Podcasts about Narragansett Bay

Prudence Island Lighthouse, photo by Jeremy D'Entremont Prudence Island, about seven miles long, is the third largest island in Rhode Island's Narragansett Bay. It was determined around 1850 that a lighthouse was needed to guide vessels passing between Sandy Point, at the island's easternmost extremity, and Aquidneck Island, about a mile to the east. Instead of building a new lighthouse, a disused one at Goat Island in Newport was moved to Prudence Island. Originally built at Goat Island in 1842, the lighthouse still stands at Sandy Point and is the oldest free-standing lighthouse in the state. The granite stairs inside Prudence Island Lighthouse The Prudence Conservancy, a nonprofit organization, was involved with the upkeep of the lighthouse and its grounds since the late 1980s. The Coast Guard granted a license to the group in 2001, and in 2024, the property was conveyed to the Prudence Conservancy under the guidelines of the National Historic Lighthouse Preservation Act. Interviewed in this episode are Prudence Island Historian Joe Bains, and Ray Jenness, who is the chairman of the Prudence Conservancy. The interview was recorded at the Prudence Island Historical Museum. The wife and son of Keeper George Gustavus, along with three other people, lost their lives when the keeper's house at Prudence Island was destroyed in the Hurricane of 1938. Courtesy of Joan Kenworthy.

Podcast Episode 131: Heavy Weather Sailing with Dan PfeifferEpisode Summary: Welcome to another episode of Sailing and Cruising the East Coast of the United States! In this episode, hosts Bela Musits and Mike Wasserman sit down with Dan Pfeiffer, an experienced sailor and avid listener of the podcast. Dan reached out via email, sparking a fascinating conversation on various sailing topics. Today, we dive deep into heavy weather sailing—navigating winds from 15 to 30 knots and the best techniques to stay safe and efficient on the water.What You'll Learn in This Episode:Understanding heavy weather sailing and what conditions to expectHow to prepare your vessel for stronger windsKey techniques to manage sails and maintain controlInsights from Dan Pfeiffer's personal experiences in challenging conditionsWhy Listen to This Episode? If you've ever wondered how to confidently handle higher wind speeds or want expert advice on adjusting your sailing techniques, this episode is for you! Whether you're a beginner or an experienced sailor, these tips will help improve your seamanship skills and prepare you for breezier conditions.Key Takeaways:Take advantage of regular afternoon sea breezes of 15-20 knots in areas like Narragansett Bay.Learn how to adjust sails properly to maintain a balanced and efficiently sailing boat.Understanding reefing techniques to reduce sail area in stronger winds.The importance of proper weight distribution and boat handling in challenging conditions.Resources & Links:Follow Dan Pfeiffer's sailing adventures:http://dan.pfeiffer.net/10m/SailingInWindyWeather.htmConnect With Us:If you enjoyed this episode, please subscribe and leave a review—it helps us reach more sailing enthusiasts like you!Happy Sailing!Bela and Mike

The strait between Bristol and Portsmouth, Rhode Island, was busy in the early 1800s, with all manner of vessels passing between Narragansett Bay to the west and Mount Hope Bay to the east. A lighthouse was built on the Bristol side in 1855, with a small brick dwelling and a lighthouse tower attached to its southern end. The lighthouse's days as an aid to navigation ended with the construction of the Mount Hope Bridge in 1929, almost directly over the lighthouse. The lantern was removed and the property passed into private ownership. Bristol Ferry Lighthouse, photo by Jeremy D'Entremont Simon and Laura Thomas Owners Carol and Bob Lundin restored the building and had a new lantern room fabricated and installed in the 1990s. Today, the lighthouse is owned by Simon and Laura Thomas and managed as an inn, with bookings available through AirbnB and Vrbo. Simon and Laura are interviewed in this episode along with Rhode Island marine photographer Matthew Cohen. Judianne Point co-hosts. Below: inside Bristol Ferry Lighthouse, photos by Jeremy D'Entremont

Warwick Life host Scott Nerney talks with Hillsgrove native, former educator, and boat builder Kenneth Allstrom. Warwick has been Kenneth's home for 87 years, and Narragansett Bay has been a central part of his life. Hear how his childhood church lost its steeple, about the boats he built as a youth and an adult—including a boat made out of concrete—how the Bay has changed, competing in Twenty Hundred Club races, and how to have a pleasant day on the Bay.Warwick Life highlights what's special in Warwick, Rhode Island and helps listeners get the most from this seaside community. Warwick Life is produced by Scott Nerney and presented by ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠We Be Jammin'⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠.Write to warwicklife@gmail.com.Music by Tess Der Manouelian.

Narragansett Bay offers everything a kayak fisherman could want from plentiful access to a wide variety of species available throughout the year. In this episode Jimmy and Kevin talk with Rhode Island kayak angler, Jonny Rego about his home waters, and what a typical saltwater season looks like for him. Additional topics include lobstering via kayak, chunking for dogfish, and picky bluefish. (By the way, Jimmy was right about Rhode Islanders now being able to catch crabs after dark: Rhode Island Crabbers - You Can Now Catch Blue Crabs After Dark! - On The Water)This epsiode of the OTW Podcast is present by Old Town Kayaks: Old Town Kayaks & CanoesFollow Jonny on Social MediaInstagramTik TokYouTubeRead more about Narragansett Weakfish (from the OTW Archives): https://onthewater.com/weakfish-in-narragansett-bay

The Narragansett Bay Symphony Community Orchestra is the subject of this week's program with Luis Viquez, Guest Conductor and President Greg Henninger. We talk about their upcoming concert and listen to some of the music that will be presented on March 2nd at the E. Greenwich H. S. Auditorium. For more information you can call (401) 274-4578 or go to www.nabsco.org

Pomham Rocks Lighthouse, photo by Gary Point Pomham Rocks Lighthouse is at the northern end of Narragansett Bay in Rhode Island, offshore from the community of Riverside. Alex Dias joined the Friends of Pomham Rocks Lighthouse (a chapter of the American Lighthouse Foundation) in 2012, but his fascination with lighthouses dates back to 2005 when he was in the 5th grade. He's been involved with virtually every aspect of the group, including the development of the museum inside the keeper's quarters, the ongoing restoration of the building inside and out, and helping to facilitate public tours. Alex has a captain's license and brings many guests out to the lighthouse, in addition to serving as a tour guide himself. Alex Dias Alex became the chairman of the Friends of Pomham Rocks Lighthouse earlier this year, and he's on the board of directors of the American Lighthouse Foundation. He received a Len Hadley Volunteerism Award from the foundation in 2017. His brother, Adam, is also a volunteer and currently serves as the treasurer of Friends of Pomham Rocks Lighthouse. Adam received the Len Hadley Volunteerism Award in 2023. Judianne Point co-hosts this episode. Friends of Pomham Rocks Lighthouse volunteers during the installation of Pomham's fourth-order Fresnel lens in the lighthouse museum in September 2021. Alex and Adam Dias are behind the lens. Co-host Judianne Point is second from right. Photo by Jeremy D'Entremont.

The intense downpours causing more street flooding in the region in recent years reflect the impact of climate change. At the other end of the weather spectrum, Rhode Island Governor Dan McKee this week issued a statewide drought advisory. But there's some good news when it comes to the health of Narragansett Bay. Water quality has improved so much that Crescent Park Beach in East Providence will be reopened as a swimmable beach in 2026, after more than a century of non-use. Jed Thorp is on the frontlines of these issues as director of advocacy for Save The Bay. The nonprofit environmental organization was founded in 1970 to protect Narragansett Bay. More than a half-century later, Rhode Island continues to wrestle with myriad environmental issues. So how does Thorp see the outlook, and is Rhode Island prepared for the environmental future? Political reporter Ian Donnis goes in-depth with Thorp on this week's episode of Political Roundtable.

The Narragansett Bay Symphony Community Orchestra is the subject of this week's program with Zeke Fetrow, Guest Conductor and President Greg Henninger. We talk about their upcoming concert and listen to some of the music that will be presented on November 10th at E. Providence High School Auditorium. For more information you can call (401) 274-4578 or go to www.nabsco.org

In this podcast episode, Bela Musits and Mike Wasserman discuss the Summer of 2024 sailing season on Narragansett Bay.  We review the trips taken and places visited.  We also discussed some of the new experiences, sights seen, and what we learned.  We also review the scheduled and unscheduled maintenance projects that were performed.  For example, a ripped mainsail and a water tank sensor that stopped working. If you are interested in learning how to sail, check out NauticEd. which is short for Nautical Education, an established company with a really cool online platform for learning the knowledge elements of sailing at your convenience, along with a network of experienced sailing instructors for the hands-on skill development elements on the boat. To check out NauticEd, click on the link below and as a bonus you will receive your first two lessons for free. https://www.nauticed.org/?school=bela-l-musits&utm_source=newsletter&utm_medium= If you would like to support the podcast, we now have a Patreon page.  Just go to Patreon.com/sailingtheeast.   Our podcast is now also available on YouTube, just search for “Sailing the East” https://www.youtube.com/@sailingandcruisingtheeast We love to hear from you, our listeners, send us your questions, comments, and suggestions at sailingtheeast@gmail.com.  If you know someone that would be an interesting guest on the show, please reach out to us and let us know—wishing you fair winds, and calm seas. Bela and Mike --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/bela-l-musits/support

Plankton form the basis of the food web in oceans and new research shows that the level of phytoplankton in Rhode Island's Narragansett Bay has dropped by half in the past 60 years. We wondered why.

Welcome to New England Legends From the Vault – FtV Episode 82 – Jeff Belanger and Ray Auger walk the shores of Narragansett Bay in Rhode Island searching for the ancient mystery of the Narragansett Rune Stone. This enigmatic rock may hold the key to European contact centuries before Christopher Columbus ever buckled his first shoe. Others claim this rock isn't what it seems. Still, it recently became the most famous rock in Rhode Island! This episode first aired September 6, 2018   Listen ad-free plus get early access and bonus episodes at: https://www.patreon.com/NewEnglandLegends

Nada is a Palestinian-American author, teacher and mother. She was six years old when her mother kidnapped her from Kuwait, at the time when Iraq invaded Kuwait. They went to the United States where her uncle lived in Rhode Island. She did not yet realize that it was not a holiday but they were going to stay. Her debut book All Water Has a Perfect Memory is a memoir that takes readers from the author's ancestral origins- the coast of Yaffa, Palestine, to her birthplace of Kuwait, eventually landing on the shores of Narragansett Bay in Rhode Island. The narrative confronts generations of silence and, ultimately, revelation with an imaginative blend of folklore and history that explores the relationship between our bodies, ancestors, and the Earth. The work explores the way the author is intertwined with her maternal line while reuniting with her father after a 30-year separation.Voices once hidden in the waters of our bodies are amplified and released to forever alter the landscape, breaking cycles and seeding an audacious hope interconnected to lands past and present.https://jadedibispress.com/product/all-water-has-perfect-memory-by-nada-samih-rotondo/Connect to Stories from Palestine on social media, sign up for the newsletter, read more about traveling to Palestine and if you can, please support the podcast on Ko-fi. All the links can be found here: https://linktr.ee/storiesfrompalestineSupport the podcast with a donation: https://ko-fi.com/storiesfrompalestine

Coastal Learning and Stewardship Guest Maureen Dewire, Education Coordinator, Narragansett Bay National Estuarine Research Reserve Numerous animal species rely on salt marshes for nesting and breeding. Most of the fish and shellfish eaten in the United States, including herring, crabs and oysters, complete at least part of their life cycles in salt marsh estuaries. Over time, coastal development, introduction of invasive species, over-fishing, dams and climate change have led to a decline in the health of estuaries. The Narragansett Bay National Estuarine Research Reserve, is one of 30 National Estuarine Research Reserves located around the country, established to provide long-term protection of coastal lands so they can serve as platforms for research, education and recreation. The Reserve's education sector strives to cultivate awareness, knowledge, and appreciation for Narragansett Bay's natural resources through a variety of place-based experiences for all ages. Education Coordinator Maureen Dewire shares stories about the Reserve's education programs and describes how she collaborates with others to teach about local research, impacts of climate change and land stewardship. Dewire grew up in Stonington, CT and made her way to North Carolina where she attended UNC-Wilmington, receiving her Bachelor's degree in Marine Biology and a Master's degree in Environmental Studies. She worked for a non-profit, Bald Head Island Conservancy, as the Director of Education and Senior Naturalist for 8 years where she was lucky enough to spend her days surveying beaches, kayaking through tidal creeks, and hiking in the maritime forest while delivering programs on sea turtles, alligators, birds and coastal ecosystems. Her love of New England brought her back in 2011 when she obtained the position of Education Coordinator position at the Reserve…and she hasn't looked back since! INFORMATION RESOURCES Read about NBNERR's Programs - http://nbnerr.org/education-2/  Learn more about Estuary Education - https://coast.noaa.gov/estuaries/ Teach with Data - https://coast.noaa.gov/estuaries/science-data/ Find Lesson Plans - https://coast.noaa.gov/estuaries/curriculum/ WALKING JOURNAL ENTRIES: COASTAL ADVENTURES EcoDetective on the Marsh https://netwalkri.com/walking-journal/f/ecodetective-in-the-marsh EcoDetectives Take a Dock Walk https://netwalkri.com/walking-journal/f/dock-walk EcoPirate on the Cove https://netwalkri.com/walking-journal/f/ecopirate-on-the-cove EcoDetective in Scalloptown Park https://netwalkri.com/walking-journal/f/ecodetective-in-scalloptown-park Raising Kids on the Narragansett Bay https://netwalkri.com/walking-journal/f/raising-kids-on-the-narragansett-bay Learn more at https://netwalkri.com email wendy@netwalkri.com or call 401 529-6830. Connect with Wendy to order copies of Fiddlesticks, The Angel Heart or Storywalker Wild Plant Magic Cards. Subscribe to Wendy's blog Writing with Wendy at www.wendyfachon.blog. Join Wendy on facebook at www.facebook.com/groups/StoryWalkingRadio

Let's visit two chef friends at different altitudes. Our great friend Lou Perella is in his kitchen in Warren, Rhode Island at sea level on Narragansett Bay with friends - read his menu at Perella's Ristorante and find a story with the name of every dish and then some. Mountainside, chef David Fitelson is getting ready for the upcoming ski season at The Wobbly Barn at the Killington resort. There are some exciting changes planned but guests will still find their favorites.

In this episode of "Exploring New England" host Ryan Zipp talks about his recent stay at the newly renovated Newport Harbor Island Resort in to capture some content for the hotel & also get in some well deserved relaxing. This stunning property was recently renovated earlier in the year and features some of the most stunning views anywhere in Newport. Ryan also heads out on one of Newport Classic Cruises' schooners for sunset cruise around Narragansett Bay to get some amazing perspective of the coastline from out on the water. 

Officially known as Rhode Island, Aquidneck is an island in Narragansett Bay in the state of Rhode Island. 1638 settlers included William Coddington, William & Anne Hutchinson, Philip Sherman, William Dyer, John Coggeshall, Nicholas Easton, William Brenton, John Clarke, and Richard Maxson (Maggsen). Check out the YouTube version of this episode at https://youtu.be/ZiurhyPE9IY which has accompanying visuals including maps, charts, timelines, photos, illustrations, and diagrams. Anne Hutchinson books available at https://amzn.to/4eEM3lD  Roger Williams books available at https://amzn.to/3ULVojD Providence Plantations books at https://amzn.to/4bEHANn   Massachusetts Bay Colony books at https://amzn.to/4bHPlTQ John Winthrop books available at https://amzn.to/4bt8uZw Puritans books at https://amzn.to/3SorIa5   THANKS for the many wonderful comments, messages, ratings and reviews. All of them are regularly posted for your reading pleasure on https://patreon.com/markvinet where you can also get exclusive access to Bonus episodes, Ad-Free content, Extra materials, and an eBook Welcome Gift when joining our growing community on Patreon or Donate on PayPal at https://bit.ly/3cx9OOL and receive an eBook GIFT. SUPPORT this series by purchasing any product on Amazon using this FREE entry LINK https://amzn.to/3POlrUD (Amazon gives us credit at no extra charge to you). It costs you nothing to shop using this FREE store entry link and by doing so encourages & helps us create more quality content. Thanks! Mark Vinet's HISTORICAL JESUS podcast is available at https://parthenonpodcast.com/historical-jesus                                                            Mark's TIMELINE video channel at https://youtube.com/c/TIMELINE_MarkVinet Website: https://markvinet.com/podcast Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/denarynovels Twitter: https://twitter.com/MarkVinet_HNA  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/mark.vinet.9 YouTube Podcast Playlist: https://www.bit.ly/34tBizu Podcast: https://parthenonpodcast.com/history-of-north-america TikTok: https://tiktok.com/@historyofnorthamerica Books: https://amzn.to/3j0dAFH                                                                              Linktree: https://linktr.ee/WadeOrganization  Audio Credit: The Other States of America History podcast with Eric Yanis (episode S3E13, Roger Williams and Providence (1636-1644), July 18, 2023).See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

 Vincent Messolella Narragansett Bay Commission proposes building a tunnel to replace the broken Washington Bridge. What would the plan be? Vincent explains with Gene.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

During heavy rain, Providence's sewers used to get overwhelmed and dump untreated sewage into the Bay. But thanks to a project to increase the capacity of sewers, untreated sewage rarely makes it into our waterways anymore.

On this episode, Mashapaug Pond, the largest freshwater body in Providence, has long been off limits for recreational use. In this Green Seeker episode Michelle San Miguel reports on a new state plan to hold property owners responsible for the contamination that's seeping into the pond and eventually ending up in Narragansett Bay. Then, we take a second look at another type of pollution – one that can't be seen, but is loudly heard -- noise. How does the noise here in Providence compare to other cities in the region? – the answers in our Green Seeker series will likely surprise you. Finally on this episode of Weekly Insight, Michelle San Miguel and WPRI 12's politics editor Ted Nesi discuss what's in and what's not in Rhode Island's new 14 billion dollar state budget bill.

The Narragansett Bay Symphony Community Orchestra is the subject of this week's program with John Eells, Founding Music Director and Ivan Kirschner, Past President. We talk about their upcoming concert, and listen to some of the music that will be presented on June 9th at the GAMM Theater. For more information you can call (401) 274-4578 or go to www.nabsco.org

The Narragansett Bay Symphony Community Orchestra is the subject of this week's program with John Eells, Founding Music Director, and special guests Joseph Amante Y Zapata and Krista Wilhelmsen. We discussed their upcoming concert and listened to some of the music presented on April 28th at E. Providence H. S. Auditorium. For more information, you can call (401) 274-4578 or go to www.nabsco.org

One of the great quests of the 16th century was to find a northwest passage—a shortcut from Europe to Asia. Such a route would go through or above the lands of the New World. No one ever found it because there isn't one. But the search gave European mapmakers and scientists a lot of information about the North American coastline.One example was a search that reached the coast 500 years ago. Italian navigator Giovanni da Verrazzano convinced the king of France to sponsor a search for the northwest passage. The expedition set sail in January of 1524. It reached the coast in March, near Cape Fear, North Carolina.Verrazzano sailed south for a while, but stopped before he reached Florida, which was claimed by Spain. He then headed north. Over the next few months, he cruised past present-day New York, New England, and toward Canada.During that time, he and his crew became the first Europeans to see what are now known as New York Harbor, Block Island, and Narragansett Bay, Rhode Island. Verrazzano also bestowed Old World names on many of the features he saw.His accounts of the journey helped mapmakers begin to craft maps of that part of the American coastline. Verrazzano also became convinced that everything he saw was part of a single vast continent—with no way through it.Verrazano visited the New World two more times. He was killed during an encounter with the natives of one of the Caribbean islands during the last visit, in 1528.

In this episode, Bela Musits interviews Carter Yepsen.  He recently purchased a sailboat and spent the Summer of 2023 sailing Long Island Sound, Block Island Sound, Narragansett Bay, Buzzards Bay and up to Marblehead.  He did much of the trip solo and finished up the Summer sailing his boat through NYC and up the Hudson River to Lake Champlain.   A remarkable summer for even the most savvy sailor, but other than a few charters, this is Carter's first Summer cruising. Let's dive right into the interview with Carter. It's a great episode, so be sure to subscribe and listen. If you would like to support the podcast, we now have a Patreon page.  Just go to Patreon.com/sailingtheeast.   Our podcast is now also available on YouTube, just search for “Sailing the East” https://www.youtube.com/@sailingandcruisingtheeast We love to hear from you, our listeners, send us your questions, comments, and suggestions at sailingtheeast@gmail.com.  If you know someone that would be an interesting guest on the show, please reach out to us and let us know—wishing you fair winds, and calm seas. Bela and Mike --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/bela-l-musits/message Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/bela-l-musits/support

In Episode 338 Jeff Belanger and Ray Auger stroll the shores of Narragansetts Bay in Warwick, Rhode Island, to the see the site where Rhode Islanders led by John Brown attacked the HMS Gaspee and her overzealous crew in 1772. Could this shot have been the actual first shot fired in the Revolutionary War?   See more here: https://ournewenglandlegends.com/podcast-338-the-burning-of-the-great-gaspee/   Listen ad-free plus get early access and bonus episodes at: https://www.patreon.com/NewEnglandLegends

Warwick Charter Boat Captain Michael Brady talks with U.S. Coast Guard Auxiliary North Star Flotilla Staff Officer Nick Butziger about Greenwich Bay. Hear about Nick's childhood as a Warwick water rat, why Greenwich Bay is a good spot for boating, shipbuilding, shipping, and rum-running, Nick's experiences with a rum-runner and Nat Hereshoff's boat, how Narragansett Bay was formed, when the Bay used to freeze, how Bob Ballard found the Titanic, and cleaning up the Bay. Visit the U.S. Coast Guard Auxiliary North Star Flotilla website. Michael Brady is the owner of Captain Mike Charters and a Boston Employment Expo producer. Sound effects by the BBC.

Whale Rock Lighthouse (U.S. Coast Guard) Walter Eberle with his wife Agnes Whale Rock Light, a typical cast-iron “spark plug” type lighthouse, was constructed at the entrance to the west passage of Rhode Island's Narragansett Bay in 1882 to help mariners past a treacherous reef. Isolated Whale Rock was not a desirable location for keepers, and 16 different men served as head keeper between 1882 and 1909. A 1924 storm sent waves over the top of the tower and did some damage to the structure, but that storm was nothing compared to what was to come in 1938. Walter Barge Eberle, assistant keeper at Whale Rock Light in 1938, was the father of six children. On September 21, 1938, with practically no advance warning, a devastating hurricane was bearing down on New England's south facing coast. At about 5:30 the next morning, Keeper Daniel Sullivan phoned the Eberle family in Newport. His words were to the point: “The light is gone.” The lighthouse tower was completely gone, and Walter Eberle was never found. He was 40 years old. The base of Whale Rock Lighthouse after the hurricane of1938 David Robinson examining the remains of Whale Rock Lighthouse in 2005. Courtesy of David Robinson. There are two interviews in this episode. The first, recorded in 2001, is with the surviving children of Walter Eberle. The woman who did most of the talking in the interview was Dorothy Roach, Eberle's oldest daughter. Also featured is David Robinson, the State Underwater Archaeologist for the state of Massachusetts and Director of the Massachusetts Board of Underwater Archaeological Resources. When he was based in Rhode Island, he was the first person to study the underwater remains of Whale Rock Lighthouse.

Mike Schipritt talks about his article "The Artifacts of Narragansett Bay" which is in the January/February 2024 issue of American Digger magazine.Please visit our sponsors:American Digger Magazine: https://americandigger.com/Garrett Metal Detectors: https://garrett.com/welcomeHistory Seekers Metal Detectors: https://historyseekers.net/The Ring Finders: https://theringfinders.com/Eureka Treasure Hunters Club: https://www.eurekathc.org/Laclede County Treasure Trackers: https://www.facebook.com/groups/1011045908968273

On this episode as part of our Green Seeker series, Michelle San Miguel sits down with researchers at the University of Rhode Island to explore how microplastics are infiltrating all aspects of our lives and why reducing the waste may very well lower the health dangers they present. Then, Pamela Watts introduces to middle-aged workers who gave up their steady jobs to follow their dreams and are enjoying their second acts. Finally, the art of hunting through the eyes of Native American hunter Nakai Northup shares how his Narragansett and Mashantucket Pequot heritage influences how he hunts in the wild. This is part of our continuing My Take series.

  The Haunter of the Dark By H. P. Lovecraft (Dedicated to Robert Bloch) I have seen the dark universe yawning Where the black planets roll without aim— Where they roll in their horror unheeded, Without knowledge or lustre or name. —Nemesis. Cautious investigators will hesitate to challenge the common belief that Robert Blake was killed by lightning, or by some profound nervous shock derived from an electrical discharge. It is true that the window he faced was unbroken, but Nature has shewn herself capable of many freakish performances. The expression on his face may easily have arisen from some obscure muscular source unrelated to anything he saw, while the entries in his diary are clearly the result of a fantastic imagination aroused by certain local superstitions and by certain old matters he had uncovered. As for the anomalous conditions at the deserted church on Federal Hill—the shrewd analyst is not slow in attributing them to some charlatanry, conscious or unconscious, with at least some of which Blake was secretly connected. For after all, the victim was a writer and painter wholly devoted to the field of myth, dream, terror, and superstition, and avid in his quest for scenes and effects of a bizarre, spectral sort. His earlier stay in the city—a visit to a strange old man as deeply given to occult and forbidden lore as he—had ended amidst death and flame, and it must have been some morbid instinct which drew him back from his home in Milwaukee. He may have known of the old stories despite his statements to the contrary in the diary, and his death may have nipped in the bud some stupendous hoax destined to have a literary reflection. Among those, however, who have examined and correlated all this evidence, there remain several who cling to less rational and commonplace theories. They are inclined to take much of Blake's diary at its face value, and point significantly to certain facts such as the undoubted genuineness of the old church record, the verified existence of the disliked and unorthodox Starry Wisdom sect prior to 1877, the recorded disappearance of an inquisitive reporter named Edwin M. Lillibridge in 1893, and—above all—the look of monstrous, transfiguring fear on the face of the young writer when he died. It was one of these believers who, moved to fanatical extremes, threw into the bay the curiously angled stone and its strangely adorned metal box found in the old church steeple—the black windowless steeple, and not the tower where Blake's diary said those things originally were. Though widely censured both officially and unofficially, this man—a reputable physician with a taste for odd folklore—averred that he had rid the earth of something too dangerous to rest upon it. Between these two schools of opinion the reader must judge for himself. The papers have given the tangible details from a sceptical angle, leaving for others the drawing of the picture as Robert Blake saw it—or thought he saw it—or pretended to see it. Now, studying the diary closely, dispassionately, and at leisure, let us summarise the dark chain of events from the expressed point of view of their chief actor. Young Blake returned to Providence in the winter of 1934–5, taking the upper floor of a venerable dwelling in a grassy court off College Street—on the crest of the great eastward hill near the Brown University campus and behind the marble John Hay Library. It was a cosy and fascinating place, in a little garden oasis of village-like antiquity where huge, friendly cats sunned themselves atop a convenient shed. The square Georgian house had a monitor roof, classic doorway with fan carving, small-paned windows, and all the other earmarks of early nineteenth-century workmanship. Inside were six-panelled doors, wide floor-boards, a curving colonial staircase, white Adam-period mantels, and a rear set of rooms three steps below the general level. Blake's study, a large southwest chamber, overlooked the front garden on one side, while its west windows—before one of which he had his desk—faced off from the brow of the hill and commanded a splendid view of the lower town's outspread roofs and of the mystical sunsets that flamed behind them. On the far horizon were the open countryside's purple slopes. Against these, some two miles away, rose the spectral hump of Federal Hill, bristling with huddled roofs and steeples whose remote outlines wavered mysteriously, taking fantastic forms as the smoke of the city swirled up and enmeshed them. Blake had a curious sense that he was looking upon some unknown, ethereal world which might or might not vanish in dream if ever he tried to seek it out and enter it in person. Having sent home for most of his books, Blake bought some antique furniture suitable to his quarters and settled down to write and paint—living alone, and attending to the simple housework himself. His studio was in a north attic room, where the panes of the monitor roof furnished admirable lighting. During that first winter he produced five of his best-known short stories—“The Burrower Beneath”, “The Stairs in the Crypt”, “Shaggai”, “In the Vale of Pnath”, and “The Feaster from the Stars”—and painted seven canvases; studies of nameless, unhuman monsters, and profoundly alien, non-terrestrial landscapes. At sunset he would often sit at his desk and gaze dreamily off at the outspread west—the dark towers of Memorial Hall just below, the Georgian court-house belfry, the lofty pinnacles of the downtown section, and that shimmering, spire-crowned mound in the distance whose unknown streets and labyrinthine gables so potently provoked his fancy. From his few local acquaintances he learned that the far-off slope was a vast Italian quarter, though most of the houses were remnants of older Yankee and Irish days. Now and then he would train his field-glasses on that spectral, unreachable world beyond the curling smoke; picking out individual roofs and chimneys and steeples, and speculating upon the bizarre and curious mysteries they might house. Even with optical aid Federal Hill seemed somehow alien, half fabulous, and linked to the unreal, intangible marvels of Blake's own tales and pictures. The feeling would persist long after the hill had faded into the violet, lamp-starred twilight, and the court-house floodlights and the red Industrial Trust beacon had blazed up to make the night grotesque. Of all the distant objects on Federal Hill, a certain huge, dark church most fascinated Blake. It stood out with especial distinctness at certain hours of the day, and at sunset the great tower and tapering steeple loomed blackly against the flaming sky. It seemed to rest on especially high ground; for the grimy facade, and the obliquely seen north side with sloping roof and the tops of great pointed windows, rose boldly above the tangle of surrounding ridgepoles and chimney-pots. Peculiarly grim and austere, it appeared to be built of stone, stained and weathered with the smoke and storms of a century and more. The style, so far as the glass could shew, was that earliest experimental form of Gothic revival which preceded the stately Upjohn period and held over some of the outlines and proportions of the Georgian age. Perhaps it was reared around 1810 or 1815. As months passed, Blake watched the far-off, forbidding structure with an oddly mounting interest. Since the vast windows were never lighted, he knew that it must be vacant. The longer he watched, the more his imagination worked, till at length he began to fancy curious things. He believed that a vague, singular aura of desolation hovered over the place, so that even the pigeons and swallows shunned its smoky eaves. Around other towers and belfries his glass would reveal great flocks of birds, but here they never rested. At least, that is what he thought and set down in his diary. He pointed the place out to several friends, but none of them had even been on Federal Hill or possessed the faintest notion of what the church was or had been. In the spring a deep restlessness gripped Blake. He had begun his long-planned novel—based on a supposed survival of the witch-cult in Maine—but was strangely unable to make progress with it. More and more he would sit at his westward window and gaze at the distant hill and the black, frowning steeple shunned by the birds. When the delicate leaves came out on the garden boughs the world was filled with a new beauty, but Blake's restlessness was merely increased. It was then that he first thought of crossing the city and climbing bodily up that fabulous slope into the smoke-wreathed world of dream. Late in April, just before the aeon-shadowed Walpurgis time, Blake made his first trip into the unknown. Plodding through the endless downtown streets and the bleak, decayed squares beyond, he came finally upon the ascending avenue of century-worn steps, sagging Doric porches, and blear-paned cupolas which he felt must lead up to the long-known, unreachable world beyond the mists. There were dingy blue-and-white street signs which meant nothing to him, and presently he noted the strange, dark faces of the drifting crowds, and the foreign signs over curious shops in brown, decade-weathered buildings. Nowhere could he find any of the objects he had seen from afar; so that once more he half fancied that the Federal Hill of that distant view was a dream-world never to be trod by living human feet. Now and then a battered church facade or crumbling spire came in sight, but never the blackened pile that he sought. When he asked a shopkeeper about a great stone church the man smiled and shook his head, though he spoke English freely. As Blake climbed higher, the region seemed stranger and stranger, with bewildering mazes of brooding brown alleys leading eternally off to the south. He crossed two or three broad avenues, and once thought he glimpsed a familiar tower. Again he asked a merchant about the massive church of stone, and this time he could have sworn that the plea of ignorance was feigned. The dark man's face had a look of fear which he tried to hide, and Blake saw him make a curious sign with his right hand. Then suddenly a black spire stood out against the cloudy sky on his left, above the tiers of brown roofs lining the tangled southerly alleys. Blake knew at once what it was, and plunged toward it through the squalid, unpaved lanes that climbed from the avenue. Twice he lost his way, but he somehow dared not ask any of the patriarchs or housewives who sat on their doorsteps, or any of the children who shouted and played in the mud of the shadowy lanes. At last he saw the tower plain against the southwest, and a huge stone bulk rose darkly at the end of an alley. Presently he stood in a windswept open square, quaintly cobblestoned, with a high bank wall on the farther side. This was the end of his quest; for upon the wide, iron-railed, weed-grown plateau which the wall supported—a separate, lesser world raised fully six feet above the surrounding streets—there stood a grim, titan bulk whose identity, despite Blake's new perspective, was beyond dispute. The vacant church was in a state of great decrepitude. Some of the high stone buttresses had fallen, and several delicate finials lay half lost among the brown, neglected weeds and grasses. The sooty Gothic windows were largely unbroken, though many of the stone mullions were missing. Blake wondered how the obscurely painted panes could have survived so well, in view of the known habits of small boys the world over. The massive doors were intact and tightly closed. Around the top of the bank wall, fully enclosing the grounds, was a rusty iron fence whose gate—at the head of a flight of steps from the square—was visibly padlocked. The path from the gate to the building was completely overgrown. Desolation and decay hung like a pall above the place, and in the birdless eaves and black, ivyless walls Blake felt a touch of the dimly sinister beyond his power to define. There were very few people in the square, but Blake saw a policeman at the northerly end and approached him with questions about the church. He was a great wholesome Irishman, and it seemed odd that he would do little more than make the sign of the cross and mutter that people never spoke of that building. When Blake pressed him he said very hurriedly that the Italian priests warned everybody against it, vowing that a monstrous evil had once dwelt there and left its mark. He himself had heard dark whispers of it from his father, who recalled certain sounds and rumours from his boyhood. There had been a bad sect there in the ould days—an outlaw sect that called up awful things from some unknown gulf of night. It had taken a good priest to exorcise what had come, though there did be those who said that merely the light could do it. If Father O'Malley were alive there would be many the thing he could tell. But now there was nothing to do but let it alone. It hurt nobody now, and those that owned it were dead or far away. They had run away like rats after the threatening talk in '77, when people began to mind the way folks vanished now and then in the neighbourhood. Some day the city would step in and take the property for lack of heirs, but little good would come of anybody's touching it. Better it be left alone for the years to topple, lest things be stirred that ought to rest forever in their black abyss. After the policeman had gone Blake stood staring at the sullen steepled pile. It excited him to find that the structure seemed as sinister to others as to him, and he wondered what grain of truth might lie behind the old tales the bluecoat had repeated. Probably they were mere legends evoked by the evil look of the place, but even so, they were like a strange coming to life of one of his own stories. The afternoon sun came out from behind dispersing clouds, but seemed unable to light up the stained, sooty walls of the old temple that towered on its high plateau. It was odd that the green of spring had not touched the brown, withered growths in the raised, iron-fenced yard. Blake found himself edging nearer the raised area and examining the bank wall and rusted fence for possible avenues of ingress. There was a terrible lure about the blackened fane which was not to be resisted. The fence had no opening near the steps, but around on the north side were some missing bars. He could go up the steps and walk around on the narrow coping outside the fence till he came to the gap. If the people feared the place so wildly, he would encounter no interference. He was on the embankment and almost inside the fence before anyone noticed him. Then, looking down, he saw the few people in the square edging away and making the same sign with their right hands that the shopkeeper in the avenue had made. Several windows were slammed down, and a fat woman darted into the street and pulled some small children inside a rickety, unpainted house. The gap in the fence was very easy to pass through, and before long Blake found himself wading amidst the rotting, tangled growths of the deserted yard. Here and there the worn stump of a headstone told him that there had once been burials in this field; but that, he saw, must have been very long ago. The sheer bulk of the church was oppressive now that he was close to it, but he conquered his mood and approached to try the three great doors in the facade. All were securely locked, so he began a circuit of the Cyclopean building in quest of some minor and more penetrable opening. Even then he could not be sure that he wished to enter that haunt of desertion and shadow, yet the pull of its strangeness dragged him on automatically. A yawning and unprotected cellar window in the rear furnished the needed aperture. Peering in, Blake saw a subterrene gulf of cobwebs and dust faintly litten by the western sun's filtered rays. Debris, old barrels, and ruined boxes and furniture of numerous sorts met his eye, though over everything lay a shroud of dust which softened all sharp outlines. The rusted remains of a hot-air furnace shewed that the building had been used and kept in shape as late as mid-Victorian times. Acting almost without conscious initiative, Blake crawled through the window and let himself down to the dust-carpeted and debris-strown concrete floor. The vaulted cellar was a vast one, without partitions; and in a corner far to the right, amid dense shadows, he saw a black archway evidently leading upstairs. He felt a peculiar sense of oppression at being actually within the great spectral building, but kept it in check as he cautiously scouted about—finding a still-intact barrel amid the dust, and rolling it over to the open window to provide for his exit. Then, bracing himself, he crossed the wide, cobweb-festooned space toward the arch. Half choked with the omnipresent dust, and covered with ghostly gossamer fibres, he reached and began to climb the worn stone steps which rose into the darkness. He had no light, but groped carefully with his hands. After a sharp turn he felt a closed door ahead, and a little fumbling revealed its ancient latch. It opened inward, and beyond it he saw a dimly illumined corridor lined with worm-eaten panelling. Once on the ground floor, Blake began exploring in a rapid fashion. All the inner doors were unlocked, so that he freely passed from room to room. The colossal nave was an almost eldritch place with its drifts and mountains of dust over box pews, altar, hourglass pulpit, and sounding-board, and its titanic ropes of cobweb stretching among the pointed arches of the gallery and entwining the clustered Gothic columns. Over all this hushed desolation played a hideous leaden light as the declining afternoon sun sent its rays through the strange, half-blackened panes of the great apsidal windows. The paintings on those windows were so obscured by soot that Blake could scarcely decipher what they had represented, but from the little he could make out he did not like them. The designs were largely conventional, and his knowledge of obscure symbolism told him much concerning some of the ancient patterns. The few saints depicted bore expressions distinctly open to criticism, while one of the windows seemed to shew merely a dark space with spirals of curious luminosity scattered about in it. Turning away from the windows, Blake noticed that the cobwebbed cross above the altar was not of the ordinary kind, but resembled the primordial ankh or crux ansata of shadowy Egypt. In a rear vestry room beside the apse Blake found a rotting desk and ceiling-high shelves of mildewed, disintegrating books. Here for the first time he received a positive shock of objective horror, for the titles of those books told him much. They were the black, forbidden things which most sane people have never even heard of, or have heard of only in furtive, timorous whispers; the banned and dreaded repositories of equivocal secrets and immemorial formulae which have trickled down the stream of time from the days of man's youth, and the dim, fabulous days before man was. He had himself read many of them—a Latin version of the abhorred Necronomicon, the sinister Liber Ivonis, the infamous Cultes des Goules of Comte d'Erlette, the Unaussprechlichen Kulten of von Junzt, and old Ludvig Prinn's hellish De Vermis Mysteriis. But there were others he had known merely by reputation or not at all—the Pnakotic Manuscripts, the Book of Dzyan, and a crumbling volume in wholly unidentifiable characters yet with certain symbols and diagrams shudderingly recognisable to the occult student. Clearly, the lingering local rumours had not lied. This place had once been the seat of an evil older than mankind and wider than the known universe. In the ruined desk was a small leather-bound record-book filled with entries in some odd cryptographic medium. The manuscript writing consisted of the common traditional symbols used today in astronomy and anciently in alchemy, astrology, and other dubious arts—the devices of the sun, moon, planets, aspects, and zodiacal signs—here massed in solid pages of text, with divisions and paragraphings suggesting that each symbol answered to some alphabetical letter. In the hope of later solving the cryptogram, Blake bore off this volume in his coat pocket. Many of the great tomes on the shelves fascinated him unutterably, and he felt tempted to borrow them at some later time. He wondered how they could have remained undisturbed so long. Was he the first to conquer the clutching, pervasive fear which had for nearly sixty years protected this deserted place from visitors? Having now thoroughly explored the ground floor, Blake ploughed again through the dust of the spectral nave to the front vestibule, where he had seen a door and staircase presumably leading up to the blackened tower and steeple—objects so long familiar to him at a distance. The ascent was a choking experience, for dust lay thick, while the spiders had done their worst in this constricted place. The staircase was a spiral with high, narrow wooden treads, and now and then Blake passed a clouded window looking dizzily out over the city. Though he had seen no ropes below, he expected to find a bell or peal of bells in the tower whose narrow, louver-boarded lancet windows his field-glass had studied so often. Here he was doomed to disappointment; for when he attained the top of the stairs he found the tower chamber vacant of chimes, and clearly devoted to vastly different purposes. The room, about fifteen feet square, was faintly lighted by four lancet windows, one on each side, which were glazed within their screening of decayed louver-boards. These had been further fitted with tight, opaque screens, but the latter were now largely rotted away. In the centre of the dust-laden floor rose a curiously angled stone pillar some four feet in height and two in average diameter, covered on each side with bizarre, crudely incised, and wholly unrecognisable hieroglyphs. On this pillar rested a metal box of peculiarly asymmetrical form; its hinged lid thrown back, and its interior holding what looked beneath the decade-deep dust to be an egg-shaped or irregularly spherical object some four inches through. Around the pillar in a rough circle were seven high-backed Gothic chairs still largely intact, while behind them, ranging along the dark-panelled walls, were seven colossal images of crumbling, black-painted plaster, resembling more than anything else the cryptic carven megaliths of mysterious Easter Island. In one corner of the cobwebbed chamber a ladder was built into the wall, leading up to the closed trap-door of the windowless steeple above. As Blake grew accustomed to the feeble light he noticed odd bas-reliefs on the strange open box of yellowish metal. Approaching, he tried to clear the dust away with his hands and handkerchief, and saw that the figurings were of a monstrous and utterly alien kind; depicting entities which, though seemingly alive, resembled no known life-form ever evolved on this planet. The four-inch seeming sphere turned out to be a nearly black, red-striated polyhedron with many irregular flat surfaces; either a very remarkable crystal of some sort, or an artificial object of carved and highly polished mineral matter. It did not touch the bottom of the box, but was held suspended by means of a metal band around its centre, with seven queerly designed supports extending horizontally to angles of the box's inner wall near the top. This stone, once exposed, exerted upon Blake an almost alarming fascination. He could scarcely tear his eyes from it, and as he looked at its glistening surfaces he almost fancied it was transparent, with half-formed worlds of wonder within. Into his mind floated pictures of alien orbs with great stone towers, and other orbs with titan mountains and no mark of life, and still remoter spaces where only a stirring in vague blacknesses told of the presence of consciousness and will. When he did look away, it was to notice a somewhat singular mound of dust in the far corner near the ladder to the steeple. Just why it took his attention he could not tell, but something in its contours carried a message to his unconscious mind. Ploughing toward it, and brushing aside the hanging cobwebs as he went, he began to discern something grim about it. Hand and handkerchief soon revealed the truth, and Blake gasped with a baffling mixture of emotions. It was a human skeleton, and it must have been there for a very long time. The clothing was in shreds, but some buttons and fragments of cloth bespoke a man's grey suit. There were other bits of evidence—shoes, metal clasps, huge buttons for round cuffs, a stickpin of bygone pattern, a reporter's badge with the name of the old Providence Telegram, and a crumbling leather pocketbook. Blake examined the latter with care, finding within it several bills of antiquated issue, a celluloid advertising calendar for 1893, some cards with the name “Edwin M. Lillibridge”, and a paper covered with pencilled memoranda. This paper held much of a puzzling nature, and Blake read it carefully at the dim westward window. Its disjointed text included such phrases as the following: “Prof. Enoch Bowen home from Egypt May 1844—buys old Free-Will Church in July—his archaeological work & studies in occult well known.” “Dr. Drowne of 4th Baptist warns against Starry Wisdom in sermon Dec. 29, 1844.” “Congregation 97 by end of '45.” “1846—3 disappearances—first mention of Shining Trapezohedron.” “7 disappearances 1848—stories of blood sacrifice begin.” “Investigation 1853 comes to nothing—stories of sounds.” “Fr. O'Malley tells of devil-worship with box found in great Egyptian ruins—says they call up something that can't exist in light. Flees a little light, and banished by strong light. Then has to be summoned again. Probably got this from deathbed confession of Francis X. Feeney, who had joined Starry Wisdom in '49. These people say the Shining Trapezohedron shews them heaven & other worlds, & that the Haunter of the Dark tells them secrets in some way.” “Story of Orrin B. Eddy 1857. They call it up by gazing at the crystal, & have a secret language of their own.” “200 or more in cong. 1863, exclusive of men at front.” “Irish boys mob church in 1869 after Patrick Regan's disappearance.” “Veiled article in J. March 14, '72, but people don't talk about it.” “6 disappearances 1876—secret committee calls on Mayor Doyle.” “Action promised Feb. 1877—church closes in April.” “Gang—Federal Hill Boys—threaten Dr. —— and vestrymen in May.” “181 persons leave city before end of '77—mention no names.” “Ghost stories begin around 1880—try to ascertain truth of report that no human being has entered church since 1877.” “Ask Lanigan for photograph of place taken 1851.” . . . Restoring the paper to the pocketbook and placing the latter in his coat, Blake turned to look down at the skeleton in the dust. The implications of the notes were clear, and there could be no doubt but that this man had come to the deserted edifice forty-two years before in quest of a newspaper sensation which no one else had been bold enough to attempt. Perhaps no one else had known of his plan—who could tell? But he had never returned to his paper. Had some bravely suppressed fear risen to overcome him and bring on sudden heart-failure? Blake stooped over the gleaming bones and noted their peculiar state. Some of them were badly scattered, and a few seemed oddly dissolved at the ends. Others were strangely yellowed, with vague suggestions of charring. This charring extended to some of the fragments of clothing. The skull was in a very peculiar state—stained yellow, and with a charred aperture in the top as if some powerful acid had eaten through the solid bone. What had happened to the skeleton during its four decades of silent entombment here Blake could not imagine. Before he realised it, he was looking at the stone again, and letting its curious influence call up a nebulous pageantry in his mind. He saw processions of robed, hooded figures whose outlines were not human, and looked on endless leagues of desert lined with carved, sky-reaching monoliths. He saw towers and walls in nighted depths under the sea, and vortices of space where wisps of black mist floated before thin shimmerings of cold purple haze. And beyond all else he glimpsed an infinite gulf of darkness, where solid and semi-solid forms were known only by their windy stirrings, and cloudy patterns of force seemed to superimpose order on chaos and hold forth a key to all the paradoxes and arcana of the worlds we know. Then all at once the spell was broken by an access of gnawing, indeterminate panic fear. Blake choked and turned away from the stone, conscious of some formless alien presence close to him and watching him with horrible intentness. He felt entangled with something—something which was not in the stone, but which had looked through it at him—something which would ceaselessly follow him with a cognition that was not physical sight. Plainly, the place was getting on his nerves—as well it might in view of his gruesome find. The light was waning, too, and since he had no illuminant with him he knew he would have to be leaving soon. It was then, in the gathering twilight, that he thought he saw a faint trace of luminosity in the crazily angled stone. He had tried to look away from it, but some obscure compulsion drew his eyes back. Was there a subtle phosphorescence of radio-activity about the thing? What was it that the dead man's notes had said concerning a Shining Trapezohedron? What, anyway, was this abandoned lair of cosmic evil? What had been done here, and what might still be lurking in the bird-shunned shadows? It seemed now as if an elusive touch of foetor had arisen somewhere close by, though its source was not apparent. Blake seized the cover of the long-open box and snapped it down. It moved easily on its alien hinges, and closed completely over the unmistakably glowing stone. At the sharp click of that closing a soft stirring sound seemed to come from the steeple's eternal blackness overhead, beyond the trap-door. Rats, without question—the only living things to reveal their presence in this accursed pile since he had entered it. And yet that stirring in the steeple frightened him horribly, so that he plunged almost wildly down the spiral stairs, across the ghoulish nave, into the vaulted basement, out amidst the gathering dusk of the deserted square, and down through the teeming, fear-haunted alleys and avenues of Federal Hill toward the sane central streets and the home-like brick sidewalks of the college district. During the days which followed, Blake told no one of his expedition. Instead, he read much in certain books, examined long years of newspaper files downtown, and worked feverishly at the cryptogram in that leather volume from the cobwebbed vestry room. The cipher, he soon saw, was no simple one; and after a long period of endeavour he felt sure that its language could not be English, Latin, Greek, French, Spanish, Italian, or German. Evidently he would have to draw upon the deepest wells of his strange erudition. Every evening the old impulse to gaze westward returned, and he saw the black steeple as of yore amongst the bristling roofs of a distant and half-fabulous world. But now it held a fresh note of terror for him. He knew the heritage of evil lore it masked, and with the knowledge his vision ran riot in queer new ways. The birds of spring were returning, and as he watched their sunset flights he fancied they avoided the gaunt, lone spire as never before. When a flock of them approached it, he thought, they would wheel and scatter in panic confusion—and he could guess at the wild twitterings which failed to reach him across the intervening miles. It was in June that Blake's diary told of his victory over the cryptogram. The text was, he found, in the dark Aklo language used by certain cults of evil antiquity, and known to him in a halting way through previous researches. The diary is strangely reticent about what Blake deciphered, but he was patently awed and disconcerted by his results. There are references to a Haunter of the Dark awaked by gazing into the Shining Trapezohedron, and insane conjectures about the black gulfs of chaos from which it was called. The being is spoken of as holding all knowledge, and demanding monstrous sacrifices. Some of Blake's entries shew fear lest the thing, which he seemed to regard as summoned, stalk abroad; though he adds that the street-lights form a bulwark which cannot be crossed. Of the Shining Trapezohedron he speaks often, calling it a window on all time and space, and tracing its history from the days it was fashioned on dark Yuggoth, before ever the Old Ones brought it to earth. It was treasured and placed in its curious box by the crinoid things of Antarctica, salvaged from their ruins by the serpent-men of Valusia, and peered at aeons later in Lemuria by the first human beings. It crossed strange lands and stranger seas, and sank with Atlantis before a Minoan fisher meshed it in his net and sold it to swarthy merchants from nighted Khem. The Pharaoh Nephren-Ka built around it a temple with a windowless crypt, and did that which caused his name to be stricken from all monuments and records. Then it slept in the ruins of that evil fane which the priests and the new Pharaoh destroyed, till the delver's spade once more brought it forth to curse mankind. Early in July the newspapers oddly supplement Blake's entries, though in so brief and casual a way that only the diary has called general attention to their contribution. It appears that a new fear had been growing on Federal Hill since a stranger had entered the dreaded church. The Italians whispered of unaccustomed stirrings and bumpings and scrapings in the dark windowless steeple, and called on their priests to banish an entity which haunted their dreams. Something, they said, was constantly watching at a door to see if it were dark enough to venture forth. Press items mentioned the long-standing local superstitions, but failed to shed much light on the earlier background of the horror. It was obvious that the young reporters of today are no antiquarians. In writing of these things in his diary, Blake expresses a curious kind of remorse, and talks of the duty of burying the Shining Trapezohedron and of banishing what he had evoked by letting daylight into the hideous jutting spire. At the same time, however, he displays the dangerous extent of his fascination, and admits a morbid longing—pervading even his dreams—to visit the accursed tower and gaze again into the cosmic secrets of the glowing stone. Then something in the Journal on the morning of July 17 threw the diarist into a veritable fever of horror. It was only a variant of the other half-humorous items about the Federal Hill restlessness, but to Blake it was somehow very terrible indeed. In the night a thunderstorm had put the city's lighting-system out of commission for a full hour, and in that black interval the Italians had nearly gone mad with fright. Those living near the dreaded church had sworn that the thing in the steeple had taken advantage of the street-lamps' absence and gone down into the body of the church, flopping and bumping around in a viscous, altogether dreadful way. Toward the last it had bumped up to the tower, where there were sounds of the shattering of glass. It could go wherever the darkness reached, but light would always send it fleeing. When the current blazed on again there had been a shocking commotion in the tower, for even the feeble light trickling through the grime-blackened, louver-boarded windows was too much for the thing. It had bumped and slithered up into its tenebrous steeple just in time—for a long dose of light would have sent it back into the abyss whence the crazy stranger had called it. During the dark hour praying crowds had clustered round the church in the rain with lighted candles and lamps somehow shielded with folded paper and umbrellas—a guard of light to save the city from the nightmare that stalks in darkness. Once, those nearest the church declared, the outer door had rattled hideously. But even this was not the worst. That evening in the Bulletin Blake read of what the reporters had found. Aroused at last to the whimsical news value of the scare, a pair of them had defied the frantic crowds of Italians and crawled into the church through the cellar window after trying the doors in vain. They found the dust of the vestibule and of the spectral nave ploughed up in a singular way, with bits of rotted cushions and satin pew-linings scattered curiously around. There was a bad odour everywhere, and here and there were bits of yellow stain and patches of what looked like charring. Opening the door to the tower, and pausing a moment at the suspicion of a scraping sound above, they found the narrow spiral stairs wiped roughly clean. In the tower itself a similarly half-swept condition existed. They spoke of the heptagonal stone pillar, the overturned Gothic chairs, and the bizarre plaster images; though strangely enough the metal box and the old mutilated skeleton were not mentioned. What disturbed Blake the most—except for the hints of stains and charring and bad odours—was the final detail that explained the crashing glass. Every one of the tower's lancet windows was broken, and two of them had been darkened in a crude and hurried way by the stuffing of satin pew-linings and cushion-horsehair into the spaces between the slanting exterior louver-boards. More satin fragments and bunches of horsehair lay scattered around the newly swept floor, as if someone had been interrupted in the act of restoring the tower to the absolute blackness of its tightly curtained days. Yellowish stains and charred patches were found on the ladder to the windowless spire, but when a reporter climbed up, opened the horizontally sliding trap-door, and shot a feeble flashlight beam into the black and strangely foetid space, he saw nothing but darkness, and an heterogeneous litter of shapeless fragments near the aperture. The verdict, of course, was charlatanry. Somebody had played a joke on the superstitious hill-dwellers, or else some fanatic had striven to bolster up their fears for their own supposed good. Or perhaps some of the younger and more sophisticated dwellers had staged an elaborate hoax on the outside world. There was an amusing aftermath when the police sent an officer to verify the reports. Three men in succession found ways of evading the assignment, and the fourth went very reluctantly and returned very soon without adding to the account given by the reporters. From this point onward Blake's diary shews a mounting tide of insidious horror and nervous apprehension. He upbraids himself for not doing something, and speculates wildly on the consequences of another electrical breakdown. It has been verified that on three occasions—during thunderstorms—he telephoned the electric light company in a frantic vein and asked that desperate precautions against a lapse of power be taken. Now and then his entries shew concern over the failure of the reporters to find the metal box and stone, and the strangely marred old skeleton, when they explored the shadowy tower room. He assumed that these things had been removed—whither, and by whom or what, he could only guess. But his worst fears concerned himself, and the kind of unholy rapport he felt to exist between his mind and that lurking horror in the distant steeple—that monstrous thing of night which his rashness had called out of the ultimate black spaces. He seemed to feel a constant tugging at his will, and callers of that period remember how he would sit abstractedly at his desk and stare out of the west window at that far-off, spire-bristling mound beyond the swirling smoke of the city. His entries dwell monotonously on certain terrible dreams, and of a strengthening of the unholy rapport in his sleep. There is mention of a night when he awaked to find himself fully dressed, outdoors, and headed automatically down College Hill toward the west. Again and again he dwells on the fact that the thing in the steeple knows where to find him. The week following July 30 is recalled as the time of Blake's partial breakdown. He did not dress, and ordered all his food by telephone. Visitors remarked the cords he kept near his bed, and he said that sleep-walking had forced him to bind his ankles every night with knots which would probably hold or else waken him with the labour of untying. In his diary he told of the hideous experience which had brought the collapse. After retiring on the night of the 30th he had suddenly found himself groping about in an almost black space. All he could see were short, faint, horizontal streaks of bluish light, but he could smell an overpowering foetor and hear a curious jumble of soft, furtive sounds above him. Whenever he moved he stumbled over something, and at each noise there would come a sort of answering sound from above—a vague stirring, mixed with the cautious sliding of wood on wood. Once his groping hands encountered a pillar of stone with a vacant top, whilst later he found himself clutching the rungs of a ladder built into the wall, and fumbling his uncertain way upward toward some region of intenser stench where a hot, searing blast beat down against him. Before his eyes a kaleidoscopic range of phantasmal images played, all of them dissolving at intervals into the picture of a vast, unplumbed abyss of night wherein whirled suns and worlds of an even profounder blackness. He thought of the ancient legends of Ultimate Chaos, at whose centre sprawls the blind idiot god Azathoth, Lord of All Things, encircled by his flopping horde of mindless and amorphous dancers, and lulled by the thin monotonous piping of a daemoniac flute held in nameless paws. Then a sharp report from the outer world broke through his stupor and roused him to the unutterable horror of his position. What it was, he never knew—perhaps it was some belated peal from the fireworks heard all summer on Federal Hill as the dwellers hail their various patron saints, or the saints of their native villages in Italy. In any event he shrieked aloud, dropped frantically from the ladder, and stumbled blindly across the obstructed floor of the almost lightless chamber that encompassed him. He knew instantly where he was, and plunged recklessly down the narrow spiral staircase, tripping and bruising himself at every turn. There was a nightmare flight through a vast cobwebbed nave whose ghostly arches reached up to realms of leering shadow, a sightless scramble through a littered basement, a climb to regions of air and street-lights outside, and a mad racing down a spectral hill of gibbering gables, across a grim, silent city of tall black towers, and up the steep eastward precipice to his own ancient door. On regaining consciousness in the morning he found himself lying on his study floor fully dressed. Dirt and cobwebs covered him, and every inch of his body seemed sore and bruised. When he faced the mirror he saw that his hair was badly scorched, while a trace of strange, evil odour seemed to cling to his upper outer clothing. It was then that his nerves broke down. Thereafter, lounging exhaustedly about in a dressing-gown, he did little but stare from his west window, shiver at the threat of thunder, and make wild entries in his diary. The great storm broke just before midnight on August 8th. Lightning struck repeatedly in all parts of the city, and two remarkable fireballs were reported. The rain was torrential, while a constant fusillade of thunder brought sleeplessness to thousands. Blake was utterly frantic in his fear for the lighting system, and tried to telephone the company around 1 a.m., though by that time service had been temporarily cut off in the interest of safety. He recorded everything in his diary—the large, nervous, and often undecipherable hieroglyphs telling their own story of growing frenzy and despair, and of entries scrawled blindly in the dark. He had to keep the house dark in order to see out the window, and it appears that most of his time was spent at his desk, peering anxiously through the rain across the glistening miles of downtown roofs at the constellation of distant lights marking Federal Hill. Now and then he would fumblingly make an entry in his diary, so that detached phrases such as “The lights must not go”; “It knows where I am”; “I must destroy it”; and “It is calling to me, but perhaps it means no injury this time”; are found scattered down two of the pages. Then the lights went out all over the city. It happened at 2:12 a.m. according to power-house records, but Blake's diary gives no indication of the time. The entry is merely, “Lights out—God help me.” On Federal Hill there were watchers as anxious as he, and rain-soaked knots of men paraded the square and alleys around the evil church with umbrella-shaded candles, electric flashlights, oil lanterns, crucifixes, and obscure charms of the many sorts common to southern Italy. They blessed each flash of lightning, and made cryptical signs of fear with their right hands when a turn in the storm caused the flashes to lessen and finally to cease altogether. A rising wind blew out most of the candles, so that the scene grew threateningly dark. Someone roused Father Merluzzo of Spirito Santo Church, and he hastened to the dismal square to pronounce whatever helpful syllables he could. Of the restless and curious sounds in the blackened tower, there could be no doubt whatever. For what happened at 2:35 we have the testimony of the priest, a young, intelligent, and well-educated person; of Patrolman William J. Monahan of the Central Station, an officer of the highest reliability who had paused at that part of his beat to inspect the crowd; and of most of the seventy-eight men who had gathered around the church's high bank wall—especially those in the square where the eastward facade was visible. Of course there was nothing which can be proved as being outside the order of Nature. The possible causes of such an event are many. No one can speak with certainty of the obscure chemical processes arising in a vast, ancient, ill-aired, and long-deserted building of heterogeneous contents. Mephitic vapours—spontaneous combustion—pressure of gases born of long decay—any one of numberless phenomena might be responsible. And then, of course, the factor of conscious charlatanry can by no means be excluded. The thing was really quite simple in itself, and covered less than three minutes of actual time. Father Merluzzo, always a precise man, looked at his watch repeatedly. It started with a definite swelling of the dull fumbling sounds inside the black tower. There had for some time been a vague exhalation of strange, evil odours from the church, and this had now become emphatic and offensive. Then at last there was a sound of splintering wood, and a large, heavy object crashed down in the yard beneath the frowning easterly facade. The tower was invisible now that the candles would not burn, but as the object neared the ground the people knew that it was the smoke-grimed louver-boarding of that tower's east window. Immediately afterward an utterly unbearable foetor welled forth from the unseen heights, choking and sickening the trembling watchers, and almost prostrating those in the square. At the same time the air trembled with a vibration as of flapping wings, and a sudden east-blowing wind more violent than any previous blast snatched off the hats and wrenched the dripping umbrellas of the crowd. Nothing definite could be seen in the candleless night, though some upward-looking spectators thought they glimpsed a great spreading blur of denser blackness against the inky sky—something like a formless cloud of smoke that shot with meteor-like speed toward the east. That was all. The watchers were half numbed with fright, awe, and discomfort, and scarcely knew what to do, or whether to do anything at all. Not knowing what had happened, they did not relax their vigil; and a moment later they sent up a prayer as a sharp flash of belated lightning, followed by an earsplitting crash of sound, rent the flooded heavens. Half an hour later the rain stopped, and in fifteen minutes more the street-lights sprang on again, sending the weary, bedraggled watchers relievedly back to their homes. The next day's papers gave these matters minor mention in connexion with the general storm reports. It seems that the great lightning flash and deafening explosion which followed the Federal Hill occurrence were even more tremendous farther east, where a burst of the singular foetor was likewise noticed. The phenomenon was most marked over College Hill, where the crash awaked all the sleeping inhabitants and led to a bewildered round of speculations. Of those who were already awake only a few saw the anomalous blaze of light near the top of the hill, or noticed the inexplicable upward rush of air which almost stripped the leaves from the trees and blasted the plants in the gardens. It was agreed that the lone, sudden lightning-bolt must have struck somewhere in this neighbourhood, though no trace of its striking could afterward be found. A youth in the Tau Omega fraternity house thought he saw a grotesque and hideous mass of smoke in the air just as the preliminary flash burst, but his observation has not been verified. All of the few observers, however, agree as to the violent gust from the west and the flood of intolerable stench which preceded the belated stroke; whilst evidence concerning the momentary burned odour after the stroke is equally general. These points were discussed very carefully because of their probable connexion with the death of Robert Blake. Students in the Psi Delta house, whose upper rear windows looked into Blake's study, noticed the blurred white face at the westward window on the morning of the 9th, and wondered what was wrong with the expression. When they saw the same face in the same position that evening, they felt worried, and watched for the lights to come up in his apartment. Later they rang the bell of the darkened flat, and finally had a policeman force the door. The rigid body sat bolt upright at the desk by the window, and when the intruders saw the glassy, bulging eyes, and the marks of stark, convulsive fright on the twisted features, they turned away in sickened dismay. Shortly afterward the coroner's physician made an examination, and despite the unbroken window reported electrical shock, or nervous tension induced by electrical discharge, as the cause of death. The hideous expression he ignored altogether, deeming it a not improbable result of the profound shock as experienced by a person of such abnormal imagination and unbalanced emotions. He deduced these latter qualities from the books, paintings, and manuscripts found in the apartment, and from the blindly scrawled entries in the diary on the desk. Blake had prolonged his frenzied jottings to the last, and the broken-pointed pencil was found clutched in his spasmodically contracted right hand. The entries after the failure of the lights were highly disjointed, and legible only in part. From them certain investigators have drawn conclusions differing greatly from the materialistic official verdict, but such speculations have little chance for belief among the conservative. The case of these imaginative theorists has not been helped by the action of superstitious Dr. Dexter, who threw the curious box and angled stone—an object certainly self-luminous as seen in the black windowless steeple where it was found—into the deepest channel of Narragansett Bay. Excessive imagination and neurotic unbalance on Blake's part, aggravated by knowledge of the evil bygone cult whose startling traces he had uncovered, form the dominant interpretation given those final frenzied jottings. These are the entries—or all that can be made of them. “Lights still out—must be five minutes now. Everything depends on lightning. Yaddith grant it will keep up! . . . Some influence seems beating through it. . . . Rain and thunder and wind deafen. . . . The thing is taking hold of my mind. . . . “Trouble with memory. I see things I never knew before. Other worlds and other galaxies . . . Dark . . . The lightning seems dark and the darkness seems light. . . . “It cannot be the real hill and church that I see in the pitch-darkness. Must be retinal impression left by flashes. Heaven grant the Italians are out with their candles if the lightning stops! “What am I afraid of? Is it not an avatar of Nyarlathotep, who in antique and shadowy Khem even took the form of man? I remember Yuggoth, and more distant Shaggai, and the ultimate void of the black planets. . . . “The long, winging flight through the void . . . cannot cross the universe of light . . . re-created by the thoughts caught in the Shining Trapezohedron . . . send it through the horrible abysses of radiance. . . . “My name is Blake—Robert Harrison Blake of 620 East Knapp Street, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. . . . I am on this planet. . . . “Azathoth have mercy!—the lightning no longer flashes—horrible—I can see everything with a monstrous sense that is not sight—light is dark and dark is light . . . those people on the hill . . . guard . . . candles and charms . . . their priests. . . . “Sense of distance gone—far is near and near is far. No light—no glass—see that steeple—that tower—window—can hear—Roderick Usher—am mad or going mad—the thing is stirring and fumbling in the tower—I am it and it is I—I want to get out . . . must get out and unify the forces. . . . It knows where I am. . . . “I am Robert Blake, but I see the tower in the dark. There is a monstrous odour . . . senses transfigured . . . boarding at that tower window cracking and giving way. . . . Iä . . . ngai . . . ygg. . . . “I see it—coming here—hell-wind—titan blur—black wings—Yog-Sothoth save me—the three-lobed burning eye. . . .”

Today, we're talking about a new study from the University of Rhode Island about microplastics in the Narragansett Bay. We look into what the findings mean for Rhode Islanders and the Bay.

Today, we're talking about a new study from the University of Rhode Island about microplastics in the Narragansett Bay. We look into what the findings mean for Rhode Islanders and the Bay.

Ben Tuff grew up splitting his time between Atlanta, GA, and Jamestown, RI. He attended Colby College, where he met his now wife, Gretchen, and treasured his time working as a sailing instructor and boat captain in the British Virgin Islands. Ben developed a lifelong appreciation for the ocean between Jamestown and the BVI.  Ben is a lifelong educator and has had the privilege of working with hundreds of boarding students from across the world. In 2012, Ben made the life-altering decision to break free of the hold that the addiction to alcohol had on him. Despite not knowing how to swim, the sport of triathlon arrived quickly in his life. After seven years of competitive triathlon, Ben made the switch to marathon swimming. After many crossings from Newport, RI to Jamestown, RI on Save the Bay Swims, Ben throttled it up with the 12.5 Mile FKCC Swim Around Key West. After that, he couldn't stop and completed a 21-mile swim around Jamestown and began his endeavor to preserve the Rhode Island marine environment by raising money for the non-profit Clean Ocean Access. He continued his challenge with a 19-mile swim from Block Island to Jamestown, most recently by swimming the 24-mile length of Narragansett Bay from Providence, RI to Jamestown, RI. Esteemed producer, Matt Corliss, chronicled Ben's journey to sobriety and the parallels of his recent swim. Ben has successfully raised over $270k to preserve the local marine environment of Rhode Island which has all gone to Clean Ocean Access. Connect with Ben: Website: Swimtuff.com Instagram: @ben.tuff

The Narragansett Bay Symphony Community Orchestra is the subject of this week's program with Kristo Kondakci, Music Director and Conductor, and with special guest Joseph Amante Y Zapata. We talk about their upcoming concert and listen to some of the music that will be presented on October 28th at the East Providence High School Auditorium. For more information, you can call (401) 274-4578, or go to www.nabsco.org

In this podcast, Bela Musits and Mike Wasserman discuss the Summer of 2023 past sailing season on Narragansett Bay.  We review the trips taken and places visited.  We also discussed some of the new experiences, sights seen, and what we learned.  We also review the scheduled and unscheduled maintenance projects that were performed. If you would like to support the podcast, we now have a Patreon page.  Just go to Patreon.com/sailingtheeast.   Our podcast is now also available on YouTube, just search for “Sailing the East” https://www.youtube.com/@sailingandcruisingtheeast We love to hear from you, our listeners, send us your questions, comments, and suggestions at sailingtheeast@gmail.com.  If you know someone that would be an interesting guest on the show, please reach out to us and let us know—wishing you fair winds, and calm seas. Bela and Mike --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/bela-l-musits/message Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/bela-l-musits/support

The year is 1642. The Puritan colonies of Massachusetts Bay, Plymouth, and Connecticut are conspiring against settlements at Providence and on Aquidneck Island, then small clusters of religious dissidents living under the protection of Roger Williams and his Narragansett allies. As the pressure mounted, the Rhode Islanders asked Williams to go to England and secure legal protection for their land and self-government. Williams would sail to England in 1643, and outmaneuver all of New England's enemies of religious freedom. He would do this by writing an astonishing book about Indians. Among other things. Against daunting odds, Williams would persuade Parliament, then dominated by Puritans and engaged in a great civil war with the royalists loyal to Charles I, to grant him a patent for Narragansett Bay that explicitly authorized rule by the majority of citizens. Williams had secured English protection for the freest place in the world for non-conformists, independent thinkers, and, TBH, cranks. Oh. And he may well have persuaded John Milton to come out for freedom of the press. Subscribe by email Twitter: @TheHistoryOfTh2 Facebook: The History of the Americans Podcast Selected references for this episode John M. Barry, Roger Williams and the Creation of the American Soul Roger Williams, A Key Into the Language of America Areopagitica

Dive into an inspiring and transformative journey as Ben Tuff of the movie, "Swim Tuff, How I Swam My Way Out of the Bottle," shares his story of battling addiction and emerging victorious through open water swims. In this captivating podcast episode, we explore Ben's struggle with alcoholism, his path to sobriety, and the unexpected but profound role that open water swimming played in his recovery.Matt and Steve sit down with Ben Tuff to delve into his compelling narrative. From hitting rock bottom to finding hope through rehabilitation, Ben opens up about his early days of sobriety. Join them as they discuss the significance of sponsors and the turning point that pushed Ben to conquer his fear of swimming, eventually leading him to triathlons and open water challenges.Ben's determination and resilience shine as he recounts the arduous yet rewarding journey of training and participating in various open water swims, including the awe-inspiring Narragansett Bay swim. You'll hear about the struggles, the pain, and the unyielding commitment that led Ben to achieve remarkable feats.Discover how the challenges Ben faced in sobriety mirror the challenges he embraced during his open water swims. Uncover the deep connection between pushing physical boundaries and facing life's obstacles head-on. The hosts and guest delve into themes of perseverance, pain, joy, and the profound realization that embracing both the highs and lows of life is essential for growth.As Ben Tuff shares his personal insights, you will be moved by the power of transformation and the importance of embracing adversity. Join the conversation as they explore how breaking down stigmas around addiction and mental health can reshape our understanding of recovery and inspire countless individuals seeking their own triumph over adversity.Tune in to this episode as it unearths the remarkable parallels between conquering addiction and conquering open water, leaving listeners with a newfound appreciation for life's challenges and the strength within each of us to overcome them.Key Takeaways:Uncover the journey of recovery from addiction to sobriety, guided by sponsors and resilience.Explore the unexpected role of open water swimming in personal transformation.Gain insights into the connection between pushing physical boundaries and facing life's challenges.Reflect on the power of embracing adversity and the value of the pain-joy dynamic.Break down stigmas around addiction, mental health, and the potential for change.Join us for an inspiring conversation with Ben Tuff that reminds us that every challenge is an opportunity for growth and that the triumph of the human spirit knows no bounds.Check out Ben's website: Swimtuff.comBen on Instragram: @ben.tuffBen's Email: bentuff@gmail.comSupport the show

In the final episode of our Rhode Island trilogy, Roger Williams seeks a unified colony known as "Providence Plantations in the Narragansett Bay," while William Coddington tries to merge Rhode Island with Massachusetts and later set the Island apart from mainland Providence. --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/osoa/message Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/osoa/support

Just off the coast, in Long Island Sound and Narragansett Bay, northern star coral flourishes. Scientists where we live hope this could be good news for its tropical relatives, increasingly threatened by warming waters. Clusters of this native coral, also known as Astrangia poculata, are being studied for their ability to survive winter through dormancy and thrive through what might be considered bleaching in more tropical regions. Researchers along the coast of New England formed the Temperate Coral Research Group to focus on this species and the insights it may offer on climate resilience. This hour, we hear from them. Plus, Long Island Soundkeeper Bill Lucey helps us kick off NautiWeek at Connecticut Public, offering the latest on warming in the Sound, his priorities and concerns. GUESTS: Bill Lucey: Long Island Soundkeeper, Save the Sound Sean Grace: Marine Ecologist; Professor of Biology, Southern Connecticut State University; Co-Director, Werth Center for Coastal and Marine Studies Koty Sharp: Associate Professor of Biology, Marine Biology & Environmental Science at Roger Williams University Amy Apprill: Associate Scientist, Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution Dive into all of the nautical-themed stories airing this week on Connecticut Public's original talk shows by visiting ctpublic.org/nautiweek.Support the show: http://wnpr.org/donateSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Warwick Life host Scott Nerney talks with Patty Hopkinson, owner of Funky Bijoux gift shop in Conimicut Village. Patty creates mobiles and wall hangings out of sea glass and driftwood from Narragansett Bay and sells them at art shows and her shop. Hear about hurricane glass, how to tell the difference between old and new glass, how to make purple glass, sanitizing driftwood, why Patty moved to Conimicut, and where you can see Patty's work. Visit the Funky Bijoux Facebook page. Warwick Life highlights what's special in Warwick, Rhode Island and helps listeners get the most from this seaside community. Warwick Life is produced by Scott Nerney and presented by the ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Varnum Memorial Armory Military & Naval Museum⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠. Write to warwicklife@gmail.com. Music by Tess Der Manouelian.

Join lawyer and true crime fanatic Kate Itacy for stories about crimes allegedly committed by Warwick citizens or within Warwick city limits. Today, hear the tale of reputed bootlegger and bank robber Carl Rettich and his Crime Castle, a Warwick Neck mansion owned by Rettich and alleged to be the hub for the Rettich gang's criminal activities during the 1920s and 1930s. Underworld legend credits Carl Rettich with the invention of cement shoes, and he may have poured a pair for his associate Danny Walsh in a secret dungeon under the Crime Castle's basement before throwing Walsh into Narragansett Bay. Katherine Itacy was born and raised in Warwick, worked as a criminal defense lawyer in the city, and remains a civil rights and criminal justice advocate. Write to Kate at contactkate@katherineitacy.com. Visit Kate's ⁠website⁠.

Welcome to East Greenwich, Rhode Island!  The town was incorporated in 1677 as Greenwich and is the 8th oldest town in the state.  The town was originally established to provide farms and house lots to 48 men who fought in King Phillip's War.  In 1741 the town split into East and West Greenwich.  Located on the western side of the Narragansett Bay, the town established the first Navy in the American colonies in 1772.  East Greenwich is home to a number of National Historic Places and several museums including The Varnum Memorial Armory and The New England Wireless and Steam Museum.  We hope you enjoy our trip to East Greenwich!

Rhode Island has got 99 problems, and murder is one! This week, Kenzie talks about the controversial case of Craig Price. Was justice served or manipulated? Then, Lauren covers the strange and mysterious case of Adam and Elena Emery. Buckle up, this *rhode* is twisty!-If you have any information about Adam Emery or about his case please call the toll free tip line at 1-877-RI-SOLVE (1-877-747-6583)--Follow us on Social Media and find out how to support A Scary State by clicking on our Link Tree: https://instabio.cc/4050223uxWQAl--Have a scary tale or listener story of your own? Send us an email to ascarystatepodcast@gmail.com! We can't wait to read it!--Thinking of starting a podcast? Thinking about using Buzzsprout for that? Well use our link to let Buzzsprout know we sent you and get a $20 Amazon gift card if you sign up for a paid plan!https://www.buzzsprout.com/?referrer_id=1722892--Works cited!https://docs.google.com/document/d/1dkbhgrpfkd1Gfofa5j5jF288ingC22hvB0DdYDnZlIA/edit?usp=sharing --Intro and outro music thanks to Kevin MacLeod. You can visit his site here: http://incompetech.com/. Which is where we found our music!

Narragansett Bay Commission Chairman Vincent Mesolella on Flushable Wipes not actually being flushableSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Why did I want to talk with Ultra Swimmer Ben Tuff? Ben's story of addiction recovery caught my attention when I came upon the trailer for his upcoming documentary Swim Tuff. On April 21, 2012, Ben Tuff chose a life of sobriety to transform his own existence and to help inspire others to make this life-altering choice when alcoholism has taken over. After choosing a life of sobriety, he decided to take up swimming for the first time in his life and appreciated the peace and mindfulness it brought to him. Ten years later, on July 22, 2022, Ben set off to become the first person to swim the length of Narragansett Bay from Providence, RI to Jamestown, RI to raise money for the environmental non-profit Clean Ocean Access which he's already raised hundreds of thousands of dollars for. We discuss how Ben's alcohol recovery journey helped him develop the discipline and drive to complete such tests of endurance. We also talk about his childhood when alcohol was often ever-present in his home and family gathers as well as his rock bottom and solutions he's found to maintain his sobriety. Plus, how the documentary came about and how he's dedicated his life to helping others, especially the youth. As of the release of this episode of Knockin' Doorz Down, Ben is coming up on 11 years sober. This is Ben Tuff Knockin' Doorz Down. For more on Ben Tuff visit https://swimtuff.com/ For the Swim Tuff For 51FIFTY use the discount code KDD20 for 20% off! https://51fiftyltm.com/ For more information on Carlos Vieira's autobiography Knockin' Doorz Down, the Carlos Vieira Foundation, the Race 2B Drug-Free, Race to End the Stigma, and Race For Autism programs visit: https://www.carlosvieirafoundation.org/ Listen to and Subscribe to the podcast wherever you listen for more Celebrities, everyday folks, and expert conversations at https://www.KDDPodcast.com © 2023 by KDD Media Company. All rights reserved. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Ben Tuff grew up splitting his time between Atlanta, GA and Jamestown, RI.He is one of six kids and has an identical twin brother named Chris. Ben's sport of choice was soccer and he played competitively for Lovett and his club team keeping the Tuff family legacy alive by playing goalkeeper.He attended Colby College where he met his now wife, Gretchen and treasured his times working at a sailing instructor and boat captain in the British Virgin Islands.Instead of playing soccer, Ben enjoyed skiing and playing recreational soccer and taking part in the all the other recreational activities that come with the college experience.Between Jamestown and the BVI, Ben developed a lifelong appreciation for the ocean.Ben is a lifelong educator and has had the privilege of working with hundreds of boarding students from across the world. Upon graduating from Colby, Ben became a teacher at two Junior Boarding Schools and two boarding high schools.Caught up in the pressures of boarding school life, Ben found that his dependence on alcohol steadily increased to an addiction. In 2012, Ben made the life-altering decision to break free of the hold that the addiction to alcohol had on him.After five weeks in the rehabilitation hospital Silver Hill, Ben was ready to head into the world without looking back.Despite not knowing how to swim, the sport of triathlon arrived quickly in his life.After seven years of competitive triathlon, Ben made the switch to marathon swimming. Despite not being able to swim a single lap, Ben discovered that with a little time, energy, and dedication, he could improve his distance.After many crossings from Newport, RI to Jamestown, RI on Save the Bay Swims, Ben throttled it up with the 12.5 Miles FKCC Swim Around Key West.After that, he couldn't stop and completed a 21-mile swim around Jamestown, a 19-mile swim from Block Island to Jamestown, and most recently swimming the length of Narragansett Bay by swimming 24 miles from Providence, RI to Jamestown, RI. Esteemed producer, Matt Corliss, chronicled Ben's journey to sobriety and the parallels of his recent swim. The film, “Swim Tuff: How I Swam my Way Out of the Bottle” is projected to be released Spring 2023.For Ben, swimming has become an outlet where he processes life's problems and appreciates the peace of moving in the water. Ben's goal of making this movie and getting the message of addiction out to the world is to destigmatize the topic while giving hope to those who suffer or knows someone who suffers from addiction. When not giving speeches or screenings of the movie, Ben lives in Peru, Vermont with his wife Gretchen and two children, Wyatt and Maisie.https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ieaYrqYuIFc@ben.tuffhttps://www.facebook.com/BenTuff?mibextid=LQQJ4d

Ben Tuff grew up splitting his time between Atlanta, GA and Jamestown, RI. He attended Colby College where he met his now wife, Gretchen and treasured his times working at a sailing instructor and boat captain in the British Virgin Islands. Between Jamestown and the BVI, Ben developed a lifelong appreciation for the ocean. Ben is a lifelong educator and has had the privilege of working with hundreds of boarding students from across the world. In 2012, Ben made the life-altering decision to break free of the hold that the addiction to alcohol had on him. Despite not knowing how to swim, the sport of triathlon arrived quickly in his life. After seven years of competitive triathlon, Ben made the switch to marathon swimming. After many crossings from Newport, RI to Jamestown, RI on Save the Bay Swims, Ben throttled it up with the 12.5 Mile FKCC Swim Around Key West. After that, he couldn't stop and completed a 21-mile swim around Jamestown, a 19-mile swim from Block Island to Jamestown, and most recently swimming the length of Narragansett Bay by swimming 24 miles from Providence, RI to Jamestown, RI. Esteemed producer, Matt Corliss, chronicled Ben's journey to sobriety and the parallels of his recent swim. The film, “Swim Tuff: How I Swam my Way Out of the Bottle” is projected to be released Spring 2023. Swim Tuff trailer Swim Tuff teaser v101 mov Original   Ben Tuff Swim Tuff LLC 59 Styles Lane PO Box 213  Peru, VT 05152 Cell: 678-296-0982 BenTuff@gmail.com     No Sippy No Slippy. Not Another Drop No matter What.   Remember to Pour The Poison Down The Sink!!      Sobertownpodcast.com  

Roger Williams has fled into the freezing New England winter of 1636, steps ahead of the law. He makes his way from Salem to Narragansett Bay, spending fourteen weeks schlepping from one Indian village to another, always just beyond the reach of the Massachusetts Bay authorities. Eventually, he cuts a deal with the Narragansett sachem Canonicus, who grants him land at the site of today's Providence, Rhode Island. There, Williams establishes the first civil society anywhere in the Christian world devoted to the complete separation of church and state. It would serve as a refuge of last resort for fugitives of conscience, and establish Williams as one of the great "benefactors of mankind," in the words of the 19th century American historian George Bancroft. Twitter: @TheHistoryOfTh2 Facebook: The History of the Americans Podcast Selected references for this episode John M. Barry, Roger Williams and the Creation of the American Soul Edmund S. Morgan, Roger Williams: The Church and State Edmund S. Morgan, The Puritan Dilemma: The Story of John Winthrop New England Historical Society - Slate Rock

Kim and Kezia welcome guest Ben Tuff to share his unique story of recovery. He eloquently shares his belief of quality over quantity, friendships and his perspective on overcoming adversity. Instagram:@ben.tuff Ben Tuff grew up splitting his time between Atlanta, GA and Jamestown, RI. He attended Colby College where he met his now wife, Gretchen and treasured his times working at a sailing instructor and boat captain in the British Virgin Islands. Between Jamestown and the BVI, Ben developed a lifelong appreciation for the ocean. Ben is a lifelong educator and has had the privilege of working with hundreds of boarding students from across the world. In 2012, Ben made the life-altering decision to break free of the hold that the addiction to alcohol had on him. Despite not knowing how to swim, the sport of triathlon arrived quickly in his life. After seven years of competitive triathlon, Ben made the switch to marathon swimming. After many crossings from Newport, RI to Jamestown, RI on Save the Bay Swims, Ben throttled it up with the 12.5 Mile FKCC Swim Around Key West. After that, he couldn't stop and completed a 21- mile swim around Jamestown, a 19-mile swim from Block Island to Jamestown, and most recently swimming the length of Narragansett Bay by swimming 24 miles from Providence, RI to Jamestown, RI. Esteemed producer, Matt Corliss, chronicled Ben's journey to sobriety and the parallels of his recent swim. The film, “Swim Tuff: How I Swam my Way Out of the Bottle” is projected to be released Spring 2023. --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/kim-kearns/support

When problems between a wealthy woman, her son and his wife begin to get ugly, people turned a blind eye. But when Rebecca Cornell catches fire one night and dies, the case is re-opened after a ghostly appearance convinces local lawmakers it wasn't just an accident. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.