pulp paper magazines. Felt like he was up there on the hermit shack with the seagulls watching himself in the boat below.

“Keep an eye on this Sydney,” he said, and placed the coin next to the dog. “I’ll be right back.”

From up on the hermit shack he watched himself dive back into the clear green water, and in a minute, he burst back to the surface near the boat. The spray made the dog blink, but she watched as he reached for the gunwales with clenched fists. No fingers reaching, they were too busy gripping coins. Dozens of them!

The lobsterman made a wild whooping cry and dropped the heavy wet coins over the rail. They dull-clinked along the bottom planks and rolled at Sydney’s feet. He grabbed the rail and pulled himself up and into the dog’s face. She licked the salt droplets off his nose, and he spoke to her in a voice he hadn’t used since the sixth-grade. It was high-pitched and breaking up with excitement.

“Sydney, I don’t know what the hell we’ve found down here. But I know one thing for certain. War, or no war, you and I are eatin’ steak tonight!”

She tossed her head and gave him a toothy grin. Then she dabbed out with a paw and touched the young man’s forehead. Yeah, she was probably thinking, sounds good to me!