The Night He Fastened Nothing

The morning smelled wrong. Milan got up before the light, which he only does on expedition days, and then he fastened everything twice. That is how I know. On leisure days he fastens nothing at all; a cup rolls across the floor and he laughs at it. That morning he fastened the water drum, the box with the sandwiches, the little door of my sleeping place, and then he went round and checked all of them again.

I have been sailing with him for nine summers. He is an old sailor now, and I am an old dog, and we are both slower than we used to be.

We left the harbour in the grey light. Milan pointed at the far line across the water and said its name twice, which is how he indicates a destination to me. Two different names would have meant a long day with a stop in the middle. One name, said twice, means we do not stop.

For three hours everything was ordinary. Then the wind moved round behind us, and the sea began to go in various directions at once. That is the thing I hate. A dog can stand a big wave. A dog cannot stand a floor that will not decide.

Milan stopped talking. That was the second sign. He talks all day at sea — to me, to the birds, to the ropes, to people who are not on the boat — and now there was only the wind and the water moving under us. Once he said something quietly that sounded like a prayer, or like swearing. With him they are the same words.

I smelled the land long before he could see it: wet stone, smoke, sheep. I stood at the front and barked, and Milan looked along my nose and turned us a little to the left. Fortunately, the wind was still behind us.

We came inside the harbour wall with the first heavy rain. He fastened the ropes, put his flat hand on my head, and sat down on the wet boards, and for a long time he did nothing at all. The storm arrived twenty minutes later and beat on the roof of the cabin all night.

He did not fasten a single thing before he slept. That is how I knew we were safe.