SAVED BY DOLPHIN

We were out in the boat, my wife and I, wondering where all the wind had gone. Our plan had been to sail up Pine Island Sound, maybe stop for lunch at Captiva or Cabbage Key. We had negotiated the "Miserable Mile" near the mouth of the Caloosahatchee, made the turn north and were encouraged by nice little puffs that filled the sails as we put the Sanibel Causeway behind us.

Then someone switched off the wind machine. The jib flapped against the foredeck. Our little sloop rocked in the wake of all the motorboats zooming by. It was hot and we were sweating. Yes, we were dead in the water and after a few minutes it started to wear on us.

There are sailors who will tell you that it doesn't matter what the conditions are. Just being out on the water is pleasure enough. They are lying.

Being becalmed on a sailboat is unmitigated misery. Of course, if you are an industrious sort you might use the time to polish the teak or replace the busted stanchions or do any of those gazillions of things that always need doing on a boat. But industrious sorts really have no business on a sailboat. At least not on my sailboat. Like most sailors I know, I view sailing as just a more sophisticated form of indolence. It is laziness with a sense of purpose. You are sitting back and not doing much of anything, yet you are in motion with a vague destination in mind. It is a perfect balance of yin and yang, a most serendipitous state of being.

But there has to be wind. If there is not wind, then you just sit there. And look at the teak that needs polishing and the stanchions that need fixing. It starts to get boring. And if you are a husband and wife, a husband and wife who know each other all too well, you might just start picking at each other.

"Why don't you turn on the motor?" said my wife.

"Because we're sailing," I said.

"No, we're not sailing. We're just sitting here. And I'm getting hot. If you turn on the motor we will at least move and then I won't be hot."

"I'm waiting on the wind. The wind is coming. The wind will be here any minute."

"Who died and made you the chief meteorologist? Turn on the damn motor. I'm hot."

Yes, it was starting to get ugly. We weren't heading for bloodshed, but the boat was suddenly becoming too small for both of us. Bad juju was festering. Who knows what would have happened?

And then the dolphin appeared. We saw their fins break the water a hundred yards ahead of us. It looked like they were heading our way.

I've been out on the Gulf thousands of times and have seen dolphin on probably every outing. Doesn't matter. It's like watching a launch at Kennedy Space Center. Never fails to thrill the hell out of me. And my wife? The same way. She goes gaga over dolphin. We about knocked each other down scrambling to the bow so we could see them better.

"Oh, it looks like they are turning and going the other way," said my wife, crestfallen.

"No worries," I said. "I'll call them."

There are few things in this world I truly excel at, but I am a world-class dolphin caller. Truth is, it doesn't take much talent. Dolphin are just naturally curious and gregarious. To attract them, all you have to do is create a minor racket, start whooping and hollering and, in general, make a perfect fool of yourself. Like I said, I'm quite good at it.

So I whooped and hollered and, sure enough, the dolphin swam in. There were three of them. They frolicked about, rolling up on their sides, smiling their dolphin smiles and considering us with their big dark eyes. Like always, it was magical. And then they swam away.

If I wanted to give this story a perfect ending, I would tell you that the moment the dolphin departed, the wind kicked up and we cruised merrily on our way. Didn't happen. We stayed becalmed. For about two minutes. Until my wife gave me a look and I dropped the sails and turned on the damn motor.

But at least we were out on the water. And it turned out to be a pretty good day.