@@CHAP@@ Part I
Each spring, an osprey couple returns to the same nest on our property on Martha’s Vineyard. The nest is on the edge of a lake that leads into the Vineyard Sound, facing west. In lucky years, eggs appear in the nest in May, chicks in June. In July, the juvenile ospreys learn to fly. By September, the family is gone, headed to the Caribbean or South America for the winter.
When we bought our house in 2005, my husband, James, became obsessed with the osprey couple, with the magic of their annual return to the same location. He was always anxious, waiting to see if they would appear, if they would produce eggs, if the eggs would survive raccoons and crows, our local predators. Every year, he celebrated when the juveniles flew for the first time.
He drew me and our three young children into the drama of the ospreys, pointing them out as they soared above us, leading us in yelling “Hi, Ossey!” and waving at the sky. He took us into the woods to see their nest wedged high in a tree. He befriended two local osprey experts, older men who invited us to watch them tag an osprey at dawn. They attached a device that would track the bird’s movements during the winter. The kids, still in their pajamas, were awestruck by the creature that looked so much larger on the ground than it did in the sky. The experts named the tagged osprey after me and sent us updates on Belle’s progress throughout the winter. We worried for her and toasted her return.
After raccoons ravaged the ospreys’ eggs two years in a row, the experts installed a pole in the same area as the original nest, designed to deter climbing animals. The tree stayed empty for a few years and then, to our astonishment, a small nest appeared. The nest grew steadily, becoming more majestic every summer, a landmark visible to swimmers and boaters across the lake. After a decade, it measured more than four feet wide and three feet tall, one of the biggest nests on the island.
When we arrived on the Vineyard in March of 2020, the nest was empty. The birds were still warming themselves in the southern hemisphere, perhaps beginning their pilgrimage back to the island, making their way over the Caribbean Sea and Florida, continuing north, hugging the coastline, as a virus, first found in China, made its own explosive journey through the United States. My husband and I walked around the pole in our wool hats and parkas, our boots sinking in the marsh. The nest was intact, unchanged from the previous fall. Even in the bitter air, even with sharp sticks poking out of every side, it looked strong and stable. Welcoming. We smiled at each other and talked about the couple’s return. Would we be here to see it?
After the COVID-19 pandemic shuttered New York City, where we lived most of the year, we decided to quarantine on Martha’s Vineyard with our two youngest children, then fifteen and twelve. It made sense to move to the Vineyard; our house there was isolated and it was our favorite place in the world. The hedge fund where James worked had gone remote, and my legal work could be done from anywhere.
We arrived on March 15. The island was still firmly in winter, with temperatures in the thirties, the trees barren, and the light flat. An icy wind whipped around us as we unloaded the car, unpacking sweaters and boots, the girls’ textbooks and cellos, one larger than the other. James set up his home office on a card table in the living room, rising at 4 a.m. to worry over the markets. He cut three different kinds of wood and built gorgeous fires in the late afternoon. He made me whiskey sours as the sun set (we believed reports that whiskey would kill the virus) and locked every door of the house at night, even though the island’s population was sparse and, like New York, in lockdown. He seemed proud of his role as father and husband, nurturing us, protecting us.