Still. Nothing comes without a cost. Embedded within each of us on Osprey is something intangible yet undeniable, a thread to a world that we know we've been privileged to be a part of and that we miss every day, quietly and deeply, the way you miss someone you've lost. It manifests itself in small but sudden ways—on seeing a familiar constellation, feeling the breeze blow with a certain southerly softness, hearing our boat's name coming over the single sideband as dear friends check in while on passage. "Osprey, Osprey," they call, their voices sailing as clear as a bell all the way into this little creek on the Chesapeake, and we feel every distant mile as we take their position, monitor their progress, and listen to their stories of the whales they see, the dolphins that come to play, the mahimahi they catch, the way the stars look tonight.
"This is Osprey," we call, sending our voices out into the night sky, seeing those same stars but from such a different place. "Standing by."