Highland Light

Cape Cod is, in geological terms, a recessional moraine - where the glacier paused for breath on its retreat north 15,000 years ago. The terminal moraine - the point marking the ice’s farthest advance south, more or less parallels the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

The Cape Cod cliffs (technically a glacial scarp)form a bulwark against the pounding Atlantic. Highland Lighthouse sits atop the highest cliff on the Cape, about 130 feet above the beach. This boost gives the 50-foot tower an overall height above sea level of 180 feet, only about 20 feet shorter than Cape Hatteras Light,the tallest lighthouse in the U.S. Of course, the beach Hatteras is as flat as a board so its tower has to go it alone. Highland is the official name since 1976, locals, including the Park Rangers, still call it Cape Cod light.



Highland Lighthouse sits on the seventh fairway of the Highland Links Golf Course. Locals joke that all they need is the windmill from Eastham to make Highland Links the world’s only full-sized miniature golf course. Windows in the tower, including those up in the lamp room, have been struck and broken by errant golf balls. I wonder how many penalty strokes are invoked for hitting a lighthouse. Talk about hitting the broad side of a barn. Maybe the embarrassment is enough.

Highland light stands on the Cape Cod National Seashore and is jointly operated by the National Park Service and the Friends of Highland Light. The Friends run the light 24/7 as a “private aid to navigation”. Mariners use the light for a day mark, as a GPS reference point, and to tell them when they are near the offshore shoals, reputed to be the most dangerous on the Cape and which have claimed many a vessel over the years. The light is open to the public and manned by volunteer guides who sit up in the lamp room. To get there, you have to negotiate a cast iron winding stairway bolted to the brick walls. I felt like Alice through the Rabbit Hole as the steps became progressively narrower and steeper. There were no fat lighthouse keepers ever on duty at Cape Cod Lighthouse. I overheard one visitor (of a certain age) comment that climbing the stairs was like “re-enacting the birth process.” When you pop out at the top, the view is worth the climb - impressive vistas over the Atlantic and the moorland behind the lighthouse and helpful signs point out landmarks and landfalls (Portugal, due east 2500 miles; Nova Scotia, due north 700 miles).

Highland Lighthouse is one of the oldest in the U.S., dating from 1797, authorized by George Washington himself and is the first lighthouse using a revolving light. The light was originally fueled by lard, then whale oil, then kerosene, and now runs on electricity. The original lighthouse had its feet cut out from under it by constant wave erosion and toppled over the cliff in 1853, to be replaced a year later. The cliff continued to be eaten away by the waves until, in 1996, with only 50 feet to spare, the lighthouse was moved part and parcel 100 yards inland on the same day as Nauset Lighthouse and by the same outfit. Highland Light now sits well back from the cliff edge, waiting for the Atlantic to catch up.

You can walk from the light to the edge of the sheer cliff and gaze out over the ocean. The view is impressive; just you and the most ferocious mosquitoes on the planet. I don’t know how the golfers can stand it; they must bathe in repellent or have skins tough as rhinoceros hide. The Park Service probably sends out a daily cart to gather up the bodies of exsanguinated golfers just to keep the putting greens from getting too cluttered.

Slippers

“Long Island Sound is slipper shell soup.” said my friend as we walked the beach at Milford, Connecticut. Judging from the windrows of shells cast up by the tide; 90% of which were slipper shells, she looked to be spot-on correct.


The world is full of animals (and a few plants) busy earning a living pretending to be something else. A cheetah is a cat pretending to be a dog; a grey fox is a dog pretending to be a cat. Slipper shells are snails pretending to be oysters. They are also girls pretending to be boys, but more on that later.

The Atlantic slipper shell (Crepidula fornicata) is one of the most common shells you can find on any eastern beach in North America, with a few Eastern white slipper shells (Crepidula plana) tossed in just make things confusing. They get their name from the shelf or deck on the inside, which makes them resemble shapeless slippers that have been under the bed for years. The deck extends about a third the length of the shell and serves as an anchor and protection for the internal organs. The Atlantic slipper shell is arched with brown markings with the tip bent downward to one side at the back. It is up to an inch and a half long. The Eastern white slipper shell is white and flattened, sometimes a little convex or concave, and generally a bit smaller. Eastern white slippers seem to prefer the inside of old shells and the underside of old horseshoe crabs.

Eggs are brooded within the female’s shell until they develop into exact miniatures of the adult. Periodically, females lift their shells and push the juveniles out into the cold briny deep. Newly hatched young sink to the bottom, where they scrape algae from hard substrate until they settle down in the shallows. Like oyster larvae or spat, slipper shell babies set on anything hard; rocks, shells, horseshoe crabs, each other.

Once a juvenile sets, it attaches with its muscular foot and remains in the same place forever. It has functionally become an oyster - immobile and filter feeding on the microscopic algae and detritus suspended in the water. Oysters have had gazillions of years practicing filter feeding and have evolved an elegantly simple way of moving large volumes of water past their gills, which rake out food particles and pass them to the gut. It has been said that prior to the European invasion, the entire volume of Chesapeake Bay went through an oyster every three days or so. Slipper shells aren’t quite so efficient. Descended from grazing snails that use a tongue-like organ called a radula to rasp algae off rocks, they have come up with a whole new way of getting food. Mucus is secreted from specialized organs located in the mantle and just in front of the gills; the gills sweep in plankton and other particles that stick to the mucus, and the creature uses its radula to lick the whole thing up and pass it to the stomach. Not a dinner guest who would cause you to break out the good china, but it works well enough to get by.

A slipper shell needs a hard surface on which to live; they live in an environment where this critical resource is scarce and scattered. When a slipper finds a hard surface to colonize, be it a rock, piling, shell, or horseshoe crab, other young slippers are attracted to it. Slippers tend to form piles, with the oldest and biggest on the bottom, the youngest and smallest on the top. Piles can be up to ten shells deep.

Slippers are sequential hermaphrodites. The oldest and biggest is the functional female, the smallest and youngest is the functional male. The animal in between are in various stages of transition from male to female. Female is the fallback gender. When a young slipper colonizes a new surface, it becomes female and releases a pheromone to prevent others from following suite. When the female on the bottom of a stack dies, the next one up becomes female and begins to produce pheromone and eggs.

Hermaphrodism occurs throughout the animal kingdom wherever you get a sedentary species with scattered resources. The familiar orange and white clown fish is just such a species. Clown fish colonize sea anemones. Anemones possess tentacles armed with stinging cells and can capture and devour prey up to and including clown fish size. Clown fish secrete a mucus which the sea anemone chemically recognizes as itself, and which protects the clown fish. Anemones are relatively scattered along the bottom in reef environments, and are the critical resource required by the clown fish. Clown fish form groups living around and defending individual anemones. The biggest and oldest clown fish is the functional female, the next biggest, the male. The rest wait their turn. If the female dies or falls to a predator, the male becomes female and the next biggest clown fish becomes the male. Everybody moves up a notch in the hierarchy. Try explaining the movie Finding Nemo in that context. When little Nemo’s mommy and siblings are eaten by the big bad barracuda, Nemo’s daddy should become Nemo’s new mommy, and little Nemo becomes the new daddy…things go weird from there.

For all that they are mucus-eating, bisexual hermaphroditic snails pretending to be oysters, slipper shells are the most common shell on any beach from Florida to Maine. They must be doing something right.

Starry Messenger

The other night, Alec called from school. He has been pretty much incommunicado this semester, so a phone call was an occasion for some concern. Turns out he was headed back to his dorm after Marching Band practice after dark, when he happened upon the school’s astronomy club. He stopped by to chat, and was shown Comet Holmes. The club members pointed out the location for naked eye viewing and gave him a look through a telescope. He was excited and his first impulse, like ET, was to phone home.

Comet Holmes was discovered in November 1892 by (you guessed it) Mr. Edwin Holmes, a British astronomer. His namesake comet orbits the Sun once every seven years at a distance of about 200 million miles (a little over twice Earth's 93-million-mile orbit). It was re-observed in 1899 and 1906 before being lost for nearly six decades. Based on a prediction from calculations, the comet was found again in 1964.

It is a local (relatively speaking) object, reaching its farthest distance from the sun somewhere between the orbits of Mars and Jupiter. Every seven years it makes the round trip, and has been doing so for who knows how long. What makes this comet remarkable; a once in a lifetime viewing as some authorities have dubbed it, is that it periodically “erupts”. Normally a magnitude 17 object, only visible with a pretty powerful scope, it blossoms to a magnitude 3 object every 100 years or so. Magnitude 3 means it becomes as bright any star and is easily visible to the naked eye. On October 20, in less than 24 hours, it brightened by a factor of nearly 400,000 and has now up to a factor of over a million times what it was before the outburst. This is a change "absolutely unprecedented in the annals of cometary astronomy." The comet is now rivaling some of the brighter stars in the sky. When it first cooked off, some observers thought they were witnessing a super nova – an exploding star. A super nova was last seen in the galactic neighborhood around the time of Keppler and Tycho Brahe.

Theories abound as to why Holmes brightened up ("elementary Watson"--sorry, I couldn't resist), but as yet, no one has come up with anything definitive or remotely plausible. For all we know, Scottie just turned on the warp drive engines. What is amazing is that Holmes made its closest approach to the sun last May and came no closer than 190 million miles to the sun. The comet is now moving away from the sun, boggieing its way back to Jupiter. Not exactly a recipe for the typical show-off Great (notice the initial caps) comet. None the less, there it is, in the constellation Perseus.

You can see Holmes' comet almost any time this fall until it fades, when that will be is anybody's guess since we don't know how it got bright to start with. Some astronomers predict it will grow to rival the full moon in size. Go outside and find the constellation Cassiopeia. That’s the one in the North-east sky that looks like the number “3” as drawn by a first grader. (Tilt you head right and it looks like an “M”, tilt left and it’s a “W”). Find the bottom star in the group and look at about 5 o’clock. You will see a bright star in the Perseus, with a somewhat brighter star about 5 o’clock from it. This star is the top of a triangle. The bottom left star of the triangle is Comet Holmes. Look at it carefully and you will notice it is fuzzy around the edges. Binoculars bring this out even better. I set up my 20x spotting scope on the back deck and even with this relatively puny optics, I was able to see a star shining through the fuzz and the hint of a denser area in the center; the nucleus itself. Way cool.

A well-known astronomer once remarked: “Comets are like cats; they both have tails and they both go where they please.” If that is the case, then Comet 17P/Holmes must be of the Manx variety. Unlike some the so-called Great Comets (Haley on most occasions in the past thousand years, or Halle-Bop from a few years ago), Holmes does not possess a tail to speak of. Most comets can be described as “dirty snowballs,” consisting mostly of ice with chunks of rock embedded in. It may be that Holmes, with its seven-year run, has had most of the ice already ablated off the nucleus and is pretty much solid rock…or not. Like cats, comets are pretty much inscrutable.

Nauset

The light at Nauset is hard by the Town of Eastham. It is more famous than other lighthouses on Cape Cod; the red and white tower is the logo for Cape Cod Potato Chips, sold in every convenience store from Connecticut to Maine.



Pat and I climbed down the wooden steps to the narrow beach where we set up chairs and the all-important umbrella. Pat took off her sandals, dipped a toe in the water, pronounced it freezing, and ensconced herself with cool drinks, and a new mystery novel in the shade of the umbrella to enjoy the beach in her own inimitable fashion. I can’t sit still on a beach and took off back up the stairs to explore the lighthouse and environs.

Cape Cod has always had a problem with its lighthouses. The coastal cliff that (technically a glacial scarp) forms a rampart against the ocean affords a free additional fifty feet or so of elevation at Eastham, but the remorseless Atlantic nibbles away at the cliff base with every wave and every storm, and the edge keeps moving ever westward and closer to the light. Every lighthouse facing the open sea is a replacement--sometimes second or third generation--of a light that went over the lip when its feet were cut out from under it.

The current Nauset lighthouse was built in 1877 as one of the “Chatham Twins”- old postcards show the keeper’s house flanked by identical fifty-foot tall white lighthouses. The right-hand tower was dismantled in 1923 and moved by barge up the coast to the cliffs, where it replaced the last of the “Three Sisters” lights. The Sisters were themselves wooden replacements for the three original brick towers, built in 1838, when the cliff stood about 800 feet further east. The last of the brick sisters slid over in 1892-what's left of the foundations are visible at extreme low tide. The “new” Nauset Lighthouse was operated by the Coast Guard until 1955, when it was sold out of service. The owner donated the light and the grounds to the National Park Service to be a part of Cape Cod National Seashore. That seashore kept moving closer to the base until, by 1996, the cliff edge was only 25 feet from the base of the tower. The light was moved 100 yards inland, waiting for the ocean to catch up with it. Nauset Lighthouse is run by the Nauset Light Preservation Society, who keep up the maintenance and do restoration, operating the light as a “private aid to navigation”. Boaters and fisherfolk use the red and white tower as a day mark and the alternating red and white aerobeacon lights can be seen up to 20 miles at sea.



The day we were there, Nauset Beach had more that its share of surfers, most on long boards, a good number sporting grey in their beards, and all but one in full wetsuits. Long boards handle better than hot dog boards on the small waves sloshing ashore. The waves were smallish but well formed and a surfer usually had the choice of left or right breaks. Long boards give a stable smooth ride and can better take bumps with rocks as well. The beach was littered with rocks from football to chair size; dumped there by the last glacier and eroding out of the cliff face when the glacier retreated (gone back, as the locals say, for more rocks). A pair of surfers were standing up on wide Hawaiian-style paddle boards, looking like gondoliers in wetsuits with their long single oar, and were catching more curls than most.



When I was fifteen or so, I happened upon a book entitled The Outermost House by Henry Beston. I still have it; pages yellowed and corners folded, the 95 cent price tag still in the corner. Beston, a burnt-out magazine editor and bon vivant built a two-room vacation shack on the dunes at Nauset Beach and found himself unable to leave one September. Beston spent a year on Nauset Beach, recording his experiences and thoughts in longhand on a kitchen table. He wrote of storms and shipwrecks, bird migrations and fishermen. His few visitors were mostly Coast Guardsmen from the local station or the lighthouse. Beston always offered them coffee, or something a bit stronger, on winter nights. I can still remember long quotes from the book, some passages, like long-ago memorized poetry stick in my mind. It would have been nice to have visited the house, which was dedicated as a "National Literary Landmark" in 1964 by the then Secretary of the Interior, but the house was demolished by a howling Northeaster (the lady in the local bookstore called it hurricane)in 1978. The foundation and the commemorative plaque are gone as well, the beach and dunes changed, the cliffs pushed back by the constant waves and the patient sea.

Private Viewing

Sometimes I feel as if I’m the only one around paying attention. I was walking around dusk in Old Town Alexandria a couple of weeks ago, when my attention was drawn by a chittering overhead. The sound came from a flock of chimney swifts wheeling around the unused smoke stack at the old Courthouse Building on Washington Street. Having raised their babies, and prior to migration for the rain forests of the upper Amazon, swifts spend the rest of the summer feeding on the wing and forming communal roosts in (guess where) chimneys. Before the European invasion of the Americas, chimney swifts roosted in standing hollow trees, but chimneys are even better and it is rare to find them in hollow trees anymore. The wheel in the sky grew as more swifts joined and the sound level intensified. I like to think they were swapping stories of where the best spots are for the tastiest bugs and about the one that got away.

Roger Tory Peterson in his Field Guide to Birds East of the Rockies, describes swifts as "a cigar with wings". Swifts are related to hummingbirds and move their wings almost as fast. Rather than the blur you see with hummers, swifts seem to flap their wings alternately; it's just an optical illusion from the rapidity of movement; your brain interprets it as alternate movements. Swifts have tiny feet; early biologist who should have known better, thought the feet were missing altogether, leading to the group name Apodidae (no feet). Their small feet and weak toes leave swifts unable to perch on a horizontal surface as do other birds. Chimney swifts prefer to find a rough vertical surface and hook their claws into some irregularity and roost like upside down bats.

The wheel reached out to half a block in size, and it seemed as if every swift in Alexandria was circling the chimney and chattering up a storm. At some point, known only to the birds, critical mass was reached and the entire mass spiraled down the chimney like smoke going backwards. It was like some sort of magic trick, which I guess that’s really what it was. From the first circling birds to empty sky, the whole show was over in less than five minutes. The truly amazing thing was that, as I stood there, agog in astonishment at being privileged to see such a spectacle, nobody else along that busy street even bothered to look up. I mumbled a thanks for the show to Whoever might be listening, and rejoined the throng, hurrying towards my destination of the evening.

Chatham; Hammerheads and Horseheads

Pat and I spent a long weekend on Cape Cod. Rather than go through a blow by blow, I am doing a series of vignettes interspersed with the usual stuff. Intro done, we commence.

Chatham Lighthouse sits about a mile down Main Street, just outside of Chatham, Massachusetts. It perches on a cliff overlooking the approaches to Chatham harbor. The light was built in 1881; one of a set of twin lighthouses, and part of the third set of twin lighthouses in Chatham. The original lights, as well as their replacements, slid into the ocean as the cliff slowly eroded away. In 1923, one light was moved up-cape to Nauset to replace a set of aging triple lights. Chatham light was taken over by the Coast Guard in 1939 and is still an active Coast Guard station.


Coasties were known on the Cape as Hammerheads. They got the name from an elite military unit set up during the days of Prohibition. Hammerheads went after rumrunners smuggling liquor from Canada, smashing contraband whiskey barrels with sledge hammers and spilling the contents overboard, much to the delight of the local lobster population.

Pat and I drove to the lighthouse after a leisurely stroll through the town. We were taking in the view from the cliff top and contemplating a trudge down the wooden stairs to the beach when a couple came past and asked if we had seen the seals. Really? Where? They had lunched up the road and had seen seals sporting in the channel. I scanned the area with my binoculars and came up with nothing. Then I checked out the tiny island off the point. No bigger than a sandbar, it looked covered with logs. Which moved. Eureka. I dug out the 20x spotting scope that Pat had me bring along (thanks, Pat) and focused in. The sandbar was wall-to-wall seals. Gray seals the size of sofa beds along with smaller, lighter harbor seals lay cheek by jowl on the beach looking for all the world like a crowd of summer sunbathers. I half expected them to be passing the Coppertone. I decided to hike out to the point to see if I could get some pictures. Pat elected to stay on the cliff top with the scope. She asked anyone who passed by if they wanted to see the seals; most people were blase about it until they got their eye to the lens. When I got to the bottom of the stairs and looked back up, Pat was doing a land-office business - she could have sold tickets. Pat says she didn't offer a look to the bikers who roared up soon after I left. Too bad, she could have swapped a view of the seals for some free legal or accounting advice.


Local fishermen call Gray seals “horseheads” from their long rounded heads that poke out of the water to stare at you with huge soulful puppy eyes.


Grays and the smaller harbor seals have ballooned in population in the past 30 years until their numbers are approaching 6000 along the Cape. With the increase in the seal populations, have come (cue up scary music here…Da Dum…Da Dum..) their major predator, the Great White Shark. There have been reports of shark attacks on seals off Chatham for several years and the occasional seal carcass washes up showing half-moon bite marks the diameter of garbage can lids. A Great White, estimated to be 14 feet long, was observed killing and eating a seal just off the beach not 2 months ago. Chatham Town has issued an “advisory” telling people not to swim with seals. It seems to me that swimming with an animal possessing a head the size of a grizzly bear’s with teeth to match, is only slightly less foolhardy than swimming with an animal possessing a head the size of a grizzly bear’s with teeth to match AND knowing that something with the firepower to eat it may be nearby. The good news is that Great Whites rarely attack humans; when they do, it is usually a case of mistaken identity - a swimmer or surfer on a board looks an awful lot like a seal on the surface. Seals have a thick layer of blubber (read: calories) that the shark can detect when it hits. Humans are too skinny and not worth the effort to digest; a shark will spit you (or whatever part of you it took off) back out. The bad news is that the first bite is enough to ruin your day.

Pat and I drove back to the lighthouse in the evening after a good seafood dinner in a local restaurant. Chatham Light sent its double beams out into a clear black night, broken only by the lights of passing cars on the main road. The Milky Way was visible, with the Pleiades hovering, and Orion climbing over the horizon like a fat man getting out of the tub. The cries of migrating shorebirds punctuated the darkness over the empty beach with summer past and a north wind rising.

Far Travelers

Saturday morning Pat and I saw a sight few people witness; Freshwater jellyfish in the pond at Locust Shade Park in Prince William County, Virginia. Scattered far and wide, freshwater jellyfish have been found on every continent except Antarctica and on many oceanic islands including Guam and New Zealand. They are not particularly rare, but like the pookah in Harvey, they "appear here and there, now and then, to this one and that one (and how are you Mr. Wilson?)". Freshwater jellyfish may show up in a pond one year and not be seen again for the next twenty, if ever, although they have been reported from the pond at Locust Shade for the past three years. A big reason that few people see them is that almost nobody looks. Freshwater jellyfish are not very high on the average person's list of things to see. Craspedacusta sowerbii, although not a true jellyfish, is close enough so as to make no difference; a few slight anatomical differences put freshwater jellyfish in the same group as hydras (tiny stalked critters resembling miniature sea anemones). However, if it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and swims like a duck...Actually freshwater jellyfish don't quack or walk and they don't swim like duck either, but you get the point.

These are interesting little blobs of protoplasm. They swim, like their saltwater cousins, by pulsating the bell and trailing their tentacles to pick up small plankton such as water fleas and daphnia. Stinging cells on the tentacles kill prey which the tentacles pass up to the mouth for digestion. The stinging cells on freshwater jellies are too small to penetrate human skin, so if you really wanted to, you could pick one up with impunity. Like sea nettles, fifty miles east in Chesapeake Bay, freshwater jellyfish are 90% water. They have an inside layer of cells and an outside layer of cells and in between, they contain gelatinous mesoglea (jelly) which gives them buoyancy. Since they are basically animated water, jellies are nearly clear with an X-shaped set of gonads standing out in white. The biggest ones are about the size of a quarter, with nickel-sized specimens far more common. Pat described them as "swimming edelweiss".

Freshwater jellyfish undergo alternating generations. Colonies of polyps, the stalked form, grow on the bottom, reproducing by branching off clones. The freshwater jellyfish part, or medusa, is the sexual generation, produced by the polyp under favorable conditions. The polyp clones several copies, stacked up like saucers, each of which separates off swims away. Once the medusae release eggs and sperm, they die. In winter, polyps go into a resting state, called the podocyst, which withstands cold. These resting cysts are picked up on bird feet and feathers and move from pond to pond, a few miles at a time, until freshwater jellyfish are found all over the world. Podocysts jump across oceans probably by hitching a ride long-distance migrants which can traverse whole hemispheres. Being a clone species has advantages; the same species of freshwater jellyfish is worldwide and is therefore unlikely to become rare. On the other hand, the medusa stage seldom bears fruit, since all the freshwater jellyfish in a pond are likely descended from a single podocyst and the medusae are all males or all females. Only when podocysts are from different ponds, of different sexes, and both clones manage to survive to the medusa stage, do genes get mixed.

Some researchers postulate that jellyfish represent an early "experiment" of life, unrelated to anything else. Indeed, fossils of jellyfish-like creatures show up in some of the oldest rocks with any traces of life. Called the Edicaran fauna (after some god-forsaken spot in the middle of the Australian outback), they were thought by some to show no affinities to any other known life forms although recent research seems to disprove this theory.

Jellyfish have always seemed to me to be too ethereal to be real (except when I get stung). Maybe it's the ghostly coloring and the unhurried pulsating swimming that makes them seem as if they really are not of this earth. Indeed, the late Carl Sagan, in speculating on possible life forms that could exist in the thick clouds of Jupiter, used jellyfish as a model. He never mentioned if they got there on bird feet.