A dog’s best friend might just be the Atlantic
Scotia swimming in the cove in Prospect, Nova Scotia. Photo by Brian Robbins.
Nov. 9, 2026
By Brian Robbins
The thing about your typical Chesapeake Bay Retriever is, they have no incentive to ride in a boat.
Put you or I aboard something that floats and we’re admiring how it sails; how it cuts through the water; how it handles a chop side-to or bow-on – we’re happy to be there.
But put a Chesapeake aboard a boat and their first thought is, “Why am I here when there’s water all around me? This is ridiculous!”
I guess one shouldn’t make blanket statements. No doubt there must be Chessies in the world who don’t live to splash, wade, wallow, and swim ... but my wife Tigger and I have shared our world with three different Chesapeakes over the years who all had very distinct personalities – but for each of them, water was their happy place.
There was Chelsea, who’d spent her days as a young dog diving overboard to grab dock lines and render them through her jaws as she swam to clean off any accumulated growth. When I first met Chels, she was 10 and quite set in her ways – but she made room in her heart for me…an honor and a gift.
What became known as “Chelsea’s Peter’s Island Picnic Swim” took place when she was 12. Tigger’s family had always enjoyed picnics on Peter’s Island, about two miles downriver from their home in Walpole on the Damariscotta River. The first 4th of July after Tigger’s father, Edward Myers, passed away, it seemed fitting to get the family together and head downriver to Peter’s, as Edward loved to do.
Tigger and I were going to paddle down in our kayaks, and in her younger years, Chelsea would’ve tucked into the after hold of a boat and been fine. But Chels didn’t bend quite as easily as she used to, and the plan was for us to scoot along the shoreline and let her follow us by foot along the beach.
But we hadn’t taken the status of the tide into account and just how bold that left a lot of the shoreline as we started downriver. It made for hard going for Chels. The rest of the family had gone ahead with Edward’s old big scow, so hitching a ride wasn’t a possibility. It didn’t take long for Chelsea to decide her plan of attack: forget scrambling and slipping up and down slippery ledges – she was going to swim. Into the river she went.
If you’d flown over our little convoy on July 4, 2003, you would’ve seen a blue and a yellow kayak threading their way downriver through the thick array of multi-colored pot buoys. And off the starboard quarter of the yellow kayak you would’ve seen a copper-colored Chesapeake with a greying muzzle looking proud and bold and strong.
Chelsea swam the two miles to Peter’s Island, shook herself off when she hit the beach, announced her presence with a “Roo-roo!” and then looked for something to eat.
Classic Chels. A happy girl.
And then there was Bonnie: sweet Bonnie girl, who had a great smile that ranged from an Elvis-style lip curl to an all-out Ray Charles grin. From her first days with us as a little puppy to her last at the all-too-soon age of 10-1/2, Bonnie had to greet any body of water she encountered with a quick dip of her nose right off the bat. And then plunge in (with Momma or Poppa’s permission).
We tried doing the kayak thing with her (even bought a 2-person kayak which we removed the second seat from, replacing it with a waterproof dog bed: the “Bonnie Boat”), but that never really caught on. The lure of water just inches away was too much: You might be able to get Bonnie into the kayak (or skiff or outboard), but she’d whine and whoop and fidget and go of it until you told her she could swim – and before you could get the “kay” of “Okay” out of your mouth, she was over the side. And there was no easy way to get her back aboard.
“Why bother?” said the look she’d give me. “We can swim, Poppa – SWIM!”
We once spent a week out on Eagle Island with old friend Bob Quinn and his wife Helene (who we sadly lost in 2020). The ride from Sunset out to Eagle aboard Bob’s boat was tough for Bonnie: being confined to the wheelhouse – it was a little too choppy for her to be out on deck – with the diesel roaring down in the cuddy was not her idea of a good time. But once ashore on Eagle? On an island? That’s heaven for a Chesapeake: no matter which point of the compass you head for, you’ll reach water, sooner or later.
That was Bonnie. A happy girl.
When the time came, we spread her ashes off Popham Beach – the scene of many a mid-winter daybreak walk and moonlight stroll. (Chelsea’s ashes, of course, were set free in the Damariscotta River.)
Scotia has a quick morning romp on a little beach alongside the ferry terminal in St. John, New Brunswick. Photo by Brian Robbins.
So the little brown puppy we brought home in February of 2019 – her back fur all tight Chessie ripples, right to the end of her corkscrew tail – had a couple of hard acts to follow…but she’s done just fine. And done it her way.
“Scotia,” we named her, in honor of one of our favorite places to tuck away: Nova Scotia. (And, of course, when she was little, she was just a little “scosh” – or “skosh” – with a long “o.”)
Scotia distinguished herself early on: she was smart – wayyy smart – but she needed you to know she was doing something because she wanted to. That little stubborn streak was offset by the fact that she was funny – as funny as she was smart.
She’s been a great traveler from the beginning and if a destination has any sort of body of water, of course, Scotia’s in it. So far, she’s sampled the waters from the north shore of Newfoundland down to North Carolina – and many, many places in between.
Fresh water’s okay, but she prefers salt. And if there’s a roll on, she’s really tickled: Scotia will take them head-on, launching herself off the face of the incoming wave to clear the curl at the top.
Scotia had been to Prospect, Nova Scotia with us before; we were pretty sure that she’d remember the little house sitting at the head of a cove. The only difference with the trip we made in mid-October of this year was we were going to take the ferry from St. John, New Brunswick and hop over to Digby rather than drive the whole way.
Scotia was pretty laid back about the first chunk of driving, which put us in St. John by 9 p.m. New Brunswick time. A veteran of motels, she gave things a sniff-through, then called dibs on the sofa for the night.
The next morning we were at the ferry terminal early and, knowing we had a two and a half hour crossing ahead of us, I gave Scotia a good runaround to get her morning duties squared away. The discovery of a quiet little beach off to one side of where the 406’ Fundy Rose was berthed made for some happy pre-boarding splashing: a quick saltwater Chessie fix.
Having just arrived in Prospect, Nova Scotia, Scotia takes in the view from the back porch of the little house. Photo by Brian Robbins.
Once we landed in Digby, it was another two and a half hours to Prospect. Scotia stretched out on her bed in the back, the picture of patience. She just knew it would be worth the wait.
And it appeared to be. When we opened the rear hatch to reveal the little house sitting at the head of the cove – where we’d be tucked away for the next week – Scotia’s tail began to wag. She jumped out and sniffed the salty air; the bayberries; the tall grass where a handsome fox would make daily visits as part of his rounds.
And she went to the edge of the cove to get her feet wet: “Hello, place. I remember you.”
The next week was perfect for rest and recharging: days of sun with enough of a breeze to warrant an extra layer while we walked the miles of trails on the neighboring Crown lands – owned by the province and open to all. There were some rainy days, too, with lighter moments that only required donning an oil coat for a morning hike and periods of heavy rain that drove us to burrow into books and build a chicken soup in the slow cooker.
Scotia savored it all as much as we did: big frolics on the trails under the sun and couch-hogging sprawls when the rain was coming down. (You have to understand something: this dog who lives to be in water does not like to get rained on. She’ll play in wild surf on a beach all day, but when caught in a light rain shower on the front lawn, she’ll hunch her shoulders and demand to be let back in the house, where she’ll stand and drip, waiting to be toweled off.)
And Scotia swam. She traced the shoreline below our little house; she wallowed in a tidal pool out on the Crown lands; she dove into the surf breaking on a round-as-round-can-be boulder beach.
She was a happy girl.
We all managed to lose track of time and everything else, gliding along through days infused with peace. But home isn’t a bad place, either, so we felt no sadness as we loaded the Explorer to head back – just gratefulness.
With the car packed, we took one more quick loop out on the Crown lands (Scotia knew, for sure) and then bid the little house at the head of the cove good-bye for now.
The experienced road dog knew the drill: quick pit stops when we pulled over for gas during the 11-hour-or-so one-shot drive back – although we did make a detour for our traditional romp on the beach at New River Provincial Park in New Brunswick. Any Nova Scotia/Newfoundland trip includes a New River stop; we absolutely believe Scotia recognizes the smell, the feel of the sand, and the cadence of the surf – compared to the many other beaches she’s explored and enjoyed.
Once across the border, it felt like we could just tie the wheel and let the Explorer roll for home. Scotia was on her feet for the final mile or so. She knew where she was.
We all loved Prospect; we were all happy to be home.
You might have thought Scotia would be full of beans, having ridden in a car all day, lying on her bed most of the time – but she’d been taking in every mile along the way, even when her eyes were closed. She’d gotten up to sniff out the window whenever we’d passed a body of saltwater and scoped out the situation whenever we slowed. She’d been on watch the whole time.
But now she could truly rest. And did just that, snoring softly while stretched out on our bed.
A water bed, of course.
—Brian Robbins grew up in Stonington and now lives in Nobleboro, where he writes his monthly column “Wheel Watch” for The Rising Tide.
