A sky frosty with stars faded in the first light of dawn as Al Mitchell tossed the anchor to a rig of eider decoys overboard. “How’s that look ?” said the veteran sea-duck hunter as a yawning northwest wind tugged at the phony flock.

“Just right,” I answered. “‘Course, when we get aboard that ledge they’ll probably seem too far off.” However, after scrambling onto the offshore outcropping and securing the boat in the lee, we saw that the decoys were precisely where we wanted them: 25 yards, give or take. Directly, with Al’s yellow Lab, Skipper, between us, we hunched below the outline of the ledge and began the waterfowler’s game of hurry up and wait.

Except for the chilly wind, the weather was autumn-like, a somewhat pleasant departure from the muscle-knotting cold normally associated with sea-duck hunting in mid-December. Somewhat pleasant, that is. In Al’s words: “Safety-wise this is great weather for duck hunters – boat ramps aren’t snowed in, ledges aren’t iced up, seas aren’t too nasty – but it’s not much good for hunting. Plenty of birds outside, but we need some rough weather to bring them into the bays.”

The reference to safety was a reminder that, even in calm conditions, sea-duck hunting was risky business. With that in mind, and while watching a flock of coots dip toward the decoys before winging by, I recounted a recent sea-duck hunting incident that might have ended in disaster if not for the hunter’s Labrador retriever.

“A guy named Ray Fogg told me he and his son Pete and son-in-law, Curt Ring, were gunning down in Eggemoggin Reach about a week or so ago. Ray started sea-duck hunting long before it became popular, so he’s no newcomer to this stuff. What happened to him, though, shows that experience doesn’t exempt anyone from misfortune. They put in at Benjamin Harbor and ran off to a ledge handy to Torrey Island. I guess the eiders weren’t too sociable, so his yellow Lab, Patty, didn’t get much of a workout. But as it turned out, it was a good thing she didn’t expend much energy.”

“Watch it,” Al warned, tucking his chin onto his chest. “Five, coming straight at us.” Low to the water, four drakes and a hen eider were scaling toward the decoys on set wings. Seconds later, Skipper fetched the first of three ducks that didn’t fly away. “What’d those guys have for a boat?” Al asked through the clatter of a spent shell rolling off the ledge.

“A 17-footer, aluminum, with a 90-horse outboard. When they were getting ready to leave, Ray went to pick up the decoys. He said he noticed some water in the boat, but it wasn’t enough to worry about. He figured that when he got under way he’d pull the drain plug and run the water out, like we’ve all done. Well, no sooner did he pull the plug when the motor quit.”

“Birds off to our left, Al. Way out. They’re swinging.” The distance at which eiders will commit to decoys is amazing. Winging toward us, the six ducks appeared drawn by a magnet. When the smoke cleared, two floated feet up while a third required a quick coup de grace. Shortly thereafter, while turning to avoid a cold shower courtesy of Skipper’s shaking, Al asked if Ray Fogg got the outboard going again.

“He did, after he got the drain plug replaced. The motor didn’t run long, though, before it quit again. He had a smaller motor aboard but while he was trying to get it rigged up the wind swung the bow around and the sea started coming in over the stern. He heaved the anchor overboard but it didn’t fetch up so he began paddling. But with all that weight back there – water, motors, fuel tank, battery and all – she swamped and went stern-down in about 10 seconds. In the meantime, the wind and tide had taken him about 200 yards beyond the ledge.”

Shaking his head, my hunting partner, a retired civilian employee of the Coast Guard, said, “That man’s lucky he’s alive. How in hell’d he ever get back to the ledge?”

“Lucky, all right. Lucky that when he went to pick up the decoys Patty went with him. He said he’s been swimming with her since she was a pup – he lives on Pushaw Pond – and she’d tow him around when he took hold of her tail. So when the boat went down he called to her and she swam over to him. He grabbed hold of her and they started for the ledge. He had his lifejacket on but, even so, in that 40-degree water, swimming against wind, tide, sodden clothing and hypothermia, it’s doubtful that he’d have made it on his own. He said of all the swimming he’d done with the dog, he’d never felt her pull like she did. She sensed that he was in trouble and she towed him back. He held onto her tail and kicked for all he was worth and, by God, they made it. He said both he and the dog – she’s 10 years old – were exhausted. When they eventually got home she went to sleep and slept all the next day.”

Grimacing, Al said, “Can you imagine his son and son-in-law watching that? That’d be enough to sour anyone on sea-duck hunting.”

“‘Course he had to strip off and wring out his clothes. His son and son-in-law gave him some of theirs. He said he put a pair of mittens on his feet for socks. Afterward, they started shooting, trying to signal fishing boats, but there’s so much sea-duck hunting in that area the fishermen don’t pay any attention to shots. They yelled and waved but couldn’t attract any attention. To make a long story short, they didn’t get off that ledge – good thing it wasn’t a half-tide ledge – until about 9 o’clock that night.”

Crouching, Al interrupted: “There’s a pair coming straight at us.” Directly, both ducks tumbled as the reports of our 12-gauge magnums rolled across the bay. By the time Skipper fetched the drake, the hen had drifted far out into the white-capped chop. Realizing that the duck would have to be retrieved by boat, I allowed, “We might as well pick up the decoys while we’re at it. There’s not much moving now and, besides, eight’s enough anyway.” As we gathered our gear Al said, “Those guys put in a long day on that ledge, all right, but it would’ve been a lot longer if the temperature’d been about 25 degrees. Someone must’ve seen or heard them, though, because they damn sure didn’t swim ashore.”

“Right. When they didn’t show up at home by noon – Ray’s son was supposed to be back at 10:30 – their wives got worried and called the game wardens and Marine Patrol. Ray’s oldest son, Jeff, drove down to Deer Isle and over to Sedgwick and Naskeag to see if he could find out anything. He didn’t know they’d put in at Benjamin Harbor. The way it ended was, after dark they could see the lights of a house and a while later they saw a vehicle pull into the yard. They waited until the headlights went off and then started yelling and shooting. Whoever it was signaled back with a flashlight. About half an hour later they saw blue lights flashing and then they heard a plane circling. It wasn’t long after that when three wardens came out in a boat and took them off the ledge.”

“What about his boat?” Al asked.

“They couldn’t find it. Ray said the last he saw of it, it was drifting in an eddy with just the bow sticking out of the water. He and a friend, a fisherman from down that way, went and looked for it the next day but didn’t see a sign of it. He hired a pilot to fly him over the area after that, but no luck.”

“She went to bottom,” Al said confidently. “The weight of that 90-horse motor took her down.” Eventually, a diver found the boat in about 40 feet of water, from which it was recovered.

During the 2-mile run to the landing, Skipper’s eyes intently tracked flocks of old squaws and sea pigeons that winged past us. Watching him I thought again of Patty and the on-the-edge ordeal that, if not for her, might have ended in disaster.

One of life’s injustices is that dogs don’t live as long as their masters. But being dogs they do the next best thing and leave their masters with memories that will last a lifetime. Ask Ray Fogg.

Tom Hennessey’s columns and artwork can be accessed on the BDN internet page at www.bangornews.com. E-mail: thennessey@bangordailynews.net. Web site: www.tomhennessey.com.