Honda civics, grief and signs

They say (whoever they are), that once you own a certain type of car, you see it everywhere. For example, years ago I owned an zippy little honda civic, and sure enough, I notice them all over the place now. I'd never paid attention before, but they seem to be just everywhere. So when we see reminders of lost loved ones, I wonder, are we really seeing signs, or is it just our brains filtering for reminders, meaningful situations, or ways of feeling connected to them to ease the loss?

It's been two years since Sammer passed away, and it seems his fingerprints remain in the world. As you probably know, Sammer was a captain and career sailor, and sailing was how we bonded. My first "honda civic" moment was in a training course with the Coast Guard, and my officer told me to do an exercise on the charts, which involved recording latitudes and longitudes. He pointed to one spot -- the same reef where Sammer and I had had a particularly memorable adventure when we were first getting to know each other. 

Sailing home at 1a.m. after a weekend of adventuring, we nearly ended up shipwrecked in the middle of the night. This happened on one of our first dates, and I was impressed with how calm Sammer was and also how he knew exactly what to do. Both the engine and the wind died, and a powerful current was dragging us straight towards the reef. The sea surface was flat from lack of wind, but the strong current gurgled against the rocks. Sammer got me on the anchor, and waited - counting down the seconds - till we were close enough to drop anchor on the reef, but just far enough away not to make impact. At his word, I dropped anchor and felt it catch, holding us out of danger's way just before the keel collided with the rocks. 

It was pitch black except for our running lights, and as we swung around in the dark, Sammer worked calmly on the motor, and we chatted about different philosophical ideas. The current was tugging at us, and the anchor was the only thing keeping us off the rocks a few feet away. In our navionics track below, you can see how we drifted south of the warning buoy and swung around like crazy, anchored to the reef, while he worked on the engine. 

After he got the engine running again, we had another nail-biter that required careful timing. I raised the anchor, while he put the engine into gear. We were on our way again with a few seconds to spare before impact. 

When my CG officer pointed towards this same reef on the chart and told me to complete the exercise, I couldn't believe it. Of all the places on the BC Coast! I had really admired Sammer that night and learned a very important emergency skill.

The second "honda civic" moment happened on my most recent patrol on the Atlantic Eagle. My supervising officer pointed to a marine chart that had been sitting on the counter for most of the month, and he said, "It's been here for months. Let's see what it is." In the Coast Guard, we have stacks and stacks of paper charts that cover the region from Washington all the way up to Alaska, an area that includes countless islands, rivers and bays along the USA and Canada coastline. When we opened it up, it was a zoomed in map of a very specific spot. Smack dab in the middle was pair of small American islands - Sucia and Matia. Again, I couldn't believe it! Matia is so small that it has room for just one sailboat to anchor at night. Sammer and I had sailed here and nabbed the anchorage  on one of our early dates when we were first falling in love.

Without knowing my story, my officer said, "Liz, I think you should keep this chart. We don't need it on the ship." No one except Sammer knew the significance of this island to me, and having the map put into my hands was incredibly special.

My last "honda civic" moment was related to the wolves that live in the Pacific northwest. Sammer was obsessed with them, and he had spent a lot of time sailing to remote locations and camping on uninhabited islands, hoping to spot the wolves. He had finally seen the "sea wolves," as he called them, and he showed me on the map. The spot was Hunter Island, and the bay was named Lizzie Cove. We used to joke about the name (Lizzie Cove) all the time! 

After Sammer passed away, I was talking to my friend who had also seen the wolves. She pulled out a map, and pointed to a tiny cove on a remote island in the north. "Go here," she said, "If you want to see them." It was Lizzie Cove!  

There are many more such coincidences and things that have made me scratch my head, but they'd sound a bit kooky to share. So I wonder, are we just seeing the honda civics of grief everywhere? Do we make things meaningful when our souls have been ripped apart? I don't know. But I picture S. with a smile on his face pulling some strings. He could be very mischievous and was the most stubborn person I have ever known. 

Two years later, and life has a way of moving you forward. Grief transforms you, becomes easier to carry, and little by little with many bumps in the dark, healing comes in whispers. I'm not a believer of any structured religion, but I do marvel at the mystery of life and know we are part of something much bigger.  And whether it's honda civics or signs, I'll take it either way.