To the Docks and Coves in Winter

A short, short caper around town on a below-freezing day was not without its excitement as the wife and I walked on a February Sunday in Rockport Before the under-quarter mile stroll was done, our nerves were more than frayed; they were shriveled. I had visions of a sheriff's attachment on the sorry little equity on the family estate.

Yup, Molly was acting up. Females are like that, four-legged or two-legged. Ever since Eve, us poor males, have had to suffer through their tantrums and just wait it out. When we "inherited" this dashing sleek boxer, we were assured that since she is a spayed female, no other four-footer would condescend to fight with her. What they didn't tell us was that of the 300 canines the assessors say are roving Rockport byways today, at least 310 of them are spayed females. I swear I'll ship her off to the glue factory if I can get her by the loving female clan of the family. That is, unless she signs a Thirty Year Peace Pact with the world in general.

Apart from that, we wandered waterfront-ward to take a look-see at the outboard motorboat ramp that the town built off Dock Square. That cement ramp sloping right into the harbor waters is easily accessible and ideal for Mom and Pop and the kids with their weekend pleasure craft. And it doesn't cost them a dime.

On that cement ramp Sunday was a beat-up dory with a pathetic painter securing it to what we never found out. It was a throwback from the good old summer time when some youngsters would have parked it there having in mind a harbor paddle joy-riding around the fleet.

Off to one side was a gnarled old tree, maybe oak, maybe willow, who knows, we're no John Kieran. It was growing out of the stone foundation of a Dock Square building; straight out and then shooting up at right angles, to snarl into the ozone. Ye gods, how eccentric can a tree be?

To port was the kind of thing that artists drool about, the parabola-shaped time-worn rib of a shipwreck. The bone of a marine tragedy of the past. We might even have written the newspaper story of that saga of the sea. But now that story escapes us. Perhaps somebody died. There have been so many epics of the waves click through this ancient Remington, we just can't pinpoint 'em.

In the sheltered cove were many summer friends, at rest in the frigidity of the winter's grip. There were the Pot Luck, the Swan, the Linda, among others. There was no strain at their hawsers. Gulls were screaming overhead and riding on the biting seas. A lone innocent black and white duck braved the swells in quest of food she could wrest. Mid-winter is a brutal time for any of these fowl to gather enough substance to survive the gray months. Out past the small cove's gap loomed the brilliant sharp blue of Sandy Bay, foam-flecked, emphasized by the white buoys sprawling over Motif No. One, Jack Buckley's art studio that is now a national attraction.

Roaming up the street, we found our way into Jewett Street, to brush by another threat to canine domesticity. This time it was Russ Brundage, who has a proud collie he keeps secured in his yard. Our Molly was under leash because of her misbehavior, but it didn't stop her from yapping for a generous hunk of collie. If she only knew the truth, it might have proved to be a good chunk of Molly that would have resulted from the Sabbath bout.

In front of us was a tranquil scene of a bluejay and a pigeon enjoying a frigid siesta at Town Clerk Esther Johnson's bird bath. By the by, we humbly appologize for erring one day in saying there were bluebirds in this neck of the woods this time of year. We meant bluejays.

From there we trespassed to the rear of a Main Street property, principally to escape a brindled boxer. This piazza was once that of a famed Rockport artist, Yarnall Abbott. It overlooks the broad Sandy Bay and on this day was most impressive with the thunderous surf pounding the ledges and climbing up the rocky walls to beat agains the window panes.

As we thrilled to the pounding seas, we were reminded that observing a golden wedding anniversary at a neighboring church were the Alvin Browns. That was enough to terminate the walk. The dean of Scoutdom deserved first say.

J.P.C., Jr.