“How are you going to find your way?”

I looked in the direction of the shore shrouded in fog and spotted the outline of the Beach Avenue overlook in Conimicut. I made out two figures facing the water. Visibility was at a minimum. I wouldn’t want to be driving in this soup, but I felt at ease in my rowing skill. I’ve covered these open waters so many times that intuitively I’ve come to know them from the shore line sounds, tide and depth (bay waters are significantly cleaner than they used to be) where you can see the bottom at four feet. Additionally, unlike the highway with its stream of traffic, it’s rare that there’s someone else out here except the swans and geese that have the sense to get out of my way.

Of course I’ve been surprised even on perfectly clear days. Facing backwards and mistakenly believing I have the bay to myself, I’ve come close to hitting kayakers fishing from their boats. Evidently they assume I have eyes on the back of my head, for they don’t shout out a warning of the impending collision. Fortunately, I’ve had close encounters and nothing more.

On this foggy morning, I was confident the way ahead was clear. The schools of blues and the flocks of screaming terns that conduct aerial attacks on the bait fish driven to the surface by the feeding frenzy had moved on. That was a relief as the terns use moored boats as bases of operation. There have been years where scores of the streamlined birds – prototypes for F-16 jet fighters – have stationed themselves on my 19-foot sailboat despite efforts to discourage their landing with florescent streamers and netting. They would protest vociferously on my approach, defending their position until I come alongside. Then they take to the air to conduct screeching staffing runs.  In their wake they leave chalky deposits and the occasional sundried fish that wasn’t consumed.

The feeding blues, the birds and fishermen that followed them were gone. I needn’t worry.

“Give me a shout every so often,” I responded to my observers. Might they be a human fog horn? I heard their “okay” although by then the shore was consumed in the swirling mist.

The suggestion had me thinking of the importance of constants. The lighthouse fills that role for mariners. And, when we think of it, there are beacons in our lives, whether of a spiritual or worldly nature, that provide guidance.

Yet, this is of a different nature – strangers recognizing the dangers of a situation and inquiring if they can be of help. That is frequently the work of non-profits, whether their mission is to provide long-term housing, food and clothing for the needy, mentors for kids who could use a friend and role model and/or help with addictions and the afflictions of mental illness.

By the time I reached the cove off Cole Farm, the fog lifted and I was just where I thought I should be. On my return, the overlook was empty.  But it was reassuring to know there had been those watching and willing to help.

Sometimes that’s all it takes to keep rowing forward confidently.