Category Archives: New Bedford, Mass.

I didn’t see it, but this is what happened

Carol was sitting in her home office, working on the book she’s writing and looking out the front window at the people coming and going at the Whaling Museum across the street. I was sitting in the kitchen-dining-living room, eating lunch and reading the Sunday New York Times.

“The tea’s ready,” I said. I had said this several times before, but when Carol is writing she sometimes doesn’t hear things.

“I wonder what’s going on at the Whaling Museum,” she said. “This guy with a white beard, wearing a hooded sweatshirt, walked into the museum a few minutes ago, and now he just ran out.”

“Hmm,” I said. When I’m reading, I sometimes don’t hear things.

“It just looked funny,” she said. “He was this little slight man, and he was running away from the museum.”

We heard a siren. A police car pulled up in front of the museum. The cop went inside. “Something’s happening,” said Carol.

Another police car pulled up, blue lights flashing. We could hear another siren getting closer.

“I wonder if I should go over and tell them what I saw,” said Carol. “He ran down towards the waterfront.”

Suddenly it sunk in to my thick head: Carol had just seen something that might be important. My head snapped up. “Yeah, you better go over there — and hurry, so you can tell them which way he ran off!”

While she ran across the street to the museum, I looked out the window: four police cars parked in front of the museum, and fifth car, one of their SUVs, drove off towards the waterfront while I watched.

Carol came back and said someone had just held up the front desk of the museum with a penknife. She had given her story to the police, but hadn’t stayed around long enough to be interviewed by the reporter. “I went up to the woman at the desk and said, ‘Did you just get held up?’ and she looked at me and snapped, ‘Who are you?’ At first I was going to be pissed because she was so short with me, but then I realized, she had just been held up.”

What a stupid place to rob: very public, guaranteed there will be lots of witnesses, guaranteed five police cars will show up within a minute. Probably someone stealing money for drugs, too strung out to care any more.

The New Bedford Standard-Times Web site already has used to have a short report on the incident, on their breaking news page [link], which reads in part:

The culprit was described as a white male wearing square sunglasses and a charcoal gray hooded sweatshirt and sporting a large bandage on his chin.

Employee Pamela Lowe said she was working the counter at the main entrance when the man entered the museum, jumped the counter and demanded money.
She said he was brandishing a small knife.

He then jumped back over the counter, she handed him the money and he fled on foot.

Urban encounters

This afternoon at about 2:45 p.m., I saw a Lark Sparrow on Pope’s Island. The bird was on the southeast part of the island, hanging out with a bunch of Song Sparrows in some of the bushes along the edge of the water. I “pshhed” and it came out to have a look at me — I got a very nice look from about thirty feet away.

For those of you who are not birders, this is an unusual bird to see in our area. To see it in the middle of an urban setting, about a hundred yards from a busy four-lane highway, was a very nice winter solstice present.

Field notes:

The bird was about thirty feet away, down inside a bush covered with bittersweet. Temp. about 50 F., mostly sunny (low slanting light).

General impression: distinctive head pattern; overall color significantly paler than nearby Song Sparrows; overall somewhat slimmer than Song Sparrows.

Head: bright reddish brown (chestnut) crown (black right above eyes) with white central stripe; white malar; throat white or pale gray outlined with black; auriculars white and chestnut pattern; gray bill; broad white supercilium; black eye line; lores black.

Breast: pale grayish-white, central spot of medium gray.

Back and wings: patterned, but not boldly. overall color medium to light grayish-brown, with a faint rufous tinge.

Tail, legs, feet: Hidden by bushes.

The vultures

When I got to work this morning, Linda was telling Claudette about how Route 6 from Fairhaven across the harbor to New Bedford was closed, and she had had to drive up to Interstate 195 and over that way.

“Why, was the bridge closed again?” I asked.

Linda looked at me, and said to Claudette, “He doesn’t watch the news in the morning.”

“There was a terrible shooting at the Foxy Lady,” said Claudette.

“Is that what the helicopters were for,” I said. I had heard helicopters flying over our apartment all night long.

“The whole highway was blocked off as a crime scene,” said Linda. The news had said that there was blood everywhere.

Our letter carrier came in a little later in the morning. He and his wife like to leave the police scanner as they’re falling asleep. “We knew this one was bad,” he said. “You could hear it in the dispatcher’s voice. She was shaken.” He had heard her say that one of the police officers who got shot in the shoot-out with the gunman was hit in the face, and somehow managed to drive himself to the hospital.

This is what the New Bedford Standard-Times Web site had to say:

Gunman opens fire at Foxy Lady; 3 dead

A gunman sprayed the Foxy Lady strip club on Popes Island with bullets from an M-16-style rifle early this morning, killing two club employees.

The gunman, Scott C. Medeiros of Freetown, injured two New Bedford police officers in a chaotic firefight outside the club before eventually going back inside the club and killing himself, police said.

Most days, I take an hour-long walk, to try to keep myself at a minimal level of fitness. I head out across the swing bridge to Pope’s Island and then across into Fairhaven center and back again. Which takes me right past the Foxy Lady.

I decided to walk that same route this afternoon, same as usual. Trucks and vans marked with television station logos were parked all over the dirt parking lot of Captain Leroy’s Marina, which happens to be right across Route 6 from the Foxy Lady. Video cameras on tripods, lights on stands, and other television equipment littered the sidewalks. Thick electrical cables snaked out for the various trucks to the cameras and lights. A few people who looked like technicians wandered back and forth. I saw a man in a suit walking away from a camera, and a woman standing in the bright lights in front of a camera. Their heavy television makeup looked vaguely macabre.

“News vultures,” I thought to myself, “critters who come from far away and gather ’round whenever something dies.” Except that I happen to like real vultures; evolution has shaped them well to fit into a well-defined ecological niche, cleaning up carrion and helping the cycle of life to continue within their ecosystem. The news vultures will be gone in the morning, for they are not a part of the cycle of life here in New Bedford.

Marriage equality event

I just got a call from the Marriage Equality Coalition of the Southcoast. Apparently, opponents of marriage equality plan a demonstration on the steps of New Bedford City Hall this Saturday, December 9, to express their displeasure with elected representatives who have supported marriage equality. The Coalition will have a “respectful, non-challenging presence” across from City Hall from 11-noon, mostly to show our region’s elected representatives that there are plenty of supporters of marriage equality.

Religious liberals in Massachusetts have taken a strong stand supporting marriage equality. I wanted to let readers of this blog know about this event in case you live nearby and wish to show your support for marriage equality. Although I am scheduled for another event at the same time, I will be there for at least part of that hour.

Late fall

I took a long walk this afternoon, out to Fort Phoenix beach in Fairhaven. The wintering waterfowl have returned to the waters around Fort Phoenix: goldeneye, mergansers, loons, Brant, scaup, Bufflehead, grebes. I found myself crossing the bridge from Fairhaven to New Bedford just after sunset.

It had been a warm day, but as soon as the sun disappeared it started to get cold. The sky was one of those clear skies that you get in late fall or winter, and in the west it glowed orange-gold. I could see low dark clouds along the sourthern horizon, probably a bank of fog out to sea. I stopped at the Dunkin Donuts on Pope’s Island for a small decaf and a plain doughnut, and I watched it get dark while I sat there desultorily reading the newspaper. Not even five o-‘clock yet, and already dark.

Except that when I went back outside, it wasn’t completely dark. The sky was still bright from the setting sun. The moon, just a few days past new, added its own brilliance to the sky. Even though I was walking along a four-lane highway in the middle of the city, it all felt just a little bit magical.

Crunch!

At about a quarter to three, Carol and I decided to take a walk. We were both working at home this afternoon, and wanted to get out before the sun set.

We decided to walk to Pope’s Island, and as we got on the bridge from New Bedford to Fish Island we saw that the big freight ship that had been offloading fruit at Marine Terminal had just gotten underway, and was rounding Fish Island. Just then, the bells for the crossing gates at the swing span bridge started to clang, stopping vehicular traffic on Route 6 so the bridge could swing open for the freighter.

Late last week, I had been walking on the New Bedford side of the hurricane barrier that protects the harbor just as the freighter, River Phoenix, came into the port. It’s probably on the large end of the ships we see coming into the harbor, somewhere around 400 feet in length overall, a big white reefer with “NYK Lauritzen Cool” painted in huge bold lettering on the side, the red British ensign snapping from the stern. It was quite something to see it come through the hurricane barrier, the bridge superstructure and derricks towering over the hurricane barrier. Two tugs came out to meet it: I could see that Jaguar was the tug at the stern, but I couldn’t see which tug was at the bow. The black and yellow pilot boat came zipping out, but I couldn’t make out whether they took the pilot off once the tugs had the ship under control, or whether the pilot stayed on until the ship was docked. All this while, the swing span bridge was swinging slowly clockwise so as to open the channels into the upper end of the harbor.

From where I stood on the hurricane barrier, I had a clear view straight up the eastward channel of the swing span bridge; River Phoenix is big enough that it pretty well filled the channel, and it must have been a neat bit of piloting to take it through. There was a stiff westerly breeze, and you could see River Phoenix moving slightly eastward under the influence of the wind, but the pilot (or the tugs, whoever had it under control) nicely adjusted for the influence of the wind.

When I walked out to Pope’s Island on Sunday to buy a newspaper, I could see them unloading what looked like boxes of fruit.

And then this afternoon, there was River Phoenix rounding Fish Island, about to head through the swing span bridge. By the time the swing span bridge had swung open for River Phoenix, Carol and I had walked right up to the edge of the westward channel to watch.

The tug Jaguar was at her stern, and we watched as Jaguar cast off the stern rope. River Phoenix swung slowly around in a wide arc towards the eastward channel of the swing span bridge. “Too bad,” I said. “I thought it would go through this side of the bridge.” I thought she would keep to the starboard, but Carol said that the one other ship of that size that she had seen heading outward through the bridge had kept to the port heading out.

It looked to me as if River Phoenix were swinging a little too wide, but of course I’d never seen a ship of that size heading outwards through the bridge and I really had no idea of what too wide would look like.

“I don’t see how they get through there without hitting the bridge,” said Carol. “I wonder if they’re going to hit.” “Oh, they must know what they’re doing,” I said. But then, a couple of weeks ago, the tug Fournier Boys had been heading in the westward channel of the bridge to assist another big freighter out, and the tug had hit the pilings along the channel on the Fish Island side. I looked down and could see a piece of one of the beams Fournier Boys had shattered, still resting there on top of another piling. When she had hit, it had been quite a crunch.

River Phoenix was quite a sight as it passed through the channel. The setting sun cast shadows of the bridge superstructure on the white side of the ship sliding down along. I noticed one of the crew on the deck started to run, and then several things happened almost simultaneously: there was a crunching, scraping sound; the swing span of the bridge rotated a little bit clockwise, seemingly beyond where it usually stops; the crew member in his bright orange jacket peered over the railing, looking down where the steel side of the ship was scraping the steel girders of the bridge; and Carol said, “Oh my God, it hit!”

We stared in disbelief. The scraping sound stopped, and the part of the ship that had hit the bridge appeared beyond the end of the bridge. There two long dark lines where the white paint had been scraped off the ship’s side. I was looking at those scrape-marks in amazement when I heard another scraping sound: River Phoenix had hit the bridge again, near her stern; an even worse sound of crunching and scraping; but this time the bridge didn’t seem to move much at all.

“Look, there’s the bridge operator,” I said to Carol. He had come out of the control room which is mounted high in the center of the bridge’s superstructure. He stood on the walkway up there, watching the ship pass slowly by. At last she cleared the bridge, without hitting again. The bridge operator was talking into a radio or cell phone, I couldn’t see which. He came down the steep steps to the main deck of the bridge, and leaned over the far side inspecting the damage. The tug Jaguar steamed briskly through the bridge after River Phoenix. The bridge operator climbed back up to the control room, still talking to whomever.

“I don’t think we’re going to be able to finish our walk,” I said to Carol. “I’ll bet they won’t try to swing the bridge back after that.”

We waited for a while. Carol had somehow had an idea that the ship was going to hit the bridge, and we talked about that. We watched as River Phoenix slowed down in the middle of the harbor. Then we started walking back the way we had come.

We told several of the cars that were waiting for the bridge that they shouldn’t bother waiting any more; the ship had hit the bridge. One woman tried to argue with us. “I recognize that fishing boat coming in,” she said — there was a blue trawler far down the harbor towards the hurricane barrier — “I work on the piers, they’re just holding the bridge for that boat.” Nearly everyone else, though, turned around and started driving towards Interstate 195, in order to cross the harbor there.

We walked down to State Pier, and River Phoenix was out in the middle of the harbor with an anchor chain coming down from her bows into the water. As she swung slowly, majestically, around to face the northwest wind, we could see that her crew had lowered her gangplank. We guessed that the captain was going to be picked up and taken ashore to talk about what had happened to the swing span bridge.

As we back across the pedestrian overpass over Route 18, we could see cars and trucks still heading towards the swing span bridge. We could see flashing blue lights on the Fairhaven side, but no police presence on the New Bedford side yet. We discussed how long it might take to reopen the bridge to Route 6 traffic: surely they’ll at least have to inspect the bridge; perhaps repairs will be necessary. Maybe everything is fine, and they’ll reopen the bridge soon. I have my doubts, though, and wonder when we’ll be able to resume our favorite walk across the bridge to Fairhaven. As usual, I was way too gloomy — by 5:15 pm, the bridge was operational again.

Ship information from the NYK Lauritzen Cool Web site: River Phoenix, 394396 cubic feet, 4537 square meters, built 1993, speed 19 knots. No length given, but I estimate about 400 feet.

Storm warning

The storm warning went up on Friday, a red flag with a centered black square on the flagstaff over the Wharfinger’s Building.

At 3 a.m. Saturday morning, I was awakened by the wind driving rain against the roof and skylight.

David and I could feel the wind blow the car around on the drive out to Barnstable yesterday morning. The afternoon drive back was worse: vicious gusts of wind lashing rain against the windshield. I fought the steering wheel and complained out loud about the idiots who insisted on driving above the speed limit in spite of the weather.

This morning dawned bright and clear. I checked the NOAA website, and read the forecast discussion:

…Strong winds likely to cause damage today. Extremely strong center of sfc lopres located off SWrn Quebec as of 08Z this morning with sfc obs near the center reporting slp of around 969 mb. This will mean a very tight pressure gradient for southern New England today resulting in widespread wind gusts of 50 to 55 mph with locally higher speeds. Expect many reports of downed trees by late this afternoon and many folks without power. Driving will be quite difficult at times.

Carol called, saying she had started to drive back to New Bedford but the wind blew her car half into the other lane on the highway. She’s going to wait until tonight.

The wind stripped leaves off even the sheltered trees on William Street and piled them in an ankle-deep drift on the sidewalk in front of our apartment entrance. Small branches lay here and there on the street.

At church, I asked Ned if his boat were out of the water yet. Yes, he said. And he saw five or six boats blown up on the beach at Padanarum Harbor this morning. The wind kept blowing the inner doors to the church open. Ghosts, just in time for Hallowe’en, said Ned.

On the walk back from Pope’s Island this afternoon, I had to lean into gusts of wind. I watched one or two gulls beating upwind, but most of the gulls had found places to sit.

Duck

Carol and I were coming back from an evening walk down to the waterfront, walking across the pedestrian overpass that gets you over Route 18. Car horns blared below us, a couple of cars swerved. Carol said, “Oh, no, watch out, little duck!”

A duck was trying waddle its way across the four lanes of hectic Route 18 traffic. It made it, barely, without being hit. The human beings driving the cars may have been cursing the duck, but they had enough sympathy to avoid running it over.

“Let’s go down and see what’s up with that duck,” I said. I couldn’t understand why it didn’t fly up out of the way. Was it hurt?

We hurried down the other side of the overpass. There was the duck, waddling up the cobblestone street. “That’s a Wood Duck!” I said. I couldn’t imagine what a young female Wood Duck, a wary and secretive bird, would be doing in densely-populated downtown New Bedford.

It did not appear to be hurt. It just looked very scared. When it saw us, it headed back towards Route 18. We herded it the other direction, towards a patch of weeds. It almost flew towards the weeds, so we knew its wings weren’t broken. By the time we got up to the weeds, it was no longer visible. I suspect it was hatched this summer, making its first trip south, confused and scared.

“Poor little duck,” said Carol.

“Maybe a little rest and it will be ready to fly,” I said.

Carol started telling me about the movie “Winged Migration,” which depicts the death of more than a few birds during migration. Downtown New Bedford is not a good place for Wood Ducks; I hope the one we saw tonight makes it out alive.

Buttonwood Park

My laundry was in the dryer, and I decided the evening was too pleasant to waste sitting in the laundromat staring at my clothes going around and round. I walked down to Buttonwood Park.

Plenty of people were out walking on the broad sidewalk at the west end of the park: two middle-aged women out for a fitness walk, a tall exceedingly fit-looking man jogging, a little boy riding a little bicycle with training wheels and his father close behind. Two young people stood in the middle of a gaggle of Mallards and domestic ducks at the edge of the pond, and even though they were right next to a sign that said “Don’t Feed the Ducks/ Por Favor….”, they were feeding the ducks. A pleasant-looking woman striding by looked over at them and said (pleasantly), “Don’t feed the ducks, now.” The two young people guiltily said, “We’re not. They’re eating something else.” The latter sentence was true: the ducks were snapping at big, slow, fat insects rising up from the edge of the pond. “They’re eating the bugs,” said the pleasant-looking woman matter-of-factly, and strode on.

I turned left down the road that bisects the north half of the park, ambling along, feeling logy. Two small girls, who looked to be twins, came tearing down a side path towards the road. “Don’t run out into the road!” shouted an adult voice from far behind them. Laughing, the two girls stopped one another, which involved one girl pulling the other girl’s shirt off her shoulder, and the second girl pushing away the face of the first girl. They got disentangled, still laughing, and resumed tearing along the path, coming to a dead halt at the very edge of the roadway (disconcerting the driver of a huge SUV that had fortunately come to a complete stop at the “Stop” sign at the crosswalk). They turned around in order to look back at the woman walking towards them pushing a stroller, and put on their best angelic faces as if to say, “See? We came to a stop before the road!” The angelic effect was spoiled when one poked the other, and the other whispered something back that made them both giggle.

A hoard of Ring-billed Gulls swirled around the edges of a soccer game, screaming and trying to steal scraps of food from each other, but now I am bored by the gulls that scream all night from the rooftops around our apartment, so I walked on by. Besides, I realized that my laundry would be done soon, and it was time for me to hurry back to the laundromat.