Lynne Cox - Tales of Al: The Water Rescue Dog

The hot summer sun set, the humidity was high, and the mosquitoes and black flies were humming as the moon rose above the slowly swaying pine trees along the edge of Snow Pond in Maine. It was time to escape from the heat and weight of the world and go swimming.

I jogged from the family camp across the soft lawn in my swimsuit with sweat sliding down the backs of my knees, hair sticking to my head, swatting mosquitoes, and breathing in black flies. I dove off the wooden dock into the water.

A cool breeze as soft as a whisper flowed over my body and suddenly my hands cracked the surface of the inky black pond. Water exploded around me and I felt myself gliding deeper and deeper into the blackness. My body was absorbed by the darkness and sounds above the water were extinguished. It was so peaceful. I only heard my heart beating and my breath rising in a slow stream of silvery bubbles. My body was suddenly light. I felt like I was floating in a dream. I was seven years old and in a state of awe.

There was something magical and thrilling about being in the pond at night when the colors of the world disappeared and the water and land became shades of black, white, gray, and sparkling silver. Shapes, lines, textures, and light became more abstract; it was like stepping into a black-and-white photograph. In the darkness I could merge with the water and the world and feel a deeper connection to both.

My arms were outstretched, giving me balance, and my feet were dangling below. I sensed something moving around my feet, fanning the water and moving close. Suddenly I felt it nibbling on my little toe. I jumped, screamed, and kicked my feet as whatever it was started sucking harder, and I tried to pull my toe from its mouth. And then I felt a swarm of creatures nibbling all of my toes. Fraught with fear, I frantically pulled to the surface, sprinted to the dock, curled my legs under my body, and held on to the side where my mom and dad were standing.

Something is biting my toes! I yelled.

My mom laughed in her warm musical voice and said the same thing happened to her when she was little. They were sunfish, small fish the size of her hand. They ate whatever they could fit in their mouths. She said there were larger fish: white and yellow perch, bass, pickerel, and eels that lived in the lake grass and near the lily pads, but they were not interested in eating toes. That made me relax, but not for long.

Elizabeth, our three-month-old Dalmatian, whom we called Beth, was standing near the docks edge making sorrowful sounds. Her whimpers and whines were piercing the quiet night. In the darkness the 332 black spots all over her white body were difficult so see. A glimmer of moonlight reflected in her soft brown eyes, and she looked afraid. She was panting. Her breath was hot on my face. I petted her to try to reassure her, but she would not be consoled. She knew we were going swimming and did not want to be left alone. She pulled away and protested with loud and anxious barks. She tucked her tail between her hind legs and crouched down. She wanted to be with her family.

My mom jumped in the water and turned toward shore. When Beth saw her dark form moving, she went wild and ran to the end of the dock. My mom scooped Beth up in her arms and carefully held her in the water. Beth started moving her tiny paws in a beginners dog paddle, making a lot of splash.

My mom guided Beth toward my dad, and when she was right in front of him, she let Beth go. He immediately caught Beth, praised her, and lifted her up to give her a hug. She surprised him by licking him all over his face. He laughed hard, a deep belly laugh, and for a few moments, he held Beth and waited for her to catch her breath. My mom took a few steps back, and then my dad gently set Beth down in the water so she could paddle to my mother. They made sure that Beth felt safe and she could trust them. My parents were teaching Beth to swim the same way they taught my brother, sisters, and me.

My siblings joined us in the lake and we swam with Beth. She wanted to keep going and going, but my mom said she had done enough for the evening. Beth was a little puppy and this was a new exercise for her. My mom did not want her to overdo it or she would be sore and overtired and not enjoy swimming.

Before my mom lifted the puppy from the water I asked if I could hold her for a minute and feel her swim. Mom made sure I had a firm grip on her, and Beth started paddling at a good pace. I felt her speed and power, until Beth suddenly froze.

A high, haunting, and beautiful sound burst through the air. The sound became suspended in the sky and echoed across the pond. The darkness made it feel eerie.

My dad whispered, Its a loon, a large black water bird with red eyes and a pointed beak. He explained that loons are amazing swimmers and divers and they build their nests in sheltered coves or on the islands near the center of Snow Pondplaces undisturbed by people. They choose areas where the water is clear where they can see below the surface. In the shallows they can hunt for salamanders and frogs, and they can hold their breath for fifteen minutes and dive up to fifty meters underwater to catch small fish. Their feet are large and they use them like flippers.

The loon was calling his mate. He hooted.

A few moments later, with a long wavering call, she answered.

He replied. He was close to us, his voice louder than hers. He called again, homing in on her plea, trying to find their nest.

She directed him with a long, mournful wail.

Their calls and answers started to overlap, and the pine, beech, and maple trees rimming the shore created a natural amphitheater, amplifying the cascading birdsong.