Yesterday, while at rowing (tell me that’s not the weirdest thing to say ever?), my focus was on becoming silent.  In rowing, ever minuscule move you make affects the entire boat and your team.  If you are chatting away, as I am inclined to do, you will undoubtedly make a mistake and fumble your whole crew.  When we row we try to become like legs of a spider, working with each other silently, telepathically to propel forwards (actually backward, because rowing is weird).  All of my focus goes into the shoulders of the rower in front me, watching their muscle patterns and trying to imitate and anticipate with my own even strokes.  I’m not very good.  The rower behind me would probably tell you this, as she in turn tries to mimic me. We have considered calling our team “Hot Mess.”

As we entered the water to get the boat ready yesterday, the obvious change in season took us by surprise.  Our chilly water, that we wade into knee-deep to hook up oars, had taken a decisive dip into frigid territory. It was like walking in salt ice. I thought to myself just then, as my calves seized and stung  in the cold, “Maybe rowing isn’t for you?” Nevermind, I was already in and with a team so today had to happen. We stiffly entered the boat, definitely frozen up and less agile, and pushed off from shore, navigating our way to the channel.

As we headed out, we chanced upon a rather large sailboat temporarily docked at our harbor.  She was gorgeous. I would have taken a picture but carrying anything extra while trying to stay upright with a team of fellow novices in a 1-foot wide boat, is a bad decision. Even wearing my glasses is a risk, if we go over they’re gone, so I don’t being my phone to snap pictures, or at least I haven’t braved that yet. But, if it were with me I certainly would have taken a shot or two with this jewel of a wooden sailboat, her tall masts standing up against the fog, salt air, and pine trees across the channel.  As we moved from bow to stern a most glorious sight emerged. This boat was called “The Adventuress.”

Seriously.

It was an omen sent for the heavens that had me totally floored as we bobbed out into the water. Her gold carved name plate was the last view we had, rowing ever so deftly across the surface, all of us eyes up on her majesty.

The Adventuress. Oh my goodness, was that meant for me? It was, undeniably. In the midst of my crew of four relative strangers there wasn’t much to do but swallow hard and soak in this message.  I am doing the right thing. I am adventuring, sometimes against my own will, and I will change for it, and for the better.

Mind blown.

Before we returned from doing drills in the bay, The Adventuress had gone.  How we didn’t notice this beast of a sailing ship as she headed out still baffles me.  Eagle harbor is small, and boats of her size are hard to miss. I must have been, in those moments, do deeply entranced in the rhythm of rowing that I just floated by her.  This is what my adventures should become, right? Just normal, just me in the wind.  Though I could have been sad at missing a chance to run back down the dock and get a picture, in so many ways I started to feel like she was a ghost ship. I had gotten the message I needed, I was reassured in my journey, and I didn’t need a picture to know that.

(But in case you want to see her, here she is http://www.soundexp.org/)

What if we are all being handed these kinds of omens daily but aren’t always ready to receive them? I’m pretty sure my friends who are heavier on the woo-woo magic of life will laugh out loud reading this and say, “duh!”  But I’m not so woo-woo magic, and so this feels a bit more like a life changing surge.  There are omens when  we’re ready – and yesterday on the water I was.