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The Mast-Head: Some Hurricane History

The Mast-Head: Some Hurricane History

Keep a weather eye out
By
David E. Rattray

September brings with it clear skies, open roads, a sense of calm, and peak hurricane season. This year’s official forecast is for a moderately active Atlantic during the period, but records going back to 1851 show that for Long Island, as well as the rest of the coastal United States, from Texas to Maine, now is the time to keep a weather eye out, so to speak.

All in all, history tells a mixed tale for Long Island. Of the 96 major hurricanes that struck during the 159 years between 1851 and 2010, which the National Hurricane Center studied, just 5 hit here directly. However, when adjusted for inflation and other factors, the hurricane center found that some of the costliest ones did pass over. These included the unnamed 1938 Hurricane, which ranked sixth on the most-expensive list, and Carol in 1954, at number 19.

Number one was a 1926 storm that struck South Florida and Alabama and did an estimated $164 billion in damage in 2010 dollars. Number two was Katrina in 2005, with an adjusted cost of $113 billion. Sandy, which brought Long Island to a standstill for at least a week in 2012 but was only a tropical storm with a whole lot of surge associated with it, ran up a relatively modest $65 billion tab.

One of the points the hurricane center made in its report (which a friend pointed out the other day) was that because of never-ending building and expansion of existing structures along the shore, even minor hurricanes will rack up huge bills. The authors pointed out that all three of the 2008 hurricanes that made landfall ended up on the top-30 list for cost despite none of them ranking as major events bymeteorological standards.

“Large property losses are inevitable in the absence of a significant change of attitude, policy, or laws governing building practices [codes and location] near the ocean,” the report says. And that’s setting aside the increased risk presented by sea level rise. The South Fork may get a pass this year, and maybe next year, but we can expect one one of these days. Don’t say the National Hurricane Center didn’t tell you so.

 

Point of View: One More Thing

Point of View: One More Thing

The battlements were in the end not stormed
By
Jack Graves

Three of East Hampton’s most admired coaches of the past generation — Jim Nicoletti, Ellen Cooper, and Kathy McGeehan — appeared in wholehearted support of Lou Reale, the ousted championship and award-winning softball coach, at the school board’s organizational meeting on July 14 — Bastille Day.

And while the turnout for Coach Reale was impressive — there were upwards of 60 there — the battlements were in the end not stormed. (That the “pros” outweighed the “cons” by about 97 percent apparently failed to persuade.)

But at least the “mess” surrounding Coach Reale’s forced resignation, as one board member, John Ryan Sr., called it, had somewhat of an airing, in contrast to the usual the mute rubber-stamping by school boards of administrative decisions.

The superintendent, Rich Burns, said he had taken it upon himself to overturn the athletic director Joe Vas’s recommendation that the 20-year veteran be rehired after having been “inundated over the past month and a half” by Reale’s detractors and supporters.

(At one point, apparently, during that span, Mr. Burns said he would second Mr. Vasile-Cozzo’s recommendation, and then, apparently following further meetings with interested parties, decided he wouldn’t.)

The overwhelming turnout of the “pros” was interesting to me, for when I used to cover public hearings held by the town and village boards it was always the other way, with the antis’ numbers far exceeding the pros’. If the antis in this case felt so strongly, as Mr. Burns indicated they did, you would have thought they’d have shown up.

Coach Reale is still in the dark, as far as I know, as to all of the allegations made. At the very least, he ought to have been given a chance to respond to them by the superintendent, who at the meeting, with his lips pursed and his voice lowered, hinted that the partisans would change their tune if they knew what he knew.

As to allegations of “verbal abuse,” it seems strange that players dating to his early years here, players who presumably were subject to the same “abuse,” would come out to praise him.

Mr. Ryan, when asked the next day if he thought the board might override Mr. Burns — as apparently it can — said he didn’t think there was enough support, though he did not altogether rule out the possibility of an override, or the possibility of a vote on the matter that would put everyone on record.

One thing for sure, as Mr. Nicoletti said, the coaching situation here is in a perilous way, given the fact that on three occasions in the past 18 months — in the cases of R.J. Etzel, who had moved back here from Miami so that he could coach varsity baseball, Steve Redlus, the former varsity football coach, who had initially promised “a total rebuild” of that program, and now Coach Reale — the superintendent has effectively disempowered the A.D.

I doubt that it used to be this way. Mr. Nicoletti said he couldn’t remember similar instances in the past.

It’s as Hughie King has often said, “The inmates are running the asylum.”

 

Connections: Bambi vs. Fido

Connections: Bambi vs. Fido

Regardless of the damage the deer had done to our garden, I had always been happy to watch their comings and goings
By
Helen S. Rattray

Call me a tree hugger. I like deer. I even like the deer who bed down in a hedgerow between our house and the library, or across the lane in a bushy area between two neighbors’ houses, or at the far, overgrown side of the property, beyond the barn. (Yes, even I admit, there have been too many deer in the village, too many for comfort and too many for traffic safety, too.)

Regardless of the damage the deer had done to our garden, I had always been happy to watch their comings and goings, as they strolled or trotted across the yard, or, on occasion, settled down for a rest smack-dab in the middle of the lawn, as if they were in charge. I have been known to pride myself on not having put up elaborate deer fencing to keep them out. But then we decided to get a dog.  

Goodie — our late, lamented, last family dog — had been allowed to roam the neighborhood unsupervised, but times have changed. How long would a free-range dog live with traffic as crazy as it now is? How long has it been since that beloved, footloose basset hound (whose name I can’t recall, though I bet someone will write in to remind me) was the unofficial mayor of Newtown Lane? 

Once we had decided to get a dog, we had to face the reality that either we would need to take it out on a leash for regular walks or we would have to fence in our backyard. 

I admit I felt like a bit of a hypocrite when we decided on the latter. The modest, and all but invisible dark-wire fence we put up is only five feet high, but so far it has kept out the deer. I guess our particular deer aren’t up to scratch as jumpers. 

We are beginning to observe various old shrubs and flowers that had been fodder for the deer coming slowly back to life. A few very old rose bushes, I’m happy to report, are going to survive the deer-ravaging they had suffered over the last few years. I imagine that soon we’ll even be able to remove the protective wire barriers we had placed around the roses; maybe we’ll even plant some new ones.

 My friend Galen Williams, who has designed gardens here for decades, dropped by the other day and made note of the fact that tiny hosta leaves were poking up and daylilies trying to sprout. The daylilies had been totally devoured and had long since disappeared from view. The hostas, planted by a previous generation decades ago, used to surround the house in profusion, but ferns had taken their place in recent years. Now, I’m trying to give away ferns to any friends who would like transplants.

It seems amusing that, these days, the deer are free-range villagers and the dogs are captive, from Main Street to Northwest Woods. 

Sookie, our delightfully shaggy new mutt from the Animal Rescue Fund of the Hamptons, isn’t much of a barker, but she whines and barks excitedly — and dances on her hind legs like a circus dog — when she sees deer in the front yard, beyond the fence. Clearly, her heart’s desire is to escape and get at them. But she loves her backyard realm and hasn’t, at least so far, figured out that she probably could dig her way out if she put her mind to it. 

Will the deer stay away, or will they get hungry enough come fall to venture a leap over the fence? And, if they do leap across, will little Sookie’s bad-girl terrier displays chase them away again from the old roses? Only time will tell, but so far, the score is deer zero, dog one.

Point of View: Summertime

Point of View: Summertime

Some of us work too hard
By
Jack Graves

Summertime,

And the livin’ ain’t easy,

Sirens are wailin’

And the prices are high

 

Oh, your daddy’s at Ditch

And your mom’s driving while texting

So hush little baby

Don’t you cry

 

One of these mornings

You’ll get your own iPhone

Then you will turn your face down

And forget the blue sky

 

But until that morning

There’s lots more to distract you

With Daddy at Ditch and Nanny standing by

 

Summertime,

And the stomach turns queasy

Fish are gaspin’

And the E. coli’s high

 

Your daddy’s bit by a tick

And your mamma ain’t cookin

So hush little baby

There’s always Wi-Fi

“Travailler, rien que travailler,” Rodin said to Rilke, and that is for the most part true. Work — at least work that you’re good at, and, one hopes, work that you like — is redeeming.

But some of us work too hard, and our health — it’s no surprise that it’s summer as I say this — suffers because of it. And so it was that one of my co-workers, Kathy Kovach, who has made me look good week after week, year after year, decade after decade, came fairly close to being carried away by pneumonia this past week.

Of course she wants to come back right away. You are the best, Kathy. Don’t get carried away. I hope you can live easy for a while. It’s summertime after all.

The Mast-Head: Piss Hampton

The Mast-Head: Piss Hampton

Sometimes I think that the Surf Lodge is blamed too much for Montauk’s problems with bonkers nightlife — and public urination.
By
David E. Rattray

Jayma Cardoso, the owner of the Surf Lodge bar and restaurant in Montauk, went online last week and disputed a photograph that appeared on The Star’s website that showed several men urinating into Fort Pond. “All I see is a group of friends standing knee deep in the water,” she told our friends over at the always entertaining Curbed Hamptons. Giving her the benefit of the doubt, I figured I should check it out. So I talked for a second or third time to the staff member who brought us the photo in the first place.

She said that the source (whom it turned out I know and trust) wanted to remain anonymous due to his position in the community. He had observed the men begin to relieve themselves against the Surf Lodge bulkhead from the Industrial Road causeway and then grabbed his phone to record the moment. I have every reason to believe his account rather than the self-serving nonsense offered by the person most directly responsible — other than the pissers themselves.

But sometimes I think that the Surf Lodge is blamed too much for Montauk’s problems with bonkers nightlife — and public urination. Consider that on two separate Saturday mornings at about 6:30 I have gaped at organized bicycle outings of perhaps 20 riders stopping for a pee break at Georgica Beach. The  problem there is that the restrooms do not open until 9 a.m.

It is quite a sight, watching four, five, or more men emerge, pulling up their Spandex short fronts from behind the old Coast Guard building, where, presumably (I did not check this out) they’ve just let it flow into the grass. Making this more annoying, it is less than three miles from Georgica to the village’s privy in the Reutershan parking lot off Main Street; you would have thought these bonnie captains of industry could have held it until 7 a.m. when it opens.

The other morning when a friend and I were pulling into the lot at Georgica to check the surf, we saw one guy not even bothering to get off his bike peeing without a care in the world into the weeds and pine at the edge of the bicycle rack area. I had told my friend to expect this; he was not disappointed.

“You’re kidding me, man!” he exclaimed as we passed the dude.

It’s interesting how the story of the summer has been the summer itself. And it’s interesting how so many people, not just the Montauk nightlife knuckleheads of the sort most of us once avoided in high school, treat this place like their own personal bathroom. Um, excuse me, I have to step outside now.

 

Connections: Under Sunny Skies

Connections: Under Sunny Skies

The slogans of our time are indications of profound recalculation of our collective mores
By
Helen S. Rattray

“May you live in interesting times,” a familiar and ironic way of wishing bad news to descend on others, is not the ancient Chinese curse it has been purported to be, but more likely a 20th-century construction, whose popularity has sometimes been attributed to Robert Kennedy.

 Well, the 21st century is standing the curse on its head. We do live in interesting times and instead of disaster they are bringing positive change, at least to Americans. Our culture is spinning, and we’ve not even reached the first quarter of the century.

The slogans of our time are indications of profound recalculation of our collective mores. Black lives matter. Gay marriage. Gender identity. The 1 percent. Income inequality.

A group of friends at an annual barbecue last weekend, some two dozen of us, were all beginning to show our age. There may have been only one honestly brown, rather than gray, head among us. “Who’d have thought . . .” was the topic of the afternoon.

Between the ribs and the watermelon, we agreed that none of us expected majority opinion on the social issues we cared about to change as quickly as it has — if we had thought there was a chance of its changing at all. None of us imagined the Supreme Court would find unconstitutional the Defense of Marriage Act, which defined marriage as between a man and a woman and was adopted by Congress with overwhelming bipartisan support and signed into law by President Clinton in 1996. That EdithWindsor, the octogenarian widow who won the case against DOMA, lived in Southampton brought the decision close to home. And who expected the court to find marriage between persons of the same sex constitutional two years later even if Ireland had already done so by popular vote?

Conversations at the barbecue, at least those I heard, did not dwell on negatives. The national controversy about the Confederate flag, for example, was not on the table. Nor was there much lamenting about political polarization. No one mentioned the Iran nuclear agreement, although had it been broached; my guess is that the tone would have become tense, with some hailing the agreement as an extraordinary achievement toward Middle East peace and others avidly supporting Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s position that the agreement is a “historic mistake.”

On another occasion, after dark perhaps or if Congress proved irrevocably divided on this issue, the discussion may have veered into difficult territory. But because the food was delicious and the weather beautiful, no debate became heated. Actually, though, I think it’s more likely that the party remained upbeat because we really were friends, and friends of friends, who respected and admired each other — and we were ready to bask in the good news of the interesting times in which we live.

 

Relay: Trendy, Fast, In Your Face

Relay: Trendy, Fast, In Your Face

Forbearance isn’t my forte
By
Christopher Walsh

Few people know that I moonlight as a longshoreman, occasionally helping to unload lobster boats in Montauk, or, in the early morning, packing shipments of same, thousands of them boxed, iced, and trucked to restaurants and markets near and far. It’s punishing work for a scrawny type like me, and it doesn’t pay nearly as well as catering, but I don’t mind.

Anyway, I don’t want to do catering anymore. Serving the 1 Percent has helped to keep me afloat these last few years, especially in 2012, when my bartending gig at Spring Close crashed and burned along with the restaurant itself. But forbearance isn’t my forte, and I just can’t steel myself to stand there for hours with a tray of hors d’oeuvres, or fetch drinks from the bar, or haul long folding tables and crates of liquor, mixers, and ice from trailer to sprawling, kelly green lawn and back. The money is good, but now I am weary.

I never play the piano anymore. I just don’t have the time, those catering gigs I’m turning down notwithstanding. There’s the office, and then there is dinner to be made, and the dishes to be washed, and the laundry, and the ironing, and if there is any time left over it’s down to the ocean, what with the days already growing shorter and the autumn bearing down.

And anyway, even if I became good at it, someday, and performed publicly, who would listen? No one, in my observation. Case in point: I recently heard from a professional pianist who’d quickly aborted his summer residency at a certain Hamptons restaurant-cum-nightclub. Why? “It just became overwhelming,” the musician said, “in terms of the noise and the confusion. . . . It’s just too trendy, too fast, too in-your-face. It’s not the Hamptons I remember. I have no plans to go back.”

He could have been Wolfgang f’ing Mozart and nobody would have listened, is my guess. And think of the poor customers: How can they be expected to listen to the American Songbook with a cellphone pressed to one ear while the other senses are devoted to scouring the crowd for celebrities?

A few Saturdays ago, I was due at the docks to help unload one of those aforementioned boats. As it happened, the 7 p.m. start time coincided with that of a particularly big concert at the Surf Lodge. After enduring the 35-miles-per-hour traffic all the way from Amagansett, and then the 10 m.p.h. crawl through town, I was running late and in a real mood on Edgemere.

Just outside this so-called surf lodge, the out-of-state motorist in front of me came to a complete stop, and another cut off all traffic, zipping out from Industrial Road as if shot from a cannon, and a team of cyclists rode three abreast on the shoulder, and a thousand beautiful people stampeded toward the chaos, and that was when I sort of lost it. When the blaring of the horn had subsided, along with a stream of expletives that would have made my father very proud, no lives had been lost. It could have gone differently.

When the work was done, I got back in the car for the 20-minute drive back to Amagansett. Except this time it took 65 minutes, thanks to the D.W.I. checkpoint at the easterly side of Napeague.

It’s just too trendy, too fast, too in-your-face. It’s not the Hamptons I remember. Where have I heard that before?

Forty summers ago, we all got into the old Buick and drove from Montauk to the East Hampton Cinema. It’s a long time ago, but I faintly recall the movie, a fable, perhaps, about a giant shark that eats people in a Northeastern resort town, and a mayor who, for too long, puts the local economy ahead of public safety and refuses to close the beaches.

There’s a lesson in all of this, I bet, but damned if I know what it is. I’m too tired to think.

Christopher Walsh is a reporter at The Star.

 

Relay: Behind The Scenes

Relay: Behind The Scenes

My own stories started in 1989 when I was 8 years old and my family began taking summer trips to the South Fork
By
Christine Sampson

I imagine few people end their summers in the Hamptons without at least a couple of good tales to tell.

My own stories started in 1989 when I was 8 years old and my family began taking summer trips to the South Fork. Back then, my first time parasailing in Montauk began to cultivate in me a thirst for adventure that later led to a hang gliding excursion in North Carolina’s Outer Banks and skydiving on the coast of California. I’ve taken in my share of really awesome music at the Stephen Talkhouse over the years, and this one time a friend and I saw a beached whale, but I’ll admit I passed my 20s without ever experiencing the Boardy Barn.

I live out here now, and I’ve got a new story to tell.

It begins at Guild Hall, where I took in my first show a couple of weeks ago. It was called WordTheatre, and the premise was famous actors performing dramatic readings of award-winning short stories and poetry, produced and directed by oneof the foremost voiceover talents in show business. With some of the stories’ award-winning authors present in the audience, including Richard Bausch, Andre Dubus III, and Peter Orner, I got the sense that the whole production — which was a benefit for the prestigious Pushcart Prize — had accomplished something really profound and authentic. It was spectacular and intimate at the same time. The fangirl in me would have been satisfied with snapping selfies with a few of my favorite actresses after the show. That happened, but the story doesn’t end there.

Somehow, after the show, a friendly conversation with some of the behind-the-scenes folks yielded an invitation to a post-show gathering at the home of Philip Spitzer, the literary agent, who has a house in East Hampton. The authors were to be present, and if there’s one thing I love more than a good movie or theatrical show, it’s a good book. Midnight approached, but my fatigue dissipated and I graciously accepted the invitation.

The thing is, I’m an aspiring author myself. Maybe it was the cabernet sauvignon, but I started fantasizing that somehow I could absorb their language, their mannerisms, their own storytelling techniques, perhaps by way of osmosis if I was lucky or lazy or, more realistically, by observing, listening, and drawing some keen conclusions. Maybe that way, my own literary future could be as illuminated as theirs.

To be an author, it turns out, you don’t just have to be great at writing. You have to do it all the time. You also have to be a patient diplomat with the ability to endure readings where few people show up and take your reviews in stride. You’ve got to save your energy for when you’re writing your future best seller.

Apparently, you’ve got to be adept at practical jokes, too, and be able to deliver a good punch line with a straight face, which they did until nearly 2 o’clock in the morning. Regrettably, though, I was too captivated by them to be able to recall any of the jokes I like to tell, so I was unable to actually contribute to the impromptu comedy show transpiring in Mr. Spitzer’s torch-lit backyard. So I know I have a long way to go.

Earlier in the evening, I’d been introduced as a journalist who had penned a full-length novel that’s on the cusp of being published. And so, in a brief conversation near the end of the evening, one of the authors turned to me and said, “What’s your book about?” I stammered through a description.

“What’s it called?” Great title, he said. Use your own name, not a pen name, he advised. From another: Keep your day job until you’ve become well established, then keep it for a little while longer. Grateful for the words of encouragement, I thanked them and returned home, where I promptly drafted an entire outline for a new story I’d been thinking about lately.

If many stories conclude with a simple “the end” and that’s it, here’s hoping that this story is really only the beginning of something bigger.

Christine Sampson reports on education for The East Hampton Star.

 

 

 

The Mast-Head: Tonight in the Sky

The Mast-Head: Tonight in the Sky

Local conditions are going to be ideal
By
David E. Rattray

Sky watchers say this week’s Perseid meteor shower will be a good one. This is the annual show of sparkling streaks that last year was obscured by the light of a full moon.

Looking at the forecast for tonight and tomorrow, it appears that local conditions are going to be ideal, with clear skies and light to calm wind after dark. Early in the night, the meteors will be lower on the horizon, gradually appearing higher in the sky and increasing after midnight.

In our part of the world, the trails of flaming comet debris will be most frequent to the northeast, so open spaces with little light pollution and a view to the north will be ideal for watching. We are lucky that the South Fork has a lot of options that meet that description. I think of the bayfront, such as Long Beach in Noyac, Maidstone Park in East Hampton, the Alberts in Amagansett, and Navy Beach in Montauk as among the better choices.

For those eager for a little education with their sky show a free program will be offered by the Montauk Observatory at the Ross School Tennis Center on Goodfriend Drive in East Hampton this evening at 8. Following a talk about what is known by science about the Perseids, everyone will be invited outside to sit back and watch or take a tour of celestial bodies using telescopes the organizers will supply.

One of the repeated points on a number of websites advising how to see the Perseids is that you should get out of town, away from artificial light. It is sad that even here, where we still like to think we live in the country, this is true. Residential, municipal, and to the greatest degree, exterior commercial illumination has cast an unwelcome amber glow over many parts of the East End. Even where I live, down near Promised Land in Amagansett, we can see an orange haze from Connecticut.

For me, the Perseids are a reminder that a dark night sky matters, that creeping urbanization comes at the cost of getting in the way of our even contemplating space, our modest place in the universe, and the infinite sublime. That, and just enjoying a really, really good show.

Connections: National Shame

Connections: National Shame

The international community, including the Red Cross and the United Nations, have recognized the right of prisoners of sound mind to go on hunger strikes
By
Helen S. Rattray

It was with utter dismay that I was again made aware this week that the country to which I have pledged allegiance since childhood continues to engage in force-feeding, which is — quite rightly — considered torture by many in the medical profession. Some of us expected the election of Barack Obama to put a stop to this sort of thing, but it hasn’t quite worked out that way.

 To be sure, the Obama administration ended the practice of waterboarding, and it was recently reported that the American Psychological Association had faulted those members who, after Sept. 11, helped the Pentagon justify such extreme interrogation techniques. But force-feeding of hunger strikers at Guantanamo Bay continues.

A story about it appeared on page three of Saturday’s New York Times. The headline read: “Guantanamo Hunger Striker’s Petition Divides Officials.” My first thought was that it would be a ho-hum story: Disagreement among officials of any sort is par for the course. But then I read it.

A prisoner (or a detainee, which is more politically correct) named Tariq Ba Odah “has been on a hunger strike since February 2007 and now weighs less than 75 pounds,” the story read. It reported that a lawyer had asked a judge for Mr. Ba Odah’s release because of his “severe physical and psychological deterioration,” and because he seemed “to have developed an underlying medical problem that is preventing his body from properly absorbing nutrition no matter how much he is force-fed.”

According to The Times, the detainee is “about 37 and has been held for more than 13 years.” He was arrested in Pakistan and accused of being at its Afghanistan border seeking to join the Taliban and of having “received some weapons training.” As is common at Guantanamo, there has been no trial.

In 2009, The Times said, a “six agency task force recommended” that he be transferred out of custody, but that did not occur because his country of origin was Yemen, which was in chaos then as it is now.

There was national focus on force-feeding about three years ago when more than 100 men went on hunger strikes at Guantanamo. The military argued then, as it apparently still does, that force-feeding is necessary in order to maintain the health and safety of those who undertake hunger strikes. Who is kidding whom? 

The international community, including the Red Cross and the United Nations, have recognized the right of prisoners of sound mind to go on hunger strikes, making force-feeding a violation of international law for that reason as well as because it is widely thought to be cruel, inhumane, and degrading.

Descriptions of the pain that accompanies force-feeding, of the medical complications that can arise, and of the possible dreadful effects of an anti-nausea drug sometimes administered are easily found on Internet search engines. They are horror stories.

It is intolerable that under such circumstances the force-feeding of Mr. Ba Odah continues and that Justice Department and State and Defense Department officials allow themselves the privilege of debating what the government should do about him.

In whose name? In yours?