Every spring, I smile when I see the many osprey nests around Narragansett Bay filling up once more. I didn’t grow up with those cheerful chirps because, well, DDT. So for me, watching a fish-loving raptor search for its next meal is not just an announcement of spring’s arrival: it’s a joyful reminder that sometimes, the damages we humans inflict on the world can be reversed.
There’s always at least one windy, rain-soaked April day when I see two heads in a nest and imagine a shivering argument. “We headed north way too early!” one complains to its mate, who retorts, “But we scored our favorite nest!” Maybe they even fantasize about adding a dodger—or better yet, a heat pump.
A psychologist would probably explain such a fantasy as a transference of my own migrational conundrum. After each winter sailing break, I wonder if I came home too soon—while simultaneously enjoying the return to familiar waters.
Coastal New England spring always shows up later than hoped, and this year’s warm up has been even more erratic than usual. Fast-moving fronts tease us with sunshine before stepping back to chilly gray. On the most shivery days, I can practically hear the more introspective ospreys asking themselves, “What was I thinking??”
For those of you who see “those crazy wingfoilers” and wonder what WE are thinking, I assure you that Paul and I (and the rest of our cohort) are definitely enjoying our spring sailing. The harbor is wide open, the breeze is solid, and thick neoprene makes even 45-degree water feel quite welcoming. Best of all, I know that tomorrow the water will be just a tiny bit warmer—and the sunset a little later. And I like to think that those ospreys, chirping overhead and reminding me to hope, know it too.
Do ospreys make you hopeful too? Share your thoughts below, or send me an email. I read every single one, with gratitude. Thanks for being here, and see you next Thursday.