A Night on the Lake with Captain Dave

It’s close to 1 AM in the early hours of the Fourth of July, and there’s a man with curly hair sitting a few feet away from me trying to touch his fingers to his nose with his eyes closed, his head tilted back.  A Marine Patrol officer stands in front of him, watching every tiny move the man makes as our boat rocks back and forth.  A steady stream of boaters races past us out of Weirs Bay, their wakes pushing our boat from side to side.  I’m seated behind the boat’s windshield, and with our engine idling and the roar of other boats, I can’t hear anything the two men are talking about, but it doesn’t look good.

About ten minutes ago, this gentleman came within three feet of changing all of our lives for the worse.  Only my captain’s quick thinking saved both our boats and all the passengers from a fate too grim to contemplate.  My captain is Officer Dave Jones of the New Hampshire State Marine Patrol, and if he hadn’t slammed our boat into reverse, this captain, Captain Doofus, would have crashed into our steel hull, the three children in his bow would have catapulted off into the murky night, and he’d be sitting in the Laconia lockup, wondering which night was Pepper Steak night and who his roommate would be for the next eleven years. 

This is our third stop of the shift, each getting more intense the later the hours creep towards the Fourth of July.  With days of rain followed by a miserable heat, every boat owner on the lake, it seems, is out tonight, and few of them seem to have any idea what they’re doing.  Dave suspected Captain Doofus was drinking, watching him as he searched for his license and boating education certificate.  “Have you been drinking tonight?” Dave asks.

 “I’m the designated driver tonight,” Captain Doofus responds, avoiding eye contact and busying himself with a pile of papers in his lap.

“I didn’t ask you if you were the designated driver.  I asked you if you’d been drinking,” says Dave in a less than tolerant voice.  It’s taken the entire shift – since 5 PM – for Dave to express anything other than patient explanation, but considering what almost just happened, he’s clearly annoyed.

“Yes.  I had one beer,” the curly-haired Captain replies, but Dave’s not buying it.  Within moments, Dave has the man on our boat taking a series of dexterity and memory tests.  Our new guest passes by the thinnest of margins, avoiding hand cuffs, a tow to the station for the breathalyzer, and an awkward call home for a 1 AM ride home while explaining to his kids that “Daddy will be fine” as Gammy rings the family attorney.

 

Dave hands Captain Doofus a ticket for his lousy driving (“150 Foot Safe Passage Violation” for $84.32) and tells him he barely passed the sobriety tests, instructing him to anchor his boat for an hour and sit tight before heading home.  “That guy came very close to ruining his life,” Dave says as we motor away into the humid night.

It’s been an eye-opening evening.  I met Dave earlier at the Marine Patrol’s headquarters on Lake Winnipesaukee in Gilford.  Dave’s been a seasonal office for the Marine Patrol for the past six years, working as a cop in Alton when he’s not on the lake.  Minutes into the patrol, it’s clear Dave is the Navigating Savant of the Lake.  Winnipesaukee boasts 274 islands, and Dave knows them all.  I point to one after another, and their names roll off his tongue faster than our twin engines spins their props – Pig, Bear, Rattlesnake, Eagle, Mink, Nine Acre, Six Acre, not to mention Jolly, Dollar, Dow, Diamond, Long Pine, Little Mud, Big Beaver and Far Ozone, to name a fraction.

The lake is enormous, the second largest behind Moosehead in Maine (not including Lake Champlain, bigger than both combined).  By foot, you could walk 182 miles around the entire lake, through eight towns and two counties.  By boat, the longest stretch is from Center Harbor to Alton Bay, over twenty five miles long.  Dave’s the lone Marine Patrol officer on the lake tonight, the first at the start of a long holiday weekend.

Dave wastes no time pointing out what boaters are doing wrong.  Just past Spindle Point he spots a jet ski jumping the wake of the Mount Washington as it heads near Three Mile Island.  The Mt. Washington’s the biggest boat on the lake, its wake is an attractive challenge.  “If he does it one more time, I’ll stop him,” but the jet skier heads off in another direction as the massive boat slips behind the island in the descending dusk.

As we cruise along, Dave provides a rundown on the basics of boating safety, from life preservers to proof of boating education, a horn that toots, lots of life preservers, a fire extinguisher, three working lights (red, green and white), and a blue registration sticker, among others.  He shows me pages of rules and regulations, from lists of no wake zones to hull numbers, rafting rules, rope types, PFD variations and even what a Wisconsin driver’s license looks like.

During our first stop, a young captain can’t find his boating education certification.  Dave pulls out his binder, showing him what’s acceptable, explaining, “You have to make sure the people delivering the course are licensed by the state.”  The captain seems crestfallen at the apparent realization that the weekend class he took in the basement of Burger King in Tilton wasn’t legit.  Dave hands him a gold slip of paper with instructions on how to prove, within two days, that the Fryolater Technician/Boating King license he earned last year will pass muster.

We zoom past Governor’s Island and its stately manors, the island’s residents waving to us from lofty gilded perches, their ascots blowing in the breeze.  “Huzzah to you, loyal civil servants!  Huzzah to you!”  Just then a call comes in from Dispatch about water skiers and a man in a hang glider in Moultonborough “harassing loons.”  Dave takes a deep breath as we make our way to investigate.  “We need to get to Alton before the fireworks start,” he say concerned, “And it’s a long ride.”  Dave opens up the throttle, and we race across the lake’s slate blue surface.  Of all the things Dave wants to be doing right now, I think mediating a man-on-loon altercation is not high on his list, but duty calls. 

 

We arrive in Hermit’s Cove, and Dave interviews the neighbors.  They point us towards a house with three boats and a hang glider tucked on the shore.  We approach as two men, drinks in hand, engage Dave, the smells of barbecuing chicken and smug second home ownership in the air. “I’ve been here for twenty five years – I know enough to stay away from the loons,” the obvious culprit says, his smile a mix of endangered bird resentment and hang gliding exhaustion as we pull away and make haste for Alton.

We enter Alton Bay at dusk, more than 200 boats already anchored for the fireworks.  With their lights on, the boats fill the bay like swirling green, red and white Christmas lights.  “This is going to be nuts once the fireworks end – everyone tries to race out of here.  Do you get seasick?” Dave asks.  After friendly reminders to every other boat we encounter, (“Turn your lights on.  Slow it down.  You’re too close.  Those underwater blue lights are illegal . . .”), fireworks explode overhead, blooming circles of color casting shadows on the lake’s dark surface.  Dave takes no joy in our nation’s birthday celebration.  “That guy needs a higher light in the stern, and that one’s going way too fast!” he says.  Every boater, Dave intimates, is doing something wrong.  “If I stopped every single one of the boats I worried about in this harbor, we’d miss something more serious somewhere else.” 

We hustle to Weirs Bay, where hundreds of boats wait for the midnight fireworks.  We loop around to the east, and Dave spots a boat with no lights.  Two men are sitting in the boat, and after much discussion about a missing light and a broken horn, Dave asks the captain to come aboard, the empty beer bottles, the half-filled bottle of wine, and the odor of booze clear signs to investigate.  The guy’s just under the legal limit, and with a busted light, no horn and a belly full of beer, Mr. .07 BAC can’t drive home.  We hook up a tow line and take them into Weirs Beach.  As Dave untethers them, he admonished the captain, “This is your lucky night.  Get your boat fixed and never do this again.”

Does anyone, except Dave, have a remote clue about the rules of the lake?  Expired registrations, missing licenses, busted horns, no life preservers, hang-gliding aristocrats dive-bombing defenseless waterfowl!  This is the Lake of No Rules, except that there are rules and Dave’s the only one out here enforcing them.

Once the sun goes down, it’s impossible to discern land from water.  “To work nights, you have to pass a test with no navigation aids.  I need to know where every light is, where every buoy sits and every island.” Over the course of the night, Dave points out the exact location of each light we pass – even in the pitch black, he knows right where they are.  “Light 36 is off to our right – at 2 o’clock – wait for the two flashing lights.  And in about twenty seconds, to our left, Light 27 will blink once, just off that point . . .  there,” and a white light flashes to my left, on cue.  There are eighty four lights, and Dave’s got them memorized.

Just before quitting time, Dave approaches a speed boat.  The captain’s from Medford, Massachusetts, and he’s a mess.  No license, no boater certification, PFDs stowed away out of reach and list of other things Dave can only shake his head at.  “I swear I have all this stuff at home – you can follow us.” the Medford Mensa offers, but Dave declines, handing him a summons and a boating safety pamphlet instead.  “This is your Happy Fourth of July Get Out of Jail Free night.  I just saved you $400,” adding, “Now get home and be smarter next time.” The Mensa smiles a big vacant “Thank You!” as we separate.

“And you thought we chased loons,” Dave says as we speed towards Gilford.  It’s close to 2 AM, and Dave’s given out six tickets, more than thirty warnings and enough safety tips for every boat owner in New England. I suspect it’ll take all summer to get to everyone, but he’s up to the challenge.

Dog Bites Man, Man Wants Mommy, or "You Might Feel a Little Pinch"

I hear the beast before I see him, his humid, heavy breathing filling the darkness, bouncing off the discarded junk strewn across the factory floor.  He’s trying to find me.  I’m curled into a fetal ball on a shelf of a musty plywood cage, locked in from the outside, straining to make myself smaller.  He’s getting closer, and his panting makes a rhythm with his loping strides as he pads across the floor, his breath and the soft slap slap slap of his paws stopping and starting as he searches for me, smelling the air for my fugitive scent.

I tilt my head to see his shadow, the afternoon sunlight sliding under the metal door, framing his ears, head and neck as he sniffs the ground, the walls and everything else in front of him.  The fear’s rising in my chest, and I want to scream for help but don’t.  I stay silent and motionless, watching him pace back and forth across the dirty concrete, searching for me, his target.
 

Seconds ago, I heard a voice shout, “This is the Hillsborough Police Department’s K9 unit.  This dog will search this building.  He will find you, and he will bite you.”  This preamble could have included reference to “Admiral Lollipop from the Petunia Brigade,” and a “my pet unicorn Herschel,” but I was too fixated on that last part – the “He will bite you” phrase - to hear much else.  There’s just something about being locked in a chicken wire cell in an abandoned plastics factory in Goffstown while a fanged animal hunts for you to make you reflect on your place in the universe.

 

There’s no reason for alarm, I tell myself as the dog saunters closer.  I’ll just use my safe word if things go sour.  Except that when the officer locked me in this cage, he said nothing about words like “bunny” or “potato.”  And I don’t know any German except “liverwurst,” and that’s no safe word to a hungry German.

It’s been less than two minutes but feels like forever as the dog continues searching.  He slows a bit, sniffs the air, sniffs some more and trots over to my hiding spot.  We lock eyes as he sits.  I smile and say, “Fanto, you found me.”  The dog barks and lunges towards my face, erupting in short, staccato bursts until the lights come on.  With one guttural command and the toss of a rubber ball, Fanto stops barking and sits chewing his toy, happy and unimpressed I didn’t cry for my mommy.

Fanto’s been unimpressed with me the entire day, focused far more on his partner’s commands than on my feeble attempts to hide or make small talk.  Fanto is the lone member of Hillsborough’s police canine unit, paired with Sergeant Nick Hodgen, Fanto’s partner, trainer and, by all accounts, best friend, and my host for the day.  Sergeant Nick invited me to join him and Fanto as they train with Goffstown’s K9 unit on one of the two days each month local departments convene to work on discipline, agility, exercise, searching and biting, lots and lots of biting.

 

Fanto and his two cohorts – Cyrus and Koa - are muscular, fit German Shepherds with black and brown coats, massive necks and eyes that fill me both with a mix of warmth and abject fear.  Nick’s human counterparts, Officers Chris Weeks and Jason Hull, make up the Goffstown K9 unit, and all three men spend every other Wednesday together with their dogs, honing their skills in dual purpose policing – patrol and narcotics – twenty hours a month.  “Dogs are not like a piece of equipment that you take out when you need it.  Dogs need training,” Nick tells me earlier in the day when we first meet.  We’re at a park in Goffstown, minutes outside Manchester, and Nick’s running Fanto through a series of obedience drills.  Fanto walks in cadence with Nick, responding to every word and tug on the leash, slight or harsh.  Nick raises his arm, and Fanto moves.  Nick says, “Down!” and Fanto lies down.  Every time Fanto does what he’s told, Nick tosses him a rubber ball on a string.  “That ball is the only thing Fanto cares about – it’s his reward,” Chris tells me as Nick puts Fanto through his paces.

“Time for bite work,” Chris announces, and Nick puts on a bite sleeve, a thick fabric tube running from his wrist to his collarbone as Jason preps Cyrus for the attack.  Jason utters a few commands as Nick stands, bracing himself for the dog’s lunge.  Jason shouts, “Get ‘em,” and Cyrus lashes out at Nick’s sleeve, clamping down hard and letting out a loud whine, which, translated from the German means, “This feels uber awesome.”  Jason shouts, “Out!” and Cyrus releases.  After a few minutes of this, the team agrees it’s time for me to get bit.

Nick helps me into the suit – a pair of thick pants with suspenders and a heavy jacket, telling me, “You’ll get pinching and bruising,” as he cinches up the pants.  “The biggest effect a dog has is as a psychological deterrent,” he mentions as I waddle over to Fanto, eyeing me like I’m a two-legged mega pork chop with thinning hair.  As Fanto stares, I’m being deterred psychologically, but I’m in the suit, Fanto’s ready, and I’d never make it if I try running for the woods.

Nick and Chris offer instruction, none of which I remember because Fanto’s gaze pierces my soul, tempting me to confess every transgression I’ve ever committed, and just before I admit to getting two McDLTs and only paying for one in the summer of ’84, Fanto’s jaws clamp down on my forearm, and I can feel the contours of his molars as they search for a better hold.  To paraphrase Ron Burgundy, I immediately regret this decision as the dog reopens his mouth and clamps down again and again, his mouth filled with healthy teeth and pinpoint fury.  Everyone’s watching, including Fanto, and I can’t burst into tears, so we keep going.

Isaac Newton’s little-known Law of Canine Propulsion states, “A body at rest stays at rest; a body in motion attacked by a running dog with fangs will wet its pants.”  I’m reminded of this as I jog slowly from Fanto and Jason.  Instantly, Fanto barrels into me, his jaw a vice-grip on my bicep as I struggle to remain standing, wincing as the dog’s teeth pinch me through the suit.  “Out!” Jason commands and Fanto heels.  We finish with some bite work on my leg, and I see blood on Fanto’s gums as he engages.  It’s forty degrees outside with a bitter early Spring wind, but I’m in a full sweat and out of breath.  It’s Fanto’s world, and I’m just his chew toy.

Soon after we’re at the highest point in Manchester, standing atop the massive landfill next to the highway, along with the Manchester PD’s K9 unit, at least six dogs strong.  This is a meeting place of sorts for police officers and their hirsute partners as everyone gets ready for the annual certification tests in June, a weekend where cops and dogs gathers to test each other’s mettle in feats of strength, speed, agility, sniffing out would-be ne’er do wells, and, one presumes, late-night beer and/or water bowl drinking contests.  I watch Nick, Jason and Chris lead their dogs through an obstacle course and play a game of hide and seek that always ends with a dog biting someone in a bite sleeve.

During a break, Nick shows me his specially-outfitted K9 police cruiser.  The back seat is one large metal dog pen with a small water bowl bolted to the floor, automatic fans for extreme summertime temperatures and doors Nick can open with a remote-control he wears on his belt.  “If I’m out of the car and need Fanto, he can come find me.”  It’s like having an on-demand superhero – one push of a button and salvation arrives.

 

Over lunch, the officers explain the commitment this job takes.  The dogs live with their partners year-round and require constant attention.  “It’s like having a four-year old on a sugar high,” Chris says.  They talk about the economics of a K9 unit, and how the upfront costs of  a well-bred, well-trained dog and a special cruiser are offset by the fact that a dog will go places humans won’t and the presence of a police dog is often enough to stop a suspect in his tracks.  “Most of the time just the sound stops people from running,” Nick says.  He tells me of an unfortunate duo suspected of pilfering copper piping from an abandoned house one night in Hillsborough.  “All I had to do was pull up and let Fanto bark.  They both surrendered immediately.”  Jason concurs wistfully.  “They all give up when they see the dog.  I just wish someone would run.  They always give up before the bite.” 

 

As I rub the swelling on my arms from Fanto’s brand of justice, I silently agree to do the same thing if and when I find myself breaking the law in Hillsborough, Goffstown or the handful of other New Hampshire cities and towns with their own Fantos.  The alternative is too terrifying.

The Loneliness of the Vegan Zombie, or How Zombies Stole my Mind

             I miss the zombies.  It’s been almost two months, and I miss their plodding gait, their gurgling moans and their unwavering quest for feasting on all things living.  The Walking Dead, the greatest hour of zombie-themed televised entertainment in the history of the world, is in mid-season hiatus, not to return until February, and I can’t take the waiting.  Based on a series of graphic novels of the same title, The Walking Dead concerns the misadventures of Sheriff Rick Grimes and his ever-dwindling band of stressed-out survivors.  They’ve stuck together in the searing heat of the Georgia summers while hordes of virus-infected fellow citizens make their lives miserable.  Rick and crew have endured lies, deception, double-crosses, infidelity, abandonment, spousal abuse, matricide, lack of food, water, gas, bullets and sleep and, of course, non-stop harassment from their former neighbors, families, co-workers and friends who are determined to eat them.

                Everything’s better with zombies.  Transform any boring situation into a laugh-riot in a snap by just inserting a simple word!  Consider the following paragraph:  “I went to the hospital the other day to visit my cousin Gina, who just gave birth to a baby.  I took the bus home and sat next to a vegan.  He seemed lonely.”  Add “zombie,” and you have the start of a compelling story.  “I went to the hospital the other day to visit my cousin Gina, who just gave birth to a zombie baby.  I took the bus home and sat next to a vegan zombie.  He seemed lonely.”  Thrusting zombie-ness into everyday life means instant danger!  Except if the zombie waiting for his cross-town transfer refuses to wear leather or eat meat, dairy or eggs.  There’s nothing lonelier than a vegan zombie on a public bus.

                There are countless zombie-themed films to help me wait it out like a holed-up survivor of an apocalyptic attack, but the catalogue is vast.  For every 28 Days Later and Dawn of the Dead, there are so many others, like Shaun of the Dead, Dead Clowns, Dead Summer, Fast Zombies with Guns, Redneck Zombies, Zombieland, the aptly named They Must Eat, and the closest the genre comes to documentary, the fabled 1959 classic Teenage Zombies.

                Or I could skip the cinema and hunker down in the Xbox bunker to satiate my hunger for zombie tomfoolery, playing endless hours of Left 4 Dead 2, Burn Zombie Burn! or Lollipop Chainsaw (“An action game which stars a chainsaw-wielding cheerleader who must rid her high school of zombies”) until Rick and his winnowed band of survivors returns to my Sunday night TV screen, welcoming me with entrail-soaked arms and sad faces.

                Perhaps I’m being too low-brow with these ghoulish distractions and a good book’s what I need.  There too I can find a book mobile’s worth of zombie novels, everything from Max Brooks’ Zombie Survival Guide and World War Z to acclaimed novelist Colson Whitehead’s Zone One, where the protagonist, Mark Spitz, balances his zombie-killing duties with the ennui that comes with any post-societal collapse at the mouths of those who want to dine on his flesh.  And if I finish those, there’s always Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, the 2009 novel that’s exactly as it’s described, right down to the Bennett sisters slashing a roomful of corseted attackers to death (again) with razor-sharp knives.

                 I can’t explain my obsession with zombies, much less everyone else’s.  Our culture’s so saturated that even dilettantes of the living dead know that A) zombies can infect you with a single bite, B) you’ll die from that bite and reanimate as a zombie, C) you’ll cast off any concern for personal hygiene once this happens, and D) you will be really, really slow, like your older sister who hasn’t owned sneakers since Reagan’s second term slow.   There are examples of running zombies, like the ones chasing Will Smith and his dog across zombie-infected Manhattan in I Am Legend.  Fast zombies upset the natural order of things, like when old people buy family planning supplies.  Slower zombies and celibate gammies are better.

                Maybe we conjure so many zombie stories as a way to tackle our fear of humankind’s haphazard advancement (aka, zombies a result of government scientists goofing around on our dime) to distrust of technology or even fear of socialism (comrades, like the zombies on the front lawn, don’t go to church or care about our freedoms).  Or maybe it’s a manifestation of our deep-seated desire to live without rules.  If you survive the first wave of flesh-eating monsters, like Rick and his desperate cohorts, your only rule is to STAY ALIVE so why not liberate that Mustang for a spin or eat Mallomars for breakfast or burn your AP History textbook or IRS audit notice to keep warm.  We live under a pretty strict social order and need an excuse to throw it all away –outlasting undead throngs is as good a reason as any.

                I’m not sure which is nerdier – proclaiming my love of zombie culture or sounding like Dr. Joyce Brothers while doing it.  But I don’t care.  In just a few weeks, Rick, Glen, Michonne, Merle, Maggie and the rest of them will be back, and I’ll be taking notes.  Because if (when) the zombies come for me, I’ll be ready, even for the vegan ones. 

(email Tim at timcoshea@gmail.com)

Merry Christmas, From No One . . .

With the yuletide clock ticking down on this holiday season, I need a timeout.  A man can hear only so many versions of “Santa Baby” sung in a half-toddler, half-boozy harlot voice before he questions his worth as a human.  And I’ll put up with the tedious debate about “Christmas” versus “Holidays” for only so long before I give in and remove my nine-foot inflatable Old Saint Nick lawn decoration out of deference to those Santa agnostics in the neighborhood.  I’ll replace him with “Slappy Nick,” the non-denominational five-inch garden gnome in a red tunic who appears to be on cholesterol medication and may have had some sherry with lunch.  And I don’t know what it is exactly, but I’m confident wassailing is legal but sounds inappropriate, as in, “Dude, I had some eggnog and wassailed all over her front porch.  In a top hat!”

But nothing causes me more angst during the holiday season than Christmas cards.  They come in wave after wave, crashing into my mailbox with the force of stale fruitcake shards hurled by striking elves.  The cards start arriving in late November and continue through early January, adorned with smiling faces, cats drinking tea, and families at play.  Messages of “Joy and Happiness,” “Merry and Bright,” and “Peace and Hope,” abound.  But as I look past the leaping children, wedding shots and well-groomed pets, I see only evidence of a tradition that needs mending.

First, there’s the “Former Friend,” the most popular Christmas card, and the worst offender of holiday form over function, delivered by the dozens unsigned.  If my address serves as proof that we’re friends, then I’m also best buds with the Yoga Nation catalogue publisher and my local payday loan proprietor.  No note?  Not a word?  At least a stranger like Rayleene!! from The Longhorn gives me a heartfelt, “Thanks!!”  No “Hey guys!  Great karate party last summer!  Have a swell holiday!” or even the delusion but sweet, “2013’s definitely the Mets’ year!”   Apparently the decades of chats, shared secrets and experiences, and common bonds of friendship have sapped you of all strength to scrawl a single phrase.  Merry Christmas to you too, Mr. Potter.

How about the “One Percenter” card?  These float to my home on the wings of partridges in envelopes crafted from select papyrus reeds and unicorn fibers.  The photo invariably depicts a grinning family in its natural habitat, either on the beaches of St. Tropez or the slopes of Hinterglemm, in matching outfits of denim and white shirts or escutcheon-adorned unitard ski suits.  But this audience would just as soon skip penning a note as they would skip the gardener’s tip, so these smiling senders offer tiny clues of caring, often a single red line slashed through the printed greeting, a wry hint that yes, they do wish me a Merry Christmas, and they mean it!  “The O’Sheas are dear to us, Lovey, so be a crumpet and add a red pen mark through our name as proof of our enduring friendship.  Now back to the slopes!”

But few things capture and kill the holiday spirit like the “Dear Everyone” card-letter combo, that two-page rambling essay hand-written in haste, mailed two weeks after the tree’s been tossed to the curb and the Tyco Racing Set’s already been broken and discarded under the divan, right where little Freddy left it on Boxing Day.  These annual family manifestos run the gamut from celebratory, (“The Reform School Reunion was a success!”) to explanatory (“Sadly, the tattoo artist’s fee was better than his spelling . . . “), and from cautionary (“As Cousin Polecat can confirm, chili cook-offs and screwtop wine are not a good match . . .”) to hopeful (“And Whitman, our Princeton graduate, has moved on from Occupy Wall Street into Occupy Basement without a hitch. Job search starts in January!“).

  

So for the remainder of this holiday season, I refuse to listen to another bloated Groban/Bolton/Bublé interpretation of “What Child is This?” or open one more Christmas card until someone sends me one with feeling.  Until then, I’ll be with Slappy Nick and Rayleene!! on my front lawn, wassailing my woes away.