This post is contributed by Barnaby Porter. Read his previous post here.

One hundred years ago this week, a noteworthy event took place off the mouth of Fish Bait Harbor just where Winnie’s Ledge juts out into the Flying Passage. It was one of those sparkling August days when the whitecaps and the sails of the boats working on the bay delighted the eye and made a man glad to be alive.

Only a few days before had been Black Friday, a local day of mourning and remembrance of the date when the good ship, Wind Chime, flew over the horizon, never to be seen or heard from again. With her went the hearts and dreams of many of the townspeople, and it was a sad and sorry day in the little village of Fish Bait Harbor, Maine.

Every summer when this solemn occasion revisited the village, its people oddly, or perhaps not so oddly, seemed to grasp at any hopeful sign that might help to lighten the burden of their melancholy. In their stoic efforts to cheer themselves up, all the townsfolk lapsed into several days of celebration, during which they filled themselves with copious bowlfuls of fish chowder and corn on the cob, lobster stew, tall stacks of warm bread with fresh butter melted over everything, and they always topped off their feasting with great puffy, steaming hot blueberry pies. There was much drinking of spirits on these occasions too, as could be expected, but not a round was set up that was not lifted first to the Wind Chime and to her lost crew of heroes.

Now it so happened that the figurehead under the bow of Wind Chime had, incongruously, been a very good carved likeness of a particularly heroic-looking Labrador dog with a bright red tongue and glowing, amber eyes and floppy ears. No one in Fish Bait Harbor knows the history behind that figurehead today, but at the time it was generally assumed that it epitomized the doggedness of that seafaring community and that nothing could bring better luck at sea than the figure of a dog, any dog, standing proudly on the bow of a ship, a fishing boat or even a dory for that matter.

Anyhow, one hundred years ago, one of Fish Bait Harbor’s better remembered sons, an old man named Chester Tuttle, wandered off from the Black Friday feasting and drinking in a despondent mood. He had had more than enough, in several regards, and was in search of some sort of private salvation on a remote spit of land on the outskirts of the village, Dog Bone Point, if you can believe it.

As old Tut sat there on a drift log with a heavy heart, he took in the brilliant, sparkling blue of the bay through his tired, watery eyes. And then something quite remarkable happened. His spirits were suddenly uplifted. The day was all at once inspiring and beautiful. The flashing whitecaps were dancing. All the boats were heeled over, running hard that bright, August afternoon. And there before him, Tut beheld what he and all the townsfolk had long hoped to see again – the grand figure of a proud and brave dog on the bow of a handsome ship flying down the passage for the harbor. Tut mumbled and bumbled under his breath, “Mmm bow wow… wow bow… mmm bow wow wow… bow wow dog… mmm… bow dog!” – finally getting his words straight through all his excitement.

By this time, Tut was smiling an expansive and toothless grin. He began to run after the ship as it turned for the harbor. He stumbled and fell, hobbled and wobbled, but he kept going just as fast as his old legs could get him there. He wanted to tell the whole village! He was in a state!

Yes, it was Chester Tuttle who first uttered it for all to hear as he clambered his way out onto Waldo Barrow’s wharf, hopping up and down, pointing and almost shrieking in high-pitched glee. “The bow dog is coming! The bow dog is coming!”

Everyone looked to the harbor to see what Tut was carrying on so about. The coasting schooner, Madeline, was setting in, lowering sail as she arrived with a respectable cargo of nails, salt, some timbers for the new town hall and 300 bales of hay. On her deck stood four passengers back from a visit to Portland, and sure enough, on her bow, stood a good-looking black dog, barking away proudly and happily, knowing full well, some would later recount, the role he was to play in history.

Everyone saw the dog. Everyone heard Chester Tuttle exclaim, “Here comes the bow dog!” and despite what was obviously no more than an old man’s confusion resulting from too much lubrication in those gloomy days around Black Friday, they all realized that here was their long-awaited delivery from the sorrows of the past. Here was their new symbol of hope, pride, bravery and determination, with the heart to persevere and the spirit of adventure. The gathering crowd, both laughing and crying, cheered the magnificent dog on the bow of that ship, “Hip! Hip! Hooray for the Maine Bow Dog!”

And that was how the Maine Bow Dog got its name – in Fish Bait Harbor on the Flying Passage in Maine, one hundred years ago. An immortal breed of dog, it brought a village back to life.

Artist and author Barnaby Porter has had a varied career in marine research, aquaculture, and woodworking, among others. Most recently he partnered with his wife Susan as co-owners of the Maine Coast Book Shop & Cafe in downtown Damariscotta. In October 2021, Barnaby completed his tenure on Coastal Rivers’ Board of Trustees after six years of service.

Bow dog image generated using AI.