Why? Because the Salty Dog is where your parents never wanted you to end up, and that’s why you are all there. Including your parents.
The turn-of-the-century harbour that provides a bosom to the gloriously decadent Salty Dog comes to life – if ‘life’ is the right word for the kind of riff-raff that frequent this miscreant port. The scurvy-riddled crew barter for washed up buoys and stolen lobster pots, and scavenge for anchors and sails from a ship yard in the dead of night. Lights are slung high in the sky and The Salty Dog is ready: hustlers, rustlers, duckers and divers move like critters around the port, lowering the tone with twitchy gaits, doing anything at all to turn a dime. Blood spatters from the crude dentist shop, tattooed giants arm-wrestle girls for ale, grime-covered merchants hawk smoked fish and contraband oysters, warty ladies mend fishing nets and croak shanties at each other, and unqualified doctors offer guidance for unsavoury medical complaints.
Salty Dog – life at the bottom of the barrel. Arghhhh.