I have a nostalgic memory, both pleasant and painful, that occurred a couple years ago. I was sitting on the porch of our most heavenly cabin enjoying a strong summer rain storm. The Loons came to me and wept.

There had been a squall, unlike anything I had ever seen.  I love water, I love being in and on the water, I even profess that in a former life surely, I was a sea captain given my language skills and the synchronization I always seem to experience in the rocking of waves. So when this massive storm came in, I was enthralled. I have seen storms depicted in movies of through reading old sailor tales, which I love. But sitting on the cabin porch watching this massive blanket of what seemed like solid water come across our little lake was daunting, exciting and surreal all in that brief period of time during which it came.

The summer had already been an exciting one for people like me who treasure times on the lake.  It had been an exciting summer because we had Loons.  Loons! Lovely, stately, and wildly calling Loons.  Each evening with the regular 4 PM-5 PM passage of lake residents’ pontoon boats, we would all wave and smile of course, because that is what you do on the little lake.  It doesn’t matter how many times you wave to the same person or crowd, you just wave with each passing be it from the shore, as we most often were, playing Chinese checkers on the porch, a kayak, a paddle boat or pontoon. So, in our accustomed ease of summer delight we waved but this particular year with the Loon business we always asked: “noticed the Loons this evening?  Any motion in the nest”?

That was the conversation: Loons. We had Loons on our little lake and we were all thrilled.  Due to the long-timers on the lake there was even Loon Squad who put up low wake signs, and Loon Alert Signs on the island where they had nested.   We not only had a pair of loons visiting our lake, they had selected this new home on the island just across from our cabin, the nest nearly within eye sight from our front porch.

It was clear that momma and papa Loon were keeping constant eyes on the nest, one always being nearby when we paddled quietly around the island. We knew that we couldn’t paddle too close to the nest so we had to strain to catch a glimpse of their well-hidden nest. The nest was close to the water, as is the custom of Loons. I understand loons build nests close to the water because of the difficulty of their landing and take-off patterns. If you have ever seen a Loon take flight from the water, it is quite the scene, comical in a way, literally taking a running start just skimming the water paddling as fast as they can the difference between water and air until they finally get from flap into flight.

It had been confirmed by one of the Loon squad that there was only one egg in the nest.  Okay, one egg it is, which is not unusual.  Surely, we all thought, we would be seeing a new loon within the next few days!  At least, Ron and I hoped that would be the case because we would be at the cabin only another few days.

Then the rain came. Typical of summer storms, the brightness gave way to darkening clouds, then droplets plucking the lake.  Then the stinging pelts came, and then the squall hit, hard and fast. From gathering of dark clouds to blankets of white water coming straight across the lake in front of us in so short a time. Coming from the East, the wayward wind.

I admit, I didn’t think about the Loons and the nest during the squall because I was mesmerized by the squall’s swift power. I allowed the old sea captain in me to remanence through my imagination.  Then, as soon as it came, the squall seemed to be gone. Where did it go?  How did it come and go so fast, almost as if it were all in my imagination? It came and it went and then, like anyone else who enjoys the refreshment of a post summer storm, we walked down to sit on the dock as the waters settled down and sun came back out.

Then they came, the Loons, Mother and Father directly to the end of our dock. We thought it was cool to begin with. Maybe they came to visit and “ask how we were”. They came to wail in our presence.  This was not their distant, enchanting evening call from across the lake. These two Loons came with in feet of our dock and circled and simply cried.  They wept and wailed inconsolably. It didn’t take the therapist in me to realize this was a cry of great grief.  Then it hit me “Oh no, the storm must have taken our little brown egg!” Oh Loons, oh I am so sorry! The loons were knocking on my therapist door to sit with me as they wailed.

I made every human effort I could to communicate how sorry I was for them. I cooed them, I cried with them, I extended my arms to them in a universal gesture of comfort. But I could not effectively comfort them. Such is so often the case in grief, whether human or otherwise. The loons came, circled about, and wept. We cried with them. I did my best to console but alas, I doubt my consolation was sufficient. Though it seemed eternal, swiftly after they come, they left. They circled while weeping and then they left our dock.  Ron and I held each other and continued our own sadness of this most human-like loss.

Their nest had indeed been washed out by the squall.  They had lost their egg, their single, beautiful, well loved, and proudly protected lightly brown egg. Our potential three were just two again.

The Loons left our little lake not long afterward. It was several years before we again heard in the distance the magnificence of an evening Loon call. I don’t know if any other loons ever nested on the island again. The sound of the Loons has been random over the last few years. Even though random, the haunting loon-like melody is always treasured and hope-inspiring. We yet hope that “The Loons” would come back to our lake and nest again.

They have come back. This summer, the enticing and stirring call of the Loons has been frequent. This last week, our July week, has been daily gladdened by their sounds and their sights as we share our little lake.  It is so wonderful to see them. There is a peace that settles over me when I see them an hear them, as is true with most who treasure the lure of the Loons. I always say hello to them and invite them to stay on our little lake in hopes they will. I sit in my morning kayak bobbing on the water with them, as they dip and dive and tease me with where they might resurface. I stop and close my eyes and cock my ear to their evening tunes that settles me into a deep contemplative breath.

Again, the time had come for us to depart our little private paradise and return home until next month. And as is our usual custom, Ron and I go down to the end of our dock for the last evening sit. It was that most wonderful time of pre-night, “waning dusk” as some poet once call it, when sun’s glow has been all but snuffed and the star light is yet only a hint, that up from the darkening water came one Loon, right in front of our dock. Ron and I took each other’s hand and smiled, then up came another, and then, how about that, one more, smaller little guy! Then just as they came up one by one by one, they dove back down into the water, one papa, one momma, and one young proud of little loon. I guess they just wanted to come by and say “Hello, just wanted you to know we are feeling better now. See you next month when you come back.”