The Morehead-Cain

The days were foggy and cool, and the nights brought a misty chill to the waters off the Maine coast.

Like many of my crew members, I would wake up for bow watch and hopefully ask, “Are the stars out tonight?”

The answer was almost always the same. “No. Sorry. It’s pretty cold out there, though. You’re going to want to bundle up.”

In fact, I recall only three nights when both the moon and stars were visible to us. One of those was the night before our departure home.

Around 8 o’clock, our crew gathered on the dock at base camp. From the dock, we had a picture-perfect view of the sunset and the stars emerging above us.

Our last group discussion was a day-by-day reflection of our trip. Gathered in a circle, we reminisced about our journey, starting with day one and ending with our return to base camp.

We laughed about being caught in thunderstorms and recalled how hungry we were during our three-day solo period. We joked about rowing for hours and waking up in the middle of the night for bow watch.

We discovered that all of those things that seemed so hard at the time had actually become favorite memories.

Just a few hours before, we had awakened in sopping wet sleeping bags with spirits dampened at the prospect of rowing through the rain all morning.

By evening, our group of 11 stood, arms linked and quiet, satisfied at having completed a great adventure, appreciative of new friendships, and wildly happy about returning home.

To our left was a full moon, casting light on this group of weathered warriors and on an ocean that would rock a new crew to sleep after we left. It was a perfect culmination to the trip.

I’d seen the moon reflect off the ocean a hundred times, but never had it meant so much to me.