Those Silly Kitty Cats Are at It Again

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And a Four‑Year Mystery Is Finally Solved

Banner and Balboa, those silly kitties,  have a talent — not just for finding things, but for finding the exact things I don’t want them to find. Rubber bands, paper clips, bottle caps, the occasional bug… and yes, even my car keys. (If you missed Banner’s infamous key‑hiding caper, you can read the full story here: Tale of the Lost Keys — October 3, 2021.)

Their preferred playground is the middle of my tiny kitchen floor. Runner‑up: the bathtub. At least in the bathroom they’re out from underfoot.

Anyway, there has been a mystery in my house for more than four years. It only ever annoyed me when I wanted to use my food processor — and only when I wanted to grate carrots — so you can see why it wasn’t exactly top of mind.

The Food Processor Era Begins

I bought that food processor in a moment of weakness. A literal one. I had just shredded a five‑pound bag of carrots by hand for a carrot cake, and my arm was about to fall off. My thought was “There has to be an easier way.” I watch the Food Network. I watch the cooking shows. You drop ingredients in, press a button, and voilà — shreds, purées, grinds, blends. It was time to modernize.

I brought it home, plugged it in, dropped in a carrot or two, and it worked beautifully. Perfect shreds. Coleslaw here I come. I gave it a place of honor on the counter.

The Carrot Catastrophe

Now, I’m not always the most mechanical of people, and the next time I tried to shred carrots… mush. Tiny bits. Sand. What was going on?

I ran to my computer and watched YouTube videos. Looked simple. Tried again. Same result. Back to the old‑fashioned hand grater I went, but the food processor was still great for bread crumbs, crushing crackers, and grinding honey grahams for pie crusts.

Over the years I kept reviewing how‑to videos and giving carrots another try. No success.

Then one day, I had an epiphany. I Googled the parts of a food processor.

And there it was. The answer to my question. The missing part. The center shaft.

 

I only had the shaft with the blade. So when I put carrots in, they got shredded by the disc and then immediately chopped to bits by the blade underneath. I couldn’t remove the blade without having the center shaft to put in its place.

Head‑slap. Duh.

 

Enter: The Culprit

Okay all you culinary experts, stop laughing. I can explain.

Not long after I got Balboa, I found the little culprit in the kitchen playing with a plastic thing. I had no idea what it was — I thought it was something he found under the sink. He used to go in and out of there all the time, and I figured it was leftover from when the workers replaced the countertops.

Now that I realize what I’m missing, I recognize the thing as the shaft from the food processor.

Needless to say, it’s long gone. It was tossed even before the Great Kitchen Declutter.

Balboa posing in the middle of the kitchen with the food‑processor shaft he ‘liberated,’ looking very satisfied with himself.

The Wallet‑Smacking Finale

The worst part? That tiny plastic thingy costs almost as much as a new food processor to replace. Can you believe that.

One small moment of stupidity… one big bang on the wallet. But at least I finally know why I couldn’t shred carrots with my food processor.

When that part gets here, I may have to make a carrot cake to celebrate.

 

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

 

 

The Whales of Massachusetts Bay

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wo whales surface in open water, one lifting its tail as it dives, with a large cruise ship and a smaller boat in the distance.

Everyone knows the humpback whales. I’ve chased them from Massachusetts to Hawaii to Alaska. They’re the show‑stoppers — the whales that arch their backs, lift their flukes high, breach like acrobats, and bring their calves right alongside the boats. Sometimes it feels like they’re watching us instead of the other way around. But as dramatic as humpbacks are, they aren’t the first whales to arrive each year. Whale season is opened by a very special group.

The Right Whales Come First

Right whales were named because whalers once considered them the “right” whales to hunt. Their massive heads were filled with valuable whale oil, and they floated when killed — a grim history that left us with a name we still use today.

These whales begin arriving in Cape Cod Bay as early as November, though January is more typical. The wind off the bay is still cold. The days are gray and dreary. The bright summer skies are months away, and the whale‑watch boats are still in dry dock. If you want to see right whales, you watch from shore. No close‑ups. No flukes. Just patience, binoculars, and the hope of spotting that distinctive V‑shaped blow.

Right whales exhale through two blowholes, creating a perfect V in the air — just like we exhale through two nostrils. It’s one of the easiest ways to identify them from land.

A Critically Endangered Visitor

These whales are critically endangered, and seeing them arrive is always an exciting moment. The current estimate is fewer than 350 North Atlantic right whales left, with only around 70 breeding females. And here in Massachusetts, we sit right on their annual migration path.

My 2011 Right‑Whale Day

Back in 2011, on a cold and blustery April day, I took a ride to the Cape just for something to do. The rangers at the National Seashore welcome center were buzzing — reports were coming in that right whales were visible from shore. Of course I had to check it out.

Sure enough, they were traveling along the shoreline in twos and threes. I stood on the sand watching for the blows, watching one pair pass on and another arrive, like a conveyor belt of whales moving steadily along the coast. It’s not a trip I take every year, but I’m grateful I got to witness that spectacle at least once.

Then Come the Humpbacks

As the weather warms, the humpbacks begin to arrive. They bring their calves, and you often get to see a mother and baby traveling together. The calves don’t look small — except next to mom. She teaches her young how to breach, feed, and survive. These are the whales we follow with the whale‑watch fleet.

Breaching Whale

On a whale watch, you can almost always count on humpbacks, but you might also spot fin whales, minke whales, and if you’re very lucky, a sei whale.

If You’ve Never Been on a Whale Watch

• Bring a sweatshirt or hoodie — it gets chilly on the water

• Binoculars aren’t required, but they’re fun if you have them

• If you’re prone to motion sickness, take your Dramamine

• Watch for bubble feeding, breaching, and flipper slaps

• A naturalist will help identify whales and sea life

• You might see Atlantic white‑sided dolphins

• You may spot an ocean sunfish

• Lots of birds near the surface often means whales are feeding

• And more and more often these days, you may see a great white shark. The seal population has exploded, and the sharks follow their food. Sightings from whale‑watch boats do happen — usually just a fin slicing the surface or a quick shadow near a seal colony.

I find the ocean relaxing, sprinkled with moments of excitement when a whale appears.

Thar she blows.

 

From Sand Dunes to Shark Apps

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Old Cape Cod, just as Patti Page imagined it — dunes, salty air, and a quiet stretch of shoreline that still remembers how things used to be.

Old Cape Cod: From Sand Dunes to Shark Apps

If you’re fond of sand dunes and salty air,

Quaint little villages here and there…

You’re sure to fall in love with old Cape Cod.

Patti Page sang those words in 1957, and the song didn’t just become a hit — it reshaped the Cape’s identity. That gentle, dreamy portrait of a sleepy peninsula helped launch Cape Cod into the national imagination. Tourists followed, then developers, and before long those “quaint little villages” gave way to strip malls, big‑box stores, and summer traffic that can test the patience of a saint.

But one thing never changed: the beaches. Crowded or not, they’re still the Cape’s heartbeat. And if we take a little walk through time, we can see just how much this place has transformed since Patti Page made musical history.

A Peninsula Born of Ice

Cape Cod is a hooked, sandy arm stretching 65 miles into the Atlantic — the leftover handiwork of the last Ice Age. It’s narrow in some places, wide in others, bordered by Cape Cod Bay, Buzzards Bay, and the waters of Vineyard and Nantucket Sounds. For centuries, life here revolved around the sea.

Nantucket, in particular, was once the whaling capital of the world. From the late 1600s through the mid‑1800s, whaling was its lifeblood. But as regulations tightened and the industry declined, Nantucket reinvented itself as a quiet retreat for the wealthy — a transformation that still defines the island today.

Preserving the Cape

On the mainland, conservation took center stage. In 1961, the federal government created the Cape Cod National Seashore, protecting miles of shoreline from development. Monomoy National Wildlife Refuge followed, safeguarding critical habitat for birds and marine life.

Then came a turning point: In 1972, the Marine Mammal Protection Act granted federal protection to seals.

That’s when the Cape’s story took a dramatic turn.

The Return of the Great Whites

As the seal population exploded, so did interest from a very different kind of visitor. In 1975, the blockbuster Jaws gave the world a fictional taste of shark‑infused terror — but it also foreshadowed reality. Over the next few decades, great white sharks began returning to Cape waters in growing numbers, drawn by the booming seal colonies.

The shift became undeniable on September 15, 2018, when Arthur Medici, a 26‑year‑old from Revere, was fatally attacked while boogie boarding at Newcomb Hollow Beach. It was the first deadly shark attack in Massachusetts since 1936, and it marked the beginning of what many now call the new Cape Cod.

Today, great whites are summer regulars. We have:

  • Spotter planes and research boats
  • Electronic shark‑detection buoys
  • Beach warnings near seal haul‑outs
  • And yes — an app for that. The Sharktivity app lets you track shark sightings in real time.

Even whale‑watch boats report seeing sharks, and whenever a whale carcass washes ashore, you can bet the great whites will arrive shortly after.

And they’re not alone. In 2025, a fisherman off Mashpee reported the Cape’s first confirmed tiger shark sighting. Offshore charter captains share videos of sharks stealing fish right off the line. There’s even shark cage diving now — something once associated only with South Africa or Australia.

A Personal Note: The Cape’s Own Shark Celebrity

The Cape has its own celebrity in Dr. Greg Skomal, author, marine biologist, and the face of modern shark research in Massachusetts. He’s been a champion of the great white’s return and a pioneer in tagging and tracking them. You’ve probably seen him on Discovery Channel’s Shark Week, leaning over the bow of a boat with a tagging pole in hand.

I’ve had the privilege of meeting him and hearing several of his presentations. He’s charming, funny, and completely approachable — the kind of scientist who makes you feel like you’re part of the adventure. The sharks couldn’t ask for a better advocate.

Is This Still “Old Cape Cod”?

Somehow, the Cape feels less like Patti Page’s quiet seaside escape and more like a place where nature has reclaimed its throne. The dunes and salty air are still here, but the cast of characters has changed. Tourists still flock to the beaches — but so do apex predators.

Cape Cod isn’t sleepy anymore. It’s wild, unpredictable, and very much alive.

And maybe that’s part of its magic.

 

Summer on the Cape: A Visit to Marconi Beach

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A roadside “Welcome to Cape Cod” sign surrounded by tall green trees, featuring a lighthouse illustration and the text “Massachusetts – Cape Cod & Islands – 2026.”

Crossing the Bridge Into Cape Time

It’s summer in Massachusetts, and that means my brain automatically drifts east toward the Cape. Or Cape Cod for all of you visiting from away. Around here, we just say “the Cape,” and everyone knows exactly what we mean. We’re heading over the bridge—doesn’t matter if it’s Bourne or Sagamore—once you’re south of either one, you’ve officially crossed into Cape Time.

Lunch, Seals, and Fresh Catch

After weaving through the inevitable bridge traffic, the whole Cape opens up like a choose‑your‑own‑adventure book. One of my favorite early stops is Chatham Pier Fish Market. I swear, nothing tastes more like summer than fresh fish eaten with the sun on your shoulders and gulls arguing overhead. The fishing boats unload right in front of you, the seals pop up hoping for snacks, and I’m sitting there humming “Yummy Yummy Yummy” because yes—I’ve got fresh catch in my tummy and a whole day ahead of me.

Heading Into the National Seashore

With lunch behind me, I can wander anywhere along the Cape Cod National Seashore. Miles of dunes, beaches, and history—yes, history. Cape Cod isn’t all sun and sand and sharks. It played a very real part in developing the wireless technology we rely on every single day.

Marconi Beach: Where Wireless Communication Was Born

A Little Science, A Little Drama

Guglielmo Marconi built the world’s first successful wireless transmitter—basically the ancestor of every text message you’ve ever sent. Thanks to his invention, the RMS Carpathia heard the Titanic’s SOS and raced to help, saving more than 700 people. Not bad for a guy tinkering with radio waves.

Why Cape Cod?

To send signals across the Atlantic, Marconi needed stations positioned just right. He built them in Poldhu, England; Glace Bay, Nova Scotia; and—surprise—South Wellfleet, Massachusetts. Yes, right here on the Cape. On January 18, 1903, the South Wellfleet station made history by completing the first two‑way wireless communication between Europe and America. Before long, ship‑to‑shore messages became big business. You could send a social note or a business update for fifty cents a word, which makes today’s texting bills look pretty good.

Cape Cod: The First “Voice of America”

For about fifteen years, the South Wellfleet station was the powerhouse of North American wireless communication. Skilled telegraphers tapped out messages at about seventeen words a minute, and the station—known by its call sign “CC” for Cape Cod—became the unofficial voice reaching out across the ocean.

Erosion, War, and the End of an Era

Nothing on the Cape stays still for long, especially the coastline. The cliff under Marconi’s station was eroding at roughly three feet a year, inching the towers closer to disaster. By 1917, with World War I underway and new technology replacing spark‑gap transmitters, the Navy shut the station down for security reasons. It never reopened, and by 1920 the whole operation was dismantled.

What Remains Today

Most of the original site has been claimed by the Atlantic—those cliffs don’t play around. But the surrounding land is protected as part of the Cape Cod National Seashore. If you stand on the bluff on a cold winter day, looking out over the ocean, it’s easy to imagine the crackle of early radio signals leaping across the waves. This quiet stretch of coastline is where global wireless communication truly began.