Ospreys, and Hope.

Photography is a passion that I have taken back up over the past few years, and is pretty central and essential to my life. And, I am always looking for a reason to bring a camera. But then, there are times to consciously not bring a camera. COVID has had a pretty significant impact on us all in the recent few months, not just due to the concern for public health, but also for our social lives - I love trivia nights with my friends, or quietly sitting at the end of the bar enjoying the banter with my fantastic bartenders whom I know well, the people-watching - and as someone who is hard of hearing - the din of conversation around me can be a protective envelope where I can’t pick out a single conversation and I am able to settle in cozy, surrounded by people, but not necessarily requiring any interaction. COVID has also had a significant impact on the dating world and how we interact with strangers - me being one of those who are trying in this very odd time to make a genuine human connection.

I have recently met a woman who is also trying to navigate the murky waters of dating in this time as well, and after talking for a while, and a clear conversation about our own social interactions, we decided that taking the risk to meet in person was something that we were both willing to try. As bars and restaurants are are still closed, or are only offering curb-side at this point, the idea of a “social-distance” stroll was our best option. I asked if I could bring one of my cameras, and she was ok with that.

The day was cool, breezy and flat-light. Though I had brought along my Zorki, which has a never ending roll of 35mm film that I am sincerely trying to wrap up so I can finally develop it, I decided after arriving at our meeting location, close to one of my old neighborhoods, that the camera should remain in the car. After all, a first date is probably not the time to bring a camera along.

The conversation was as winding as our walk through the Loveitts Field neighborhood of South Portland, just south of my old one of Ferry Village; the once familiar geography of the streets becoming a new, unfamiliar landscape as we ducked through the liminal space of a path covered by hydrangeas between houses - an easement preserved into perpetuity, briefly perching on a rock to point to the rocky beach on Cushing Island across Danforth Cove all the while dazzled by her eyes with their blue of the sea and with a touch of the purple shade of lilacs, and safely keeping distance from the other people who were taking their first cautious steps into an uncertain world, yet glad for the freedom of fresh salt air on Willard Beach. We shared part of our stories: our hands commas, the ocean and rocks semi-colons, and one emphatic shark-fin shape that we debated whether or not it were rock or fish as an exclamation point; this was our prologue. By the time we reached Spring Point, the fog from Casco Bay had begun to roll silently inland, softening the backdrop of the islands and silhouetting Spring Point Ledge Light, its jetty, and the COVIDnauts exploring this familiar yet different landscape. This was the only time that I ached for raising the lens to capture this quiet drama.

We heard the high-pitched worrying behind us, and turned to witness a different drama. The siege of silent slender wings cutting the air and outstretched talons of the lone osprey trying to land on a stoic perch in the water was fended off by another that was sitting on its nest, it’s cries insistent you must not land here! All attempts to land were thwarted; and, temporarily defeated, the unwelcome interloper flew off. Our words were hushed, so afraid that we were going to scare them off. We took a few tentative steps forward as we watched another osprey swoop down toward the nest with a fish in its grip - not unlike our hands, though with a different purpose and tenderness. The tenant of the nest called out a greeting and bade welcome as this other must have been its mate. Were there nestlings? We couldn’t tell. But, shortly after the arrival, the bird took off with its fish. Evidently it did not meet expectations, and off it flew, returning with another larger fish. The interloper returned, but now there were two to defend the homestead. Looking into her lilac-blue eyes, and her into mine of dark-jade, we both agreed that this was a good first date.

The over-arching sense of the day was hope; hopeful people taking their first steps away from social isolation though the threat is still there and very real; our first hopeful steps toward the new possibility of each other, uncertain how one does this in the middle of a pandemic, but still finding a way. Though I left the camera behind, there was no sense of disappointment, as I got to experience how she sees, speaks, and experiences a place that is familiar to me, but in a different, spectacular, and intimate way, and thus shifting my perception. I did manage to capture one image, a simple phone pic - a clump of Irish moss, the most vibrant green against the backdrop of twisted dark and wet eroded rock.

And yes, there was a second date.