Category Archives: Sports

The Day I Met a Giant Jellyfish Off Cathedral Rocks

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A large jellyfish with a purple‑pink bell drifts through green murky water, its long translucent tentacles trailing behind it.

Why Cape Cod’s Lion’s Mane Jellyfish Made Me Remember

Hearing about the invasion of Lion’s Mane jellyfish on Cape Cod had me reminiscing. Remember, I’m old enough, so I’m allowed.

So let me tell you about the time I met what I now think might have been a Lion’s Mane jellyfish.

Cold, Murky New England Diving Conditions

I was scuba diving off Cathedral Rocks in Rockport.  The water is pretty deep there, and New England waters are never clear. It’s not like diving in the Caribbean where the water is warm and you can see for 100 feet or more. Diving up here, even in the summer, requires a ¼‑inch to 1/2 inch wetsuit for warmth. Visibility is 2–3 feet, if you’re lucky.

Losing Track of My Dive Buddy

The number one rule is to never dive alone. Hmmm… I’ve been known to ignore that rule, but not on this day. I had a dive buddy, but it was just the two of us, and I’d lost track of him.

Suspended at 65 Feet in Perfect Stillness

We were in deep water. I was floating at about 65 feet. I’d hit the sweet spot — perfect neutral buoyancy.

At that depth, there’s no top or bottom. The world becomes a vertical void. You can’t look up and see the surface, and you can’t look down and see the ocean floor. The only way to know which direction is “up” is by watching your bubbles rise.

Most sport diving happens in 25–40 feet of water, so you don’t usually get this effect. But at 65 feet, suspended in the water column, you feel like you’re hanging in space. I didn’t need to move. I could just float there, watching my bubbles drift upward and enjoying the stillness.

A Shape Appears in the Murk

While I was hanging there, looking for my dive buddy’s bubbles, I caught a glimpse of something in the murky water. It was just at the edge of my vision, and it was big. I don’t remember being afraid, just curious. So I stayed very still. What a feeling.

The Giant Jellyfish Emerges

Out of that murk, a huge jellyfish came floating toward me. The bell expanded and contracted like bellows. At the time I thought it was a moon jelly, but if so, it was the biggest one I’ve ever seen. It’s possible it was a Lion’s Mane.

In any case, it was an amazing moment — the stillness, the murky water, and the perfect balance that let me just hang there and watch this thing approach.

A Movie Moment Underwater

I remember thinking it was like watching a scene from a movie where the Blob emerges to terrify the unsuspecting protagonist — in this case, me. But I wasn’t terrified. I was fascinated.

The Unexpected Sting

As the creature floated past me, I felt a sting on my face just under my mask. I’d been tagged by a trailing tentacle. It was just a tiny gossamer thread. I didn’t even see it, but I felt it.

My wetsuit and mask protected me from all but that one tiny thread. I was lucky. If it was a Lion’s Mane, I could have been seriously stung, but it was just the one tentacle, and it left me with a vision I’ve cherished for years.

Why the Moment Stayed With Me

It was one of those things that makes the ocean special to me — not something you see or experience every day. Of course, I don’t want to get stung every day, but this was no worse than a bee sting on land. A moment’s annoyance to see such a beautiful creature in the wild.

Moon Jelly or Lion’s Mane — It Doesn’t Matter

Moon jelly or Lion’s Mane — it doesn’t matter to me. It was a mystical moment.

Note: These photos are amazing photos thaken by talented underwater photographers and posted on the internet. No copywrite info was available. My thanks to the folks that shared and posted these images.

A Miracle Comeback Nine Years in the Making

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Rustic log cabin in Rangeley, Maine surrounded by trees and summer greenery, the lakeside vacation rental where I stayed during my 2017 moose‑spotting trip.

A Quiet Cabin, an Empty Town, and a Mountain Waiting for a Miracle

A Moose heading for the treesIn 2017 I chose Rangeley for my summer vacation because I wanted to see Maine moose. And I did — moose, deer, and more quiet forest roads than I could count. But I also found a town on a beautiful lake that was struggling.

Saddleback, their ski mountain, was closed. Talk of a sale floated around like fog over the lake, but I can’t say the atmosphere was hopeful. Most people didn’t expect anything to come of it. Rangeley has plenty to offer if you love the outdoors — hiking, camping, nature photography — but in town the restaurants were either closed or empty. My cabin was beautiful, but I didn’t see many other vacationers around. It felt like a place waiting for something that might never come- a town holding its breath for a miracle.

So I’ve always wondered: What happened to Rangeley in the nine years since that visit?

Well, COVID didn’t stop the little town that could. In 2020, the sale of Saddleback finally went through — and everything changed.

The mountain woke up again

After years of false starts, Saddleback was purchased by Arctaris Impact Investors, a Boston‑based firm focused on revitalizing rural communities. And they didn’t just buy the mountain. They revived it.

More than $42 million has been invested since 2020. New lifts, new snowmaking, lodge improvements, a new T‑bar, a high‑elevation restaurant, and even a 7.5‑megawatt solar farm that produces twice the electricity the mountain uses.

It’s the kind of transformation you expect from a mega‑resort, not a once‑shuttered independent ski hill in western Maine.

Rangeley’s winter heartbeat returned

The reopening didn’t just bring skiers back — it brought life back.

Saddleback created 240+ jobs, built workforce housing, and restored the winter economy that had been fading when I visited. Restaurants filled up again. Lodges booked out. Seasonal workers could count on steady income. The town’s identity — which felt fragile in 2017 — snapped back into place.

It’s hard to overstate how much a single ski mountain can mean to a rural town. In Rangeley’s case, it meant everything.

From shuttered to #1 in the East

This is the part that still amazes me.

In 2025, SKI Magazine’s readers ranked Saddleback #1 ski resort in the East.

Number one. In the entire East. After being closed for five years.

If you wrote that in fiction, people would say it was unrealistic.

A different kind of ski mountain

What makes Saddleback’s comeback special isn’t just the money or the lifts — it’s the philosophy behind it.

They’re leaning into:

  • Independence — no mega‑pass, no corporate sameness
  • Sustainability — that solar farm is a game‑changer
  • Community — housing, childcare support, year‑round jobs
  • Authenticity — the “real ski mountain” vibe people crave

In a world where so many ski areas feel interchangeable, Saddleback is intentionally not trying to be anything but itself.

Weather still rules the game

Of course, skiing is still skiing. Warm spells still happen. Rain still happens. Gas prices still matter. Travel budgets still matter.

But Saddleback is far more resilient now than it was in 2017. Better snowmaking, better infrastructure, and a broader year‑round recreation economy give Rangeley a buffer it didn’t have before.

Looking back at that 2017 trip

When I think about that quiet summer week — empty restaurants, shuttered lifts, locals who didn’t dare hope — it makes Saddleback’s comeback feel even more remarkable. Rangeley didn’t just survive. It reinvented itself.

A comeback nine years in the making — and absolutely worth celebrating. I can honestly say that I love a happy ending! Rangely, Maine got it’s miracle. 

The Red Onion

 

Tropical Fish in Rhode Island?

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A brightly colored tropical fish with a white body, yellow fins, and bold black stripes swims near a textured coral-covered rock inside an aquarium.

🌊 A Warm‑Water Surprise in Little Rhody

Here’s a coastal New England tidbit that still amazes me. Every summer, the Gulf Stream sometimes swings close enough to the Rhode Island shoreline to deliver tropical fish into shallow coves. Yes — tropical fish. In Rhode Island!

Warm eddies peel off the Gulf Stream and drift north, carrying tiny Caribbean and Florida fish larvae with them. When one of these warm rings brushes the coast, those little travelers suddenly find themselves in New England. For a few weeks each summer, places like Jamestown’s protected coves can feel more like Key Largo than Narragansett Bay.

🌅 Beavertail: The Coastline I Did Know

I’ve spent time at Beavertail State Park, with its dramatic cliffs, pounding surf, and that steadfast lighthouse watching over the rocks. It’s one of the most striking pieces of coastline in Rhode Island — beautiful, rugged, and loud with the sound of water hitting stone.

But Beavertail is also a reminder of why I never made that tropical‑fish dive. The shoreline there is rough, exposed, and prone to rip currents. Even as a diver, I remember looking at those rocks and thinking, Where would you even get in safely? It’s a place built for sightseeing and storm watching, not for slipping quietly beneath the surface.

That contrast — the wildness of Beavertail versus the calm, sheltered coves just a few miles away — underscores how close I came to experiencing something extraordinary.

🤿 The Dive I Never Quite Made

Back in the 1970s, when I was scuba diving, the stories sounded almost unbelievable: a shallow, easy‑entry spot in Jamestown where warm water pooled and bright tropical fish appeared out of nowhere. Some divers even collected them for home aquariums, since the fish wouldn’t survive once fall temperatures dropped.

These tiny tropical visitors even have a nickname: Gulf Stream orphans. It’s a sweet, slightly melancholy name for fish that drift hundreds of miles off course and end up in Rhode Island for a short summer stay.

I planned that dive more than once. I wanted to see it for myself — to slip into warm water in New England and find a flash of Caribbean color swimming past. But work, schedules, and life kept interfering. It became one of those small regrets that stays with you: knowing there was a pocket of warm, tropical magic hiding in Rhode Island, and I never quite made it there.

 

🌡️ A Rare Event That’s Becoming More Common

And here’s the part that feels almost bittersweet: it’s more common now than it was back then. As the ocean has warmed, tropical and subtropical fish are appearing farther north, more frequently, and in greater numbers. What was once a rare Gulf Stream surprise has become a regular summer occurrence.

The ocean I dove in during the 1970s is not the same ocean we swim in today.

 

🌴 A Brief Visit From the Tropics

For a short moment each year, the Gulf Stream reaches out and brushes New England, leaving behind a handful of tropical fish as proof — a reminder of how dynamic, surprising, and ever‑changing our coastline really is. And every time I see the Beavertail lighthouse, I think of the dive I never took, and the warm‑water visitors I never met.

Beavertail Lighthouse on a calm day

 

 

When the World Comes to Your Backyard

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Flags of Japan, Australia, Scotland, Norway, Mexico, Canada, and the United States displayed side by side representing the international visitors at the World Cup.

Not Exactly a World Traveler

I’ve never been much of an international traveler. Not because I didn’t want to see the world, but because I always felt I should explore my own country first. So unless you count a white‑water rafting trip to Canada or that brief cruise to Cozumel and the ruins at Tulum, I’ve mostly stuck to that guideline. I’m certainly not a world traveler — even if my blog is.

Which is why the international energy of the World Cup landing right here in New England has been such an eye‑opener. I didn’t have to pack a suitcase or renew a passport. The world simply arrived on my doorstep, and suddenly I’m noticing cultural differences I might have completely missed if I were the one traveling abroad.

When you’re the visitor, you’re too busy adapting to take stock of what’s different. But here at home, with my familiar routines and my usual landmarks, the contrasts stand out in the best possible way.

The Japanese: Respect in Action

Take the Japanese fans. After their match, they quietly stayed behind to clean the bleachers — not their section, all the bleachers. No fuss, no announcement, just respect and responsibility in action.

And then there was the story of the Japanese visitors who tried to pay for the free chips and salsa at a Mexican restaurant. Cultural humility meeting American hospitality — and everyone smiling about it.

The Aussies: Joy at Full Volume

Then came the Aussies, chanting “Oi! Oi! Oi!” with the kind of joy that could power a small city. You could hear them before you saw them, and honestly, it was impossible not to grin.

The Scots: Music, Merriment, and… No Beer Left

The Scots have turned Boston into one big musical block party. Bagpipes on the T. Singing in the streets. And according to local bars, they’re drinking us under the table. Not metaphorically — literally running out of beer. It’s impressive in its own way.

The Norwegians: Vikings at Heart

And then there were the Norwegians, fully committed to the Viking theme. Instead of doing the wave, they sat down and did a full “row,” like they were powering a longship straight through the stadium.

I thought that was peak creativity until I saw a group of them sitting on an escalator doing the same rowing motion as they glided upward. I will never look at an escalator the same way again.

What’s Even More Remarkable

With all this energy — the singing, the chanting, the costumes, the beer, the bagpipes, the Viking rows — what’s struck me most is what hasn’t happened.

None of the riots or chaos that sometimes follow big sports wins here in the U.S. or in other stadiums around the world. For the most part, the world has come together here in fun and enjoyment. It’s been loud, joyful, and a little chaotic at times, but never destructive. Just people celebrating their teams, their cultures, and each other.

A Lesson for All of Us

All these little moments — the kindness, the enthusiasm, the humor, the pride — shine brighter because they’re happening right here in my everyday world. I didn’t have to travel internationally to see the beauty of other cultures. They brought it with them.

And honestly?
We Americans could learn something from all this.

Bring our enthusiasm and joy when we visit other countries.
But also clean up our messes.
Be respectful.
Smile more.

It’s the universal language.

Traffic Cones? What’s that About?

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A tight cluster of bright orange traffic cones surrounding a fresh sinkhole in a Boston street, with a red car parked nearby.

What’s With All the Cones?

Well, it’s official. Boston has been invaded. Instead of New England, we have become New Scotland. The Tartan Army has managed to bring Boston to its knees without a single shot fired. Nope — they did it with kilts, bagpipes, and a contagious party spirit. They came, they saw, they partied, and Boston loved every minute of it.

But what is it with the traffic cones?

Around here, we have plenty of cones. They sit in potholes, they mark construction, they gather in mysterious clusters on sidewalks. But suddenly they’re adorning every statue and monument in Boston. Even Mrs. Mallard and her brood are not immune.

These Scots are like heat‑seeking missiles. They search out and find even the most obscure statues, and let’s face it — Boston has many. From George Washington in the Public Garden to Robert Burns standing proudly in the Fens, they’ve all been “coned.”

But what does it mean? It must mean something, right?

The Real Story Behind the Cones

The whole tradition actually goes back to Glasgow in the 1980s, when locals started sneaking a traffic cone onto the head of the Duke of Wellington statue outside the Gallery of Modern Art. Every time the city took it down, someone would climb right back up in the middle of the night and put it on again.

What began as a bit of late‑night mischief turned into a full‑blown tug‑of‑war between the people and the authorities — a tiny, harmless act of rebellion that basically said, “We see your authority, and we raise you one bright orange cone.”

By the 1990s, the cone wasn’t just a prank anymore; it was a symbol of Glasgow’s humor — irreverent, stubborn, and proudly chaotic. When officials tried to raise the statue’s plinth to stop people from climbing it, Glaswegians protested so loudly the plan was scrapped. The cone stayed. It always stays.

And from there the tradition spread across Scotland — Edinburgh, Dundee, Aberdeen — until coning a statue became as Scottish as whisky, bagpipes, and arguing about football — soccer to you, mate.

So welcome to Boston, Tartan Army.

We’ll join your party, drink the beer — it’s our beer after all — dance to your bagpipes, and happily share your cone obsession with our statues.

 

Update

Scotland was defeated in their match with Morocco — a hard‑fought loss. They’ll now move on to face Brazil in Miami on Wednesday, June 24. Sadly, that means it’s time to bid farewell to our lively, outgoing visitors.

And if the cones weren’t enough, the Tartan Army left us with something even better: gratitude. One visitor posted a heartfelt thank‑you to Boston and all of New England, saying how welcomed they felt here. It turns out they didn’t just bring fun and joy — they brought a touch of class.