Watching the nest

September 2009

By David Roper

The wing of sail divides wind and then wind joins it together again.
Nothing is used, so nothing is wasted.

The Tao of Sailing

Hold those words and bear with me. Think about cycles – life cycles. I know I was, as I sat under Elsa’s furled mainsail and looked up at the osprey nest above us, crafted into the pines and cedars of magical Quahog Bay.

We were all alone, my daughter and me, anchored under this great nest of small branches and twigs. It had been a good trip east from Marblehead over the past few days, and now the weather had deteriorated. But Alli and I were happy here, in one of our favorite spots. There were no other cruising boats and no distractions. It was just us and the osprey nest. And so began a kind of vigil, or I guess a co-vigil, involving both us and the osprey parents.

Day and night, we listened to their peep, peep, peep, and watched the mother or father leave the nest to scan for predators and search the abundant waters around us for prey to feed their young one. “They never both leave the nest at once, Dad. Did you notice that? One always stays back and stands guard, always looking around.”

“That’s their role, sweetie. That’s why they exist: to get that chick of theirs big enough to someday fly away and then have a chick of its own.”

She thought for awhile.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why go through all that just so you can then be a grown-up and then sit there your whole life yourself and watch for predators all over again? Seems like a pain. What’s the point.”

Hmmm. It all got me to thinking about our family and the last couple of weeks. Our son Nick had had a tough surgery and, though he’s 24, my wife watched over him like a hawk (or osprey) over a chick. Her constant vigilance was remarkable. Or maybe not. She would make sure he survived, even if that meant almost 24/7 vigilance, because that was her role. Mother osprey in action.

Though it was more than a week after he had come home after surgery, I still felt guilty leaving on the boat and so delayed our departure another day. My wife insisted we go. After all, my business was closed for vacation, Alli had taken time off from work, and the weather was right. So we cast off.

Life’s biggest nightmare is the loss of a child. To me, the nightmare of that nightmare would be having it happen at sea, under my command, so to speak. So I equipped Alli with a whistle around her neck, a brand new submersible handheld clipped to her belt and set on Channel 16, and a harness. I wasn’t taking any chances. Still, I suspect the longest time in three days she was alone on deck out of my sight was three minutes. Father osprey in action.

Life moved on. Nick recovered and went back to work. And Alli had to return to work, so she said good-bye to the osprey family. We motored Elsa into the always welcoming Great Island Boat Yard at the head of the bay for crew change. Alli’s friend Brad drove up for her, and my wife, Mary Kay, arrived by car that evening. Out we went again to the spot under the osprey nest, and Mary Kay took over Alli’s observation of the ospreys. The weather stayed nasty, so we stayed put. Mary Kay, like Alli before her, was content to just be there, anchored under the cedars and pines, and watch the ospreys.

Sadly, when the weather finally did clear, it was time for her to go back by car while I awaited still more new crew in a couple of days. Though the boat would seem empty at first, I knew I would have company in the trees above me, and I looked forward to some solo time for thinking and writing.

“I know you love to also be alone, but why don’t you drive home with me for a couple of days, see how Nick is feeling, and then come back with your crew?” Mary Kay asked. It was not a pressurized question, just a thoughtful suggestion. I was torn. And then the cell phone rang. It was Alli.

She was scared. “Dad, I’m broken down in a tow zone in Boston. The brakes went out on the car. I called AAA, but they need to talk to you.”

Then the cell phone range again. It was Nick. “Hey, Dad, are you coming home with Mom?”

“Ah, no, pal. Staying out another week.” Long pause.

“Oh.”

“That OK?” I asked.

“Yeah, sure. I guess. I do have two tickets to tomorrow night’s Red Sox game and the Jim Rice Hall of Fame ceremony, so I thought.…”

There was no longer any hesitation in my mind after those two phone calls.

“We’ll be home tomorrow morning,” I said.

I felt at peace with the decision to leave. I poured glasses of wine for my wife and myself, and settled into my favorite corner of the cockpit. It was then that the sound came. It was the primal sound I’ve heard only twice before in my life, both times from people experiencing the horrific. But this was not from humans. It was from two ospreys. Somehow, vigilance had been relaxed for just one moment, and the eagle had struck. I looked above to see the pieces of nest and the chick in the big bird’s talons, as the frantic osprey parents screamed and then circled the now-empty nest for the next 15 minutes.

The cycle of life will go on here. There will be more baby ospreys, more osprey parents, more eagles, and more fish spawning around us to feed the cycle. It was time to go. I raise Elsa’s well worn mainsail in the gently lifting southwest breeze, and watch silently as the wing of sail divides wind and then joins it together again.

Dave Roper sails Elsa, a Bruce King-designed Independence 31, out of Marblehead, Mass. “She had her 30th birthday this year,” reports Dave, “and is still, despite her age, quite lovely and never lets me down.”