By Wayne Curtis

Sitting on my dining room table is an empty glass bottle that once contained Tab soda from … I don’t know, the 1970s? It’s currently one of my favorite bottle finds—I saw its nubbly neck sticking up from under fresh leaves last fall in the woods about a quarter mile from my house in Maine. In fact, I found several buried together like the terra-cotta army interred with the first emperor of China. I liked the design and heft of these bottles. And they reminded me of my childhood, and of the metallic-sweet taste of Tab—Coke’s distant cousin, a cola that was familiar but spoke in a hard-to-place accent. I use these bottles today to store sugar syrups for cocktails and the odd salad dressing.

But I also like the Tab bottles because they remind me of one other fact: I’m not a bottle collector. No bottle collector—and they are legion—would keep one of these in their collection. Tab bottles are too new, too common, too elementary. It would be like someone claiming to be a book collector, then showing off shelf after shelf of Reader’s Digest Condensed Books. I probably couldn’t sell a Tab bottle for a quarter. So I’m definitely not a bottle collector.

Although in truth I do have a few more bottles—a box or two in the attic, and a few high on shelves here and there. But it’s really more of a casual hobby, like doing the occasional jigsaw puzzle on a rainy day rather than having a full-blown obsession. And, as mentioned, these bottles are quite practical for use around the house.

One’s route to becoming a bottle hunter is often rather simple: One finds a bottle. Better still, one finds a bottle dump behind one’s house. It’s not as if you found treasure. But a bottle has value because you found it. One discovery leads you to want to make another one. And then another one.

For more than two decades, I’ve spent summers in Grand Lake Stream in eastern Maine, at a cabin on a lake at the edge of a village of fewer than 100 year-round residents at the end of a 10-mile road. In the 1890s, the town became a vibrant outpost for anglers. Sporting camps and dozens of modest cabins cropped up around the lakeshore, many of them on land that was then owned by the timber company but leased to employees. Paper mill workers retreated here for fishing and hunting and would spend part of the summers with their families. My cabin was built in 1952, and when my wife and I bought it in 1997 we were the third owners. I’ve spent every summer here since.

The forested landscape here can feel pretty primeval. One gets the sense that the glaciers only recently receded, leaving gray, spalling rocks and pine duff that winter winds have brushed into the spaces between them. Hemlocks and pines and maples grow between and on top of the boulders. The woods around my camp are not fit for growing much of anything, except teaberry and mushrooms. 

I found my first bottle dump a few years after moving in. It was a year of mushrooms—chanterelles were flourishing after steady rains—and I was in search of them. A few dozen yards from the lakeshore, I heard underfoot a flinty, crunching sound. I dug around with my toe and discovered that I was walking upon an esker of rusted tin cans. Then I saw the glint of a bottle neck emerging from the duff a few feet away. I dug around with my toe a bit more—most of the glass here had been broken. I imagined that this was the work of kids tasked with taking out the garbage, and smashing bottles on rocks was their chief reward. But some bottles were intact. Some had been on their sides for the better part of a century, and had become informal terrariums, with mosses and evidence of previous insect habitations. I preferred to think these had once been occupied by beetles who couldn’t believe their luck that they’d stumbled upon a crystal cavern of unimaginable grandeur.

The first bottle I brought back to the house was a broad-shouldered rectangular bottle embossed with “J.R. Watkins Co.” The typography was both clunky and charming. Online research turned up the fact that the J.R. Watkins Company was founded in Minnesota in 1868, and this was a bottle that contained vanilla extract.

The bottle is pretty sizable for vanilla—it holds 10 ounces. When I ran into one long-time villager at the store, I told him about my find and how people must have loved to bake around here, and I posited that perhaps they were very fond of pound cake. He laughed. “No,” he said, looking at me as if I were dimmer than he’d previously imagined, “that’s what people drank. They drank it during Prohibition, and then they drank it afterward so they could deny they had a drinking problem.”

I’ve since brought back many more bottles, cleaned them up and used them. I stash them in the attic with the bottles I’ve bought at the occasional yard sale. Did I fail to mention that sometimes I buy bottles at yard sales? Well, I do. That still doesn’t make me a collector. For instance, I have yet to look up the value of a bottle.

Since I was curious about bottle collectors and what compulsion kept them drawing into mosquito-infested woods, I did some Googling around, which led me to Walter Bannon. He lives in southern Maine, and so I called him up. He told me he got interested in bottles growing up in Mystic, Connecticut, living near a man who had a basement filled with old bottles. One day Bannon was invited in for a tour of the collection. “That really piqued my curiosity,” Bannon said. “Everybody has a little bit of a treasure hunter in them. And I thought, if he can be a treasure hunter, what’s stopping me?”

Bannon searched out old bottles around his home in Connecticut, and he continued his habit even after pursuing a career in telecommunications. He lived on Block Island for a time, where he found a bitters bottle from the 1880s buried in the sand. He then moved to Maine and kept searching for old bottles, often combing the margins between railroad tracks and forest. He once found a bottle embossed with an earlier spelling of the town of Bridgton, Maine—“Bridgetown”—which made him realize these glass vessels could contain a lot of history. Some bottles have giant bubbles in them, indicating they were handblown. “That bubble holds the DNA of the early glassblower,” he said. “It really does hold history.

“Even the shape of a bottle tells a story,” he went on. “Or there might be the name of the pharmacy on it.” One of his favorites has an image shaped like a kidney and is embossed with “The Great Dr. Kilmer’s Swamp-Root Kidney Liver & Bladder Remedy.” “This was a quack cure,” he said. “It probably had a little bit of whiskey and some maple syrup in it.” He appreciates it for the art and the folklore behind it.

Within a couple of years of moving to Maine, Bannon had filled every shelf in the house. “And from there it started to spiral,” he said. “That’s when my wife got a bit nervous. She said either I go, or the bottles go.” He’s pretty sure she was joking, but just in case, he started a bottle show with another collector to pare down his collection. But not enough. Eventually he set up a five-room bottle museum in Naples, which he manned three days a week, moving most of the bottles out of the house. He operated that for four years, but then he closed it not long ago. “I wanted to get back to my original love of the hobby—the search,” he says.

Over the decades he moved from scouting along railroad tracks to looking in rivers—an earlier artery of commerce. He took scuba lessons to be able to scour the bottoms of rivers to find what long-ago passengers and boatmen tossed overboard. He says he’s turned up some great finds, including an intact pottery jug from the 1820s on which a bird was painted.

Bannon also liked the peacefulness of being deep underwater, of sinking down into the quiet of a stream with only the sound of bubbles rising to the surface. “My favorite memory was going into the Saco River and finding a hole about 20 feet deep,” he recalled. It was filled with bottles and stoneware. “I started looking around and it was like being in an antiques store, and everything was free.”

Bannon, who is 68 and retired, is known around town as “the bottle guy” or “Mr. Bottle.” (At least one person was surprised to learn that his last name wasn’t actually Bottle, he said.) One of the hazards of being a known collector of bottles is that people are always dropping off unsolicited bottles they find in the basements of relatives. Bannon mostly gives these away, or at least he strives to. He brought a few boxes to the town dump a while back and left them by the swap shack. Within a couple of days, they were back on his doorstep with a note from someone suggesting that he might want these.

I have not yet reached a point where the townspeople leave me tribute. But I like old things, especially when they prove useful. A few years ago I ordered a bag of corks in random sizes to fit the bottles I find. Last year I turned up a box of bottles I’d forgotten about—and who among us has not found a box of bottles they’d forgotten?—so I cleaned them up, made cocktails for friends, labeled them, corked them, and delivered them as gifts. The bottle is yours to keep, I insisted with a tone of mild menace, which seemed a way to make room for other things. This has mostly turned out to be more bottles.

Like Bannon, I also enjoy the treasure-hunting aspect. When I go tramping in the woods I don’t expect to find something, but when I do it’s like finding a $5 bill in a parka you put away last spring. I especially like to search for bottles late in the day, when the sun slants under the trees and turns the forest a pale gold, making the silvery glimmer of glass all the more notable.

Part of the reason I’m drawn to old bottles is their heft and sense of permanence. I often marvel that they are in the same family as plastic bottles. In contrast to those gossamer-thin-walled water bottles that are very loud and crinkly when empty, old bottles are stolid and silent. That’s especially true of a J. Gahm & Son beer bottle from the 1890s I turned up one day when scrounging for driftwood in a remote cove favored by loons. It’s stout and heavy and could serve in a pinch as a war club. I imagine the guide paddling a canoe to shore to cook a lunch of landlocked salmon, while his sport smoked a cigarette and drank the beer he’d brought along before blithely tossing the bottle into the underbrush. Try finding a plastic bottle that can tell you a story like that.

A couple of summers later, across the lake at the mouth of Whitney Cove, I was poking around in the woods when I heard that telltale crunch of rusted tin beneath pine duff. I soon unearthed a cache of embossed Log Cabin Syrup bottles that I’d guess were about a century old. There were a lot of them. Sitting on a mossy rock, I gave this some thought and decided this was the site of an old logging camp, where the loggers subsisted chiefly on flapjacks and off-color stories. If not for those bottles, this spot would be just another piney still life with warblers.

Last summer I decided to explore along the three-mile waterway that connects two large lakes at Grand Lake Stream. Anglers over the past 125 years have spent hours waist-deep in frigid water, and it occurred to me this might provoke a thirst for something with horsepower. And when bottles are empty, would it not be easier to toss them in the woods rather than carry them back to one’s camp a distance away? So, I started walking along the stream, following a path approximately one bottle’s toss from the water’s edge.

And that led to a curious discovery: I found four bottles, apparently from the 1970s or so. Each was still firmly capped—and this was a first for me—partially filled with whiskey. Maybe it started to pour rain and they had to leave suddenly. I don’t know, but it was a bit eerie, and I kept looking over my shoulder, as if someone would come for them. I left them there but came back the next day with a tasting glass. And I learned something else: Whiskey buried partially underground for decades doesn’t hold up all that well.

This past spring, I visited the National Bottle Museum in Ballston Spa, New York, about two hours from the Vermont border. It was hardly out of my way, and I’m sure you, too, would detour a few hours to see two stories of old bottles. The National Bottle Museum is, in fact, the number one attraction in Ballston Spa, according to the website TripAdvisor. “I have driven by forever and never bothered to stop because frankly who cares?!” began one five-star review. “I have never seen somebody so enthused about bottles my entire life,” wrote another reviewer.

The museum is housed in a former downtown hardware store, and I found it both fascinating and not. I learned a lot about how bottles are made, including their evolution from wooden molds to metal ones, and how “slug plates” were used to emboss the bottles with names. That was the interesting part. The less fascinating part was the bottles themselves. Not that they weren’t great—I especially liked the black-light display of the bottles made with uranium, and the cobalt-blue poison bottles—but the sheer quantity was just too much. Shelf after well-curated shelf of interesting bottles, from floor to ceiling.

I realized what I like about discovering bottles one at a time in woods or at a yard sale is that they each tell a story about a place and a time. Here, hundreds of them were all crammed together in well-lit, glass-fronted cases. They all yammered at once and I couldn’t make out any of the stories—it was like being in a room of loud and tipsy conventioneers, and soon I had to go find a place to lie down.

It’s free to visit, but if you donate $5 or more you get a mystery bottle wrapped in tissue paper. I actually got two empty whiskey mini bottles, which I will add to my collection. Did I say collection? What I meant is that I’ll put them in a box at the back of a closet.

A little while ago I started to feel like I was strip-mining the woods of its history without putting anything back. What will be left for future generations to find? So last summer I decided to start my own bottle dump in the woods. I’ve been writing about cocktails and spirits for nearly two decades. A side effect of this line of work is that I get liquor samples shipped to me regularly. These come from both major manufacturers and small craft distillers. And there’s been an interesting escalation of elaborate bottle design in the past decade or so. Some liquor now comes in old-school-style bottles (think of the Bulleit whiskey bottles), while others are more innovative and eye-catching, including from distilleries you probably haven’t heard of, like Peerless Rye and Chattanooga Whiskey.

For years I’ve been recycling bottles when empty. But that was just throwing away history, I realized. I was depriving someone not yet born of seeing the glimmer of a bottle neck in the woods and extricating it from the leaves and glimpsing what were the boom times of the early 21st-century distilling world.

So, I started setting aside the better bottles, the ones with embellishments and embossing, and every few weeks I’d take them up the hill behind the house and deposit them near a large glacial boulder. I’d place them such that the openings are facing down, so that they won’t fill with rainwater and breed mosquitos and crack during a winter freeze. Also, I want to make sure beetles could find their way in and luxuriate in the crystal splendor and warmth of the fall light. Yes, mine is a curated bottled dump—some might dismiss it as an “artisanal dump.” But I don’t mind. After the leaves cover them over and countless winters pass through, someone in the distant future will find them and pull them out and peer into the abyss of the past, and will marvel, if just for a minute.

Why, these bottles may even be valuable treasures by then—strange objects to those living in an era when everyone will no doubt be drinking out of nanofiber bladders sutured to their bodies or some such thing. These bottles could actually be worth a lot of money. How much? Hard to guess. You should probably ask a bottle collector.  

The post The Joy of Bottle Hunting appeared first on New England.

By Michael Wejchert

Ella Bezanson didn’t hear the cries for help until she turned to leave the beach.

Record rainfall drenched New England in the summer of 2023, but July 22, a Saturday, was about as perfect at New Hampshire’s Hampton Beach as anyone could ask for: 75 degrees with just a hint of cloud. The iconic seashore was packed full of swimmers queuing up for fried dough and applying sunscreen and racing across the thin strip of sand to frolic in the waves, relishing the rare, welcome sun as it warmed the salty air.

On a busy summer day, Hampton Beach can get more than 100,000 visitors. But by 8 that evening, the daytime crowds had dispersed, and although many swimmers remained, the lifeguards had all gone home at closing time, 5:30 p.m. Bezanson, a 19-year-old sophomore nursing student at the University of Southern Maine, vacationed at Hampton Beach every year with her family. This evening, her first day at the beach, she was walking along the boardwalk with her father and her two small cousins, who were both excited to try out the remote-control cars her dad had just given them.

At first, she didn’t think much of the yelling. She assumed they were overexcited yelps from happy beachgoers.

It’s Hampton Beach. People scream all the time, Bezanson thought. But as she turned on the boardwalk to head back to the family’s rental property, she noticed a tense cluster of onlookers watching a pair of swimmers from the northern part of the beach, just across from Ashworth by the Sea, a historic boardwalk hotel. “I just saw people flailing their arms and going up and down in the water,” Bezanson recalls. “They were really far out.” And she realized these weren’t happy cries.

A high school softball all-star and lifelong athlete, Bezanson powered her compact frame toward the water’s edge in a dead sprint. As she got closer, the panic became palpable.

“They can’t swim! They can’t swim!” onlookers screamed. The two bathers had been caught in a rip current, a strip of ocean water tearing back out to sea, and they were bobbing farther and farther away from shore. 

Nearing the low-tide mark on the beach, Bezanson snatched a boogie board from a woman who had been standing and staring at the two people far out in the water. The teenager surged into the water, mounted the board, and began paddling. After five minutes, she found herself a good 200 yards offshore, caught in the same rip current that had carried the two swimmers. Kicking closer to the victims, she could now make them out more distinctly: a woman trying to execute a backstroke and a man who “was just flailing, up and down. All I could see was the top of his head.”

“Call 911! Call 911!” Bezanson screamed toward shore. The woman floated within her reach, trying to stay on her back. But the man kept drifting away. He did not appear to know how to swim.

Bezanson realized she would be able to pick up only one person with the little boogie board. In an instant, she made a wrenching decision. She would try to save the one with the greater likelihood of survival. She paddled toward the woman and offered the boogie board. The woman latched on.

“Kick as hard as you can,” Bezanson ordered, and together they began working their way back to shore. Soon, both women were exhausted. Bezanson’s father, meanwhile, had called 911. At around 8:30, ambulances and fire trucks screamed down the one-way road next to the boardwalk as the summer sun sank lower in the sky. A team of rescuers—Hampton firefighters and off-duty lifeguards—streamed into the surf. Paddling toward them, her muscles straining with the effort, Bezanson admonished the woman to kick harder.

Behind them, the drowning man receded in the distance, his head visible only occasionally, as the Atlantic swept him away.

* * * * *

Shark attacks, the marquee fear of most New England beachgoers, kill one swimmer in the U.S. every two years, on average. Yet rip currents cause an annual average of 71 fatalities in this country alone. Beachgoers looking to monitor sharks slicing through the Atlantic have two engaging apps to choose from; meanwhile, common sense and storm warnings keep swimmers away on days when the ocean roils with dangerous swells. But despite the efforts of several information campaigns, rip currents have failed to capture the public’s imagination the way that sharks or rogue waves do. No one has made a disaster movie about rip currents. Even as Bezanson paddled out into the middle of one, her fears weren’t centered on rip currents: “I thought, I’m going to get eaten by a shark right now,” she told me last fall.

The risk of a rip is highest when it is amplified by foibles in human nature, explains Greg Dusek, a senior scientist at the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA). Compared with other hazards, a rip current seems benign, and that makes it dangerous. At the beach, rips are the hazard that swimmers least expect but the one they are most likely to encounter.

A rip current is a flow of water directed seaward that most often occurs in the surf zone, where waves break in the shallow part of the coast. As these waves are pushed toward shore, seawater tries to find the quickest path back to the ocean, flowing into troughs that have formed between sandbars. These deep channels act like the drain of a tub: As water rushes into these natural drains, it is pushed out anywhere from a few hundred feet to a quarter mile offshore, Dusek says. The water in these currents, which are typically ten to 100 yards wide, travels back out to sea at speeds of up to 5 mph. This doesn’t seem fast—until Dusek points out that swimmers like Michael Phelps hit this speed while gunning for new world records. Even an Olympian, in other words, would struggle to return to shore.

Compounding this danger, the channels where rips appear often seem like the most welcome place to swim because they’re the only place on a beach where waves aren’t breaking. “[Safety] is mostly about being aware of them and being able to spot them,” says Drude Christensen, a surf zone expert and a postdoc fellow at Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution (WHOI) in Massachusetts. “People go to a beach and see an area with nice calm conditions and no strong waves breaking. That’s where they go. And that’s exactly where the rip is.”

* * * * *

What is perhaps the most famous rip accident happened in Australia, on Sydney’s Bondi Beach, in 1938. On a sweltering-hot Sunday in February, tourists and locals flocked to the waterfront. Heavy swells slammed the coast all weekend. On that Saturday, February 5, lifeguards had rescued 74 people in a single hour.

But on Sunday, the beach remained open. The morning was placid. A sandbar seduced hundreds of bathers into wading farther out than they’d usually dare. In the afternoon, though, a set of large waves slammed into the concave beach, knocking bathers off their feet. The swells happened in rapid succession, meaning seawater piled into the beach with nowhere to go. As it rushed back out, it created a flash rip current, carrying more than 200 people out into deep water. 

A chaotic rescue effort soon involved both lifeguards and bystanders. Responders remembered punching their way through panicked bathers to save victims. In the end, 35 people pulled from the water lay unconscious on the beach, where resuscitation attempts began en masse.

“I have never seen…such a magnificent achievement as that of your lifesavers,” an American doctor who happened to be at Bondi told the lifeguards. In the end, just five people died, a shockingly low number that speaks to the rescuers’ quick actions. One of the five fatalities was a German-born chef who drowned saving a little girl.

“Black Sunday” is now seen in Australia as an inflection point in modern lifeguarding, but it’s unclear whether any of its lessons have soaked in on other continents. Scrolling through America’s rip current headlines nearly 90 years later, it’s hard to ignore the crop of tragedies.

In September 2023, a 44-year-old father of four named Gary Simard swam out to save his son at Massachusetts’s Salisbury Beach, just south of Hampton Beach. When his son returned safely to shore in the company of two bystanders who had rushed to help, there was no sign of Simard. First responders eventually pulled Simard from the water, performed CPR, and transported him to a nearby hospital, where he was pronounced dead. Last year’s rip statistics are riddled with tragic cases like Simard’s: In June, New York firefighter Mark Batista drowned off the New Jersey shore after he tried to save his teenage daughter from a rip current; that same month saw multiple rip current tragedies in Alabama and Florida. In early July, a 42-year-old father named Rajesh Potti died saving his young son in Florida.

* * * * *

In the dynamic surf zone, rip currents rarely remain in one place. Their changing nature—like avalanches occurring on different aspects of mountain slopes—makes them hard for scientists to observe, even at crowded beaches like Hampton. It also makes them hard for recreational swimmers to spot. In a 2022 article in The Atlantic, Chloe Williams notes that the most important predictor of how deadly a rip may be “is the number of people in and around it.” 

“The sea floor is constantly changing, so it might not look the same the next day,” says Melissa Moulton, a coastal physical oceanographer and a leading expert on rip currents. She grew up going to the beach in Massachusetts, where she was fascinated by the tides and currents she observed there. While rips might be dangerous for people, Moulton stresses, they’re vital for healthy shorelines, playing an essential role in the life cycle of the ocean as they move organisms in larval stages out to sea and recirculate them in the shallows in turn. 

In tackling the problem of studying rips, Moulton has had to get creative. In 2012, she decided to build her own rip current with the help of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers (USACE) field research facility in Duck, North Carolina. Using a 73-foot-long military landing craft, WHOI scientists and a USACE team dug the boat’s old propellers into the sand, creating a channel as they slowly chugged out to sea. It took three attempts, but the team finally dredged a channel in a spot where breaking waves created a real-life rip. After the landing craft was moored safely offshore, Moulton and her colleagues donned scuba gear (she compares the difficulties of working in the surf zone to taking measurements in a washing machine) and placed specialized equipment in the channel to record observations of wave behavior, the changing sea floor, and the speed of the rip current. Even a small channel surrounded by small waves, the kind a swimmer might find at a public beach on a nice day, was enough to create a powerful rip current.

Surf zone scientists haven’t stopped with churning up the ocean floor. Moulton has used low-flying spotter planes, a massive artificial wave basin at Oregon State University, and computer models to better understand and predict rips. This work has helped amass data that more accurately illustrate the conditions in which rips are likely to occur. Yet none of this information saves lives unless it’s successfully relayed to the public. That’s where Greg Dusek, NOAA, and the National Weather Service come in.

“[Outreach has] really been a focus for us ever since I’ve been working on this,” Dusek tells me. “We could create an awesome predictive model, just like with a lot of weather and climate and ocean phenomena; we could tell you exactly where there’s going to be a rip current—and we would still get people drowning in those rips if we don’t communicate well. So, the prediction piece is helpful, but how do you get people to utilize that information to make smart decisions about where and when they’re swimming?”

On paper, escaping a rip current is simple: Don’t panic. Swim parallel to the shoreline, out of the channel and into breaking waves that push toward the beach. Stay afloat; eventually a rip might even return you to shore. But no technique works for every scenario or rip current. And as Dusek explains, panic strikes even the most experienced swimmers in the chaotic environment of fast-moving water.

In 2020, Dusek and a colleague created a virtual-reality simulation of what it’s like to be caught in a rip current and found that even seasoned swimmers who knew they were playing a video game—not swimming for their lives—had a hard time remembering to exit the rip and return with breaking waves. “Even if they knew what to do, they would struggle with actually doing it and start freaking out,” Dusek recalls.

Many of the variables of rip current fatalities fall into the human side of the equation. A large percentage of rip current drownings are bystanders who rush in to help. Ella Bezanson was right to grab flotation like a boogie board before charging into the water, but many would-be rescuers fail to take this step and quickly lose energy in the water.

Lifeguards are on the front lines of this dangerous intersection between people and rip currents. Swimmers have a one-in-18-million chance of drowning at a beach with a lifeguard on duty. “It’s really hard to drown with a lifeguard at the beach,” Dusek says. “And from a rip current science standpoint, lifeguards have been pivotal as well.” They provide on-the-ground observational data that help forecasting models be as accurate as possible. If Dusek, Moulton, and others are working as hard as they can to prevent people from getting stuck in rip currents, lifeguards are working equally hard to save them when they do.

* * * * *

It’s a Tuesday when I visit Hampton Beach, and even though it’s October, sunburnt retirees in board shorts stroll down the boardwalk. Overladen bathers struggle to carry beach chairs and tote bags down to the water’s edge. Some shops, like the Sea Ketch Restaurant, remain open for business, while others are shuttered for the season. Patrick Murphy, chief of the New Hampshire State Beach Patrol, stands just past the lifeguard station in the center of the beach’s mile-long strip. Murphy’s deep tan and ropy, muscular frame—formed by the job he has held for the past 20 years—betray his profession, as does the badge on the waistband of his board shorts. He walks me down to the beach, where two younger lifeguards stand sentinel, their Ray-Ban sunglasses shading eyes that monitor swimmers venturing into the unseasonably warm fall water.

When Murphy started as an 18-year-old, his position, like most lifeguarding roles, was seasonal, and for years he worked as a teacher at summer’s end. The beach’s more troublesome visitors prepared Murphy for working with at-risk youth, a job he held until he accepted the chief lifeguard role several years ago. Being Hampton’s chief lifeguard is “the best job you could possibly have,” he tells me. Now, Murphy’s winters are spent hiring seasonal staff.

The qualifications are rigorous, and summer mornings are spent training. The drills that Murphy picks are often informed by real-life rescues. Random incidents—like the one in July 2023 when a plane crashed in the surf zone, and lifeguards paddled out to rescue the pilot and recover the aircraft before it leaked gas into the ocean—turn into teachable moments and training scenarios. Murphy and his lifeguards train until saving swimmers becomes routine, because in the summer it is.

“You can’t be tired; even when you are, someone needs your help. If you go out, you might have to go right back out,” he says.

Every once in a while, the waves, the weather, and the people collide in what Moulton ironically calls “the sweet spot,” as they did on Labor Day weekend in 2023, when Murphy’s lifeguards participated in 91 rescues over the course of four days, half of them related to rip currents. 

Red flags were flown at Hampton Beach that weekend, meaning high surf and strong currents; bathers were restricted to going in just to their knees or waists. Regardless of these precautions, lifeguards participated in 32 rescues on Saturday. On Sunday there were 52. Murphy’s crew was shorthanded; many seasonals had left to return to college or high school. This meant that while the main beach was still covered, many of the outlying beaches were not. All weekend long, lifeguards returned to the water, watching wave and weather patterns, hoping to use wind direction and waves to work with—not against—the ocean, as they floated out to victims and returned them safely to shore.  

As we stare at the water, Murphy points toward a vertical strip of surf that, to my untrained eye, looks like the most attractive place to swim. Today, the waves are breaking at around two to four feet, and beachgoers frolic in the water. “When you drop [waves] down to that range,” Murphy explains, “it’s more inviting. And the less water that comes in, the rip currents actually pull more. And that’s what we have today.” Most swimmers won’t venture out when waves are breaking around six feet.

Days like today loom as the fundamental challenge in Greg Dusek’s work at NOAA. Campaigns like “Break the Grip of the Rip,” a joint venture by NOAA and the United States Lifesaving Association, are aimed at raising public awareness. Meanwhile, the National Weather Service offers forecasts—based on data collected by scientists like Moulton and Christensen—that provide a color-coded risk assessment for what to expect at the beach on any given day. These are both attempts at getting people to avoid rip currents altogether. On my way to interview Murphy, I stroll past a huge “Break the Grip of the Rip” sign on the boardwalk. It’s hard to miss. People still do.

* * * * *

The woman that Ella Bezanson picked up on her boogie board was named Edzana Fernandes. She had gone to the beach with her coworkers that day, including Edmilson Gomes, the 27-year-old man who was swept away by the rip current. Gomes’s social media profiles give a partial picture of a fit, trim young man who valued his family above everything else: Posting about how much he missed his father, who had just died that spring. Posing with his brother wearing a “Black Lives Matter” T-shirt in the summer of 2020. Unwrapping Christmas presents with his siblings.

“Where’s the other swimmer?” Bezanson remembers a rescuer asking as he waded past her and Fernandes on their 15-minute paddle back to shore. That was Murphy, who had gotten the call at 8:26 p.m., nearly three hours after he’d gone home for the day, and headed back to the beach.

When Bezanson and Fernandes finally reached shore, they collapsed on the sand, utterly done in. Fernandes’s eyes were bloodshot from the effort. Both women began crying, overcome by exhaustion and emotion. “It was just so traumatizing,” Bezanson told me. 

Looking up, Bezanson saw four rescuers carrying Gomes back to the beach. He was completely limp. First responders performed CPR on Gomes before he was taken to a waiting ambulance and rushed to Portsmouth Regional Hospital. After three days, he moved his hands, according to an interview with Fernandes, who told a journalist that her coworker was “getting better.” But he remained in a coma. And on August 1,
10 days after the incident, Gomes passed away, one of 90 deaths—19 above average—that the National Weather Service attributed to rip currents in 2023.

Neither swimmers nor rip currents are going away anytime soon. As the climate warms, people are flocking to the beach in record numbers. It’s unclear how much ocean temperatures, rising seas, and other effects of climate change might affect the likelihood and risk of rip currents. “We don’t have really good quantitative long-term observations of rip currents. So it’s hard to know: Are they changing from where they were 10 or 20 years ago?” Dusek says. “There’s research that suggests we’ll see larger waves with climate change moving forward. And if we see larger waves, more frequent storms, then yes, we would expect to see increases in rip current activity.”

As scientists and lifeguards collaborate to make beaches safer, they are hopeful the number of deaths might diminish. Still, they face an uphill battle. It’s not just the ocean they’re struggling to control. 

“The problem with rips is that it’s not just the rip current,” Dusek says with a rueful smile. “It’s people and the rip current.”   

The post Swept Away | The Hidden Dangers of Rip Currents appeared first on New England.

The post Gluten-Free Orange-Ricotta Company Cake appeared first on New England.

The post Greek Chicken Souvlaki appeared first on New England.

The post Crispy Cod Cakes with Tartar Sauce appeared first on New England.

The post Herbed Zucchini Fritters with Salted Yogurt appeared first on New England.

The post Hasselback Caprese appeared first on New England.

By Andrew Collins

Anchored by New England’s third-largest lake, Winnipesaukee, this aptly named vacation playground contains more than 250 freshwater pools. Scenic cruises, leisurely hikes, and culturally and culinarily vibrant downtowns appeal to visitors of all ages. Start your adventure on the southern tip of Winnipesaukee in America’s oldest summer resort town, Wolfeboro.

BUDGET-FRIENDLY LODGING
Lake Wentworth Inn, Wolfeboro

This smartly updated brick motel offers simple but tastefully appointed rooms, some with kitchenettes. The best thing about the cheerful, pet-friendly property is its location: just steps from Albee Beach, on the shore of pristine Lake Wentworth, and two miles from charming downtown Wolfeboro and its lively waterfront on Lake Winnipesaukee. lakewentworthinn.com

SEAFOOD SHACK
Pop’s Clam Shell, Alton

Celebrate the start of your vacay with a seafood feast. All summer long you’ll see happy diners on the second-floor deck of this 1940s restaurant watching seaplanes take off and land on Alton Bay while they devour baskets of whole fried clams, cheeseburgers, haddock sandwiches, and lobster rolls. Place your order at the window, and don’t forget to add a side of crispy onion rings. popsclamshell.com

Spend your first day getting to know rippling Lake Winnipesaukee by plying its waters or visiting some lofty viewpoints around its shoreline.

SIGHTSEEING
Mount Washington Cruises, Laconia

For spectacular views of the lake and surrounding hills—plus a lesson in the region’s colorful history and folklore—take a scenic 2½-to-3-hour narrated cruise around Lake Winnipesaukee on the stately MS Mount Washington. The seasonal cruises depart daily from Weirs Beach and most days from Wolfeboro, too. Brunch and sunset dinner cruises are also great fun. cruisenh.com

HISTORIC ESTATE
Castle in the Clouds, Moultonborough

Built in 1914 to the then-astounding tune of $7 million, this fabulously opulent stone mansion crowns a 5,200-acre estate with miles of wooded hiking trails. Learn about the eccentric original owner on a colorful guided tour, and savor a delicious lunch or live-music dinner (offered three nights a week in summer) on the Carriage House terrace, with its sweeping lake panoramas. castleintheclouds.org

HIKE
Mount Major, Alton

For a dazzling aerial view of Lake Winnipesaukee, lace up your hiking boots and embark on the rugged but rewarding 3.6-mile loop trek to the top of this 1,786-foot-elevation mountain. The ascent is precipitous but well-marked and comfortably shaded, and you can see the White Mountains from the rocky summit, which is also a lovely perch for a picnic. forestsociety.org/property/mount-major-reservation 

After burning off some calories with a hike or whetting your appetite on a scenic lake cruise, reward yourself with a scoop of fresh-made ice cream or perhaps a pint or two of local ale.

SWEET TREATS
Social Club Creamery, Laconia

This newcomer opened in 2023 near the south end of Paugus Bay, in historic downtown Laconia and just a 10-minute drive from the kid-approved amusements of Weirs Beach. Social Club serves small-batch ice cream in distinctive flavors like roasted strawberry and maple latte (a collaboration with nearby Wayfarer Coffee Roasters). socialclubcreamery.com

CRAFT BREWERY
Twin Barns Brewing Co., Meredith

Named for its location inside two striking mid-19th-century red barns in the resort community of Meredith, this first-rate brewery has ample seating in the high-ceilinged taproom and outside in the sprawling biergarten. Regulars swear by Twin Barns’ roasty Burlwood Porter, full-bodied Lake Cruiser DIPA, and crisp Blackey Cove, a Schwarzbier-style beer. The kitchen serves tasty gastropub fare. twinbarnsbrewing.com

From the town of Meredith, at the northwest end of Lake Winnipesaukee, it’s less than a 10-mile drive to smaller, quieter Squam Lake, which served as the filming location for the 1981 Fonda/Hepburn tearjerker, On Golden Pond.

WATERFRONT RESTAURANT
Walter’s Basin, Holderness

With both dockside seating and an expansive dining room, this casually stylish restaurant offers unobstructed views of Little Squam Lake and its forested shoreline. The eclectic cuisine is terrific, too, from ahi tuna wontons to a decadent lobster mac and cheese that’s almost impossible for one person to finish. waltersbasin.com

ROMANTIC INN
The Inn on Golden Pond, Holderness

The young owners of this 1875 country inn near the shore of Little Squam Lake have given the guest rooms a contemporary makeover, creating an atmosphere that’s both upscale and uncluttered. Rates include a bountiful full country breakfast, and it’s just a two-minute stroll to the inn’s private beach, where guests can borrow kayaks and paddleboards. innongoldenpond.com

NATURE PRESERVE
Squam Lakes Natural Science Center, Holderness

This remarkable 210-acre environmental education center situated on the western shore of Squam Lake abounds with engaging, family-friendly activities. You can view enclosures inhabited by native fauna (bears, foxes, river otters, bobcats, and more), amble through gardens and on guided nature walks, and hit the water on loon and eagle cruises narrated by knowledgeable naturalists. nhnature.org

The post 2024 Summer Weekend in the New Hampshire Lakes Region | Travel Guide appeared first on New England.

The post Cider Hill Farm Cider Doughnut Bread Pudding appeared first on New England.

Whenever I find myself in a new town, I wonder what it would be like to live there. To settle in, make a friend or two, wander around until the streets become familiar. Until it feels, well, like home. The sense of knowing what makes our own best place to live is elusive. Finding somewhere to love, to grow with, to enjoy remains one of life’s great rewards. But getting there often means going on a search, and being open to a new experience.

Ifyou have been feeling that tug—even just a bit—to look around, the following pages are meant to pique your curiosity, to crack open the door. We put them together by asking our editors and trusted writers what their own best town would be, knowing all the while that one person’s choice is unlikely to be another’s. If you love outdoor adventure, New England holds its own with any other region. But you may yearn instead for tranquil ocean waves, or for cities that excite you with shows and exhibits and more places to dine than days in a year. You may be drawn to a town settled in the 17th century, with homes that look as if they grew from the soil and where history is in the air. Or you may desire a sense of wilderness and solitude on your doorstep.

We also understand the reality of our times: One may simply hope to find a place to live without taking on crushing debt. It’s true we cannot talk about any place without considering what “affordable” means now. Throughout New England, median home prices these days hover near $400,000, a sum that only a decade ago would have seemed outrageous. The region, and the country, needs a staggering number of new homes—and the tension between knowing that and creating them will likely divide residents of many towns for years to come. But here, at least, we can shed light on some places that may surprise you with what “affordable” can offer.

This “Best Places” feature was great fun to create, as we, too, went on an odyssey to find and select our favorites. And in fact, we could have named 10 times as many worthy towns. That is the region’s gift to all of us. —Mel Allen

PS: No doubt many of you have “Best Places” picks of your own. We’d love to know not only the “where,” but also the “why.” Email us at editors@yankeepub.com or drop us a line at P.O. Box 520, Dublin, NH 03444.

About Our Numbers: Median home prices are for the first three quarters of 2023; populations are from the 2020 U.S. census.

UP-AND-COMING FOOD TOWN: Warren, RI

Pop. 11,147 | Median Home $482,000

The food ecosystem of Warren is so rich and varied that to call it “up-and-coming” may seem unfair, but in truth its delights are little known beyond Rhode Island. Just 20 minutes southeast of Providence, Warren retains its small-town feel while boasting a lineup of restaurants that hits every cuisine and price point. At the affordable end, you’ll find homey diner classics at Rod’s Grille, fish and chips at Amaral’s, and a time capsule of a soda fountain at Delekta Pharmacy, where a one-scoop coffee cabinet is the local go-to. There’s a cheese shop (Wedge), an excellent pasta shop (Prica Farina), a cidery (Sowams), a brewpub (The Guild), and a terrific coffee shop (Coffee Depot). The only missing element is a great bread bakery, but we see that Bywater, a sophisticated farm-and-sea-to-table restaurant, has just added a cozy bakeshop/café. 

That said, the best thing about Warren’s food scene is that it’s still young and affordable enough to allow for quirky hybrids, such as Arc{hive}, a bookstore/bar/small-plates eatery, and the Galactic Theatre, a music venue/micro-cinema/bar. Added to these are eclectic restaurants like the Southern-accented Hunky Dory, creative-coastal Waterdog, and artful Metacom Kitchen, where Jacques Pépin was a recent guest. There’s even a food incubator, Hope & Main, that has launched businesses including Yankee Food Award winner Anchor Toffee. Come to think of it, why would those of us who love food live anywhere but here? —Amy Traverso

Worthy Alternative: Bristol, VT

This tiny hamlet punches above its weight with offerings that include Minifactory, a café/market where Yankee Food Awards honoree V Smiley makes her extraordinary jams; The Tillerman, an inn whose restaurant centers on wood-fired cooking; and the new Smoke and Lola’s, which turns out next-level comfort food. Don’t miss the Bicycle Mill Baking Co., which mills its own flour with bicycle power. Pop. 3,782; median home $382,500

Affordable Option: Bath, ME

Get your foot in the door now, folks: From the local bivalves and natural wine at the woman-owned OystHers Raw Bar & Bubbly, to the heavenly baked goods at Solo Pane, to the retro pleasures of deli/scoop shop The Fountain, this famous shipbuilding town is now on the foodie map. Pop. 8,766; median home $350,000

ADVENTURE TOWN: North Conway, NH

Pop. 2,116 (North Conway) | Median Home $445,500 (Town of Conway)

While other New England towns also draw an outdoorsy crowd, few can boast the variety of attractions and ease of access as North Conway, a village within the town of Conway and one of the most storied mountain destinations on the East Coast. Popular in the 19th century among hikers who strove to reach Mount Washington’s Tip Top House and landscape artists seeking to capture the grandeur of the White Mountains, North Conway cemented itself as the year-round capital of outdoor recreation when Hannes Schneider, an Austrian ski instructor, fled the Nazis in 1939 and settled in the valley. His ski school at Cranmore Mountain, just a few blocks from downtown, helped create an Alpine culture that brought vacationers in droves.

Ask a local what makes North Conway special today, and they’ll likely cite the sheer diversity of outdoor adventures found in and around the village. Novice hikers can trek Black Cap’s 2.3-mile trail, while elite climbers can tackle some of the most difficult ice routes in North America. There’s mountain biking, gravel cycling, and whitewater kayaking, too, not to mention first-class cross-country skiing at nearby Jackson XC. Whatever adventure you choose—and wherever you decide to grab your après burger and beer—you will understand as soon as you arrive why North Conway gets people’s hearts pumping. —Michael Wejchert

Worthy Alternative: Burke, VT

The action here centers on the village of East Burke, home to the mountain biking mecca Kingdom Trails as well as Burke Mountain, whose ski academy helped train future Olympians such as Mikaela Shiffrin. Swimmers and sunbathers will rejoice in stunning fjord-like Lake Willoughby, half an hour away. Pop. 1,651; median home $525,000

Affordable Option: Millinocket, ME

Having struggled after its paper mills closed, Millinocket is reemerging as a four-season gateway to “forever wild” Baxter State Park, while hosting a popular marathon and new maker spaces right in town. Seeing Mount Katahdin every day provides adventurers with both inspiration and motivation. Pop. 4,114; median home $122,000

COASTAL TOWN: Marblehead, MA

Pop. 20,441 | Median Home $962,375

A breeze ruffles Marblehead’s harbor, having sailed in from across the world. Colorful houses grow mellow in the dusk as vintage-style streetlamps glow. A few blocks beyond the section known as Old Town, restaurant stovetops are fired up and diners settle in.

The houses look on, their historic markers reminding us that they’re here, too: Ambrose Gale, Fisherman, 1663; Mrs. Ruth Morse, Widow, 1750. Seafarers, shoremen, chandlers, and bakers. With so many vintage structures—300 or so—packed together so tightly, you can glimpse a cross-section of centuries at every turn. The town sits comfortably in its deep drifts of coastal history.

Sooner or later you’ll stumble across a yacht club here (there are at least six), but maybe that’s mandatory in a North Shore town set on a beautiful harbor just 17 miles from Boston. A quick scramble up the hill at Crocker Park, with its broad water views, confirms why Marblehead touts itself as America’s yachting capital, as well as the birthplace of the nation’s navy.

Duck inside F.L. Woods, a Marblehead institution since 1938, where sailors and aspirational landlubbers can pick up a mariner’s jacket or the latest Eldridge Tide and Pilot Book. Peruse new and classic titles at the excellent Saltwater Bookstore, and get a seafood fix with a tuna melt or poke wrap from Shubie’s Marketplace. And for a reminder of the mainland’s charms, please, oh please, duck into the flower shop Flores Mantilla, where Buddhas and birdbaths disappear into drifts of greenery. —Annie Graves

Worthy Alternative: Westerly, RI

Miles of powdery beaches. A historic downtown and its green centerpiece, Wilcox Park. Star chef Jeanie Roland’s Ella’s Food & Drink. Grey Sail Brewing. All this creates a small-town feel wrapped in coastal beauty that has attracted the likes of Taylor Swift. Toss in the tiny village of Watch Hill and its lovely Napatree Point Conservation Area, and you have reason enough to sing. Pop. 18,423; median home $515,000

Affordable Option: Eastport, ME

The easternmost town in the country attracts those who prefer the timeless purr of fishing boats to traffic, shopping centers, and cineplexes. The downtown holds handsome brick buildings and an art institute, and here an ethic of preservation and nature conservation runs deep. Pop. 1,288; median home $214,000

CULTURE TOWN: Manchester, VT

Pop. 4,484 | Median Home $602,000

The best places often catch us by surprise with the mix of their ingredients. Settled in 1761, Manchester Village offers low-key elegance, “cottages” of every era, and white marble sidewalks. Then adjacent Manchester Center kicks in, with its designer outlets and lively independent shops such as Northshire Bookstore, whose 10,000-square-foot sprawl includes a vast collection of used and rare finds.

Just a few minutes from the streets of downtown is the serene Southern Vermont Arts Center, where sculptures dance through fields and forest, and art-filled walls enliven a historic mansion. There are workshops to sample, performances at the Arkell Pavilion, and sophisticated dining at the on-site restaurant. In summer, the hills are alive with the sounds of the Manchester Music Festival, now in its 50th year of classical music performances, talks, and master classes.

Manchester’s culture goes hand in hand with its outdoor beauty. The legendary Battenkill River has challenged fishermen for decades—not surprisingly, Orvis was founded here in 1856—and the American Museum of Fly Fishing illustrates the finer points of the sport, with lures appearing as tiny works of art. Abraham Lincoln’s son Robert was so dazzled by the landscape that he built his summer mansion, Hildene, here in 1905; it’s now a must-see house museum. And then there’s the natural masterpiece of Mount Equinox, at 3,848 feet, looming over all; ascend via the Skyline Drive to enjoy its breathtaking views, courtesy of the silent Carthusian monks who own it. —Annie Graves

Worthy Alternative: Ridgefield, CT

What do Roz Chast, Eugene O’Neill, and Maurice Sendak have in common? They’re all among the creatives who’ve lived in this picturesque culture hub less than 60 miles from Times Square. And the arts keep coming, with community and professional theater, an art museum, a history museum, and an orchestra, too. Pop. 7,228 (neighborhood of Ridgefield); median home $1.05M (neighborhood of Ridgefield)

Affordable Option: North Adams, MA

The arts scene in this former mill town gets a spectacular boost from Mass MoCA, the largest contemporary art museum in the country. There are also local galleries and artists’ lofts and the Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts; meanwhile, nearby Mount Greylock and Natural Bridge State Park are testaments to nature’s artistry. Pop. 12,961; median home $179,950

COLLEGE TOWN: Brunswick, ME

Pop. 17,033 | Median Home $510,000

To see how town and gown fit together in Brunswick, begin at the historic mill complex Fort Andross and walk one mile south on Maine Street to Bowdoin College. Within a few blocks are two Indian restaurants, plus gelato and brick-oven pizza, homemade pasta, Japanese and Greek cuisine, and Maine seafood. One could dine out on Maine Street every day. Except—you’ll also want to cook at home with the local bounty of Brunswick’s summer and winter farmers’ markets.

Step inside Gulf of Maine Books and chat with poet-owner Gary Lawless, whose store has been a fixture since the 1970s and whose displays favor banned books. A bit farther along is Pleasant Street; turn here to find the wall mural Dance of Two Cultures. Christopher Card’s painting showcases the people and heritage of Brunswick and its sister city of Trinidad, Cuba; looking at it, you will feel this town’s embrace of inclusivity and multiculturalism.

Heading back to Maine Street, you’ll want to linger at the town green, which stays vibrant even in winter with its outdoor skating rink. The green flows to Bowdoin College and one of the most beautiful campuses in the country. Look around. Sit by trees planted before Hawthorne and Longfellow studied here. Explore the museums.

Then, after downtown Brunswick has won your heart, take a short drive to the Harpswell Peninsula. And as you soak in its ocean views, you may wonder: With all this, why would any student ever want to graduate? —Mel Allen

Worthy Alternative: Hanover, NH

Hollywood’s ideal college town would look just like this: streets lined with little shops and eateries that lead to a stately campus ringed by red brick buildings. Hanover also throws in a river for kayaking, a ski hill, an art museum, and access to the Appalachian Trail. Pop. 11,870; median home $1.13M

Affordable Option: Farmington, ME

When U.S. News & World Report put the University of Maine at Farmington in its top 10 for “best value” last year, it focused on UMF’s academics and in-state cost of only $10,989. Yet one should also factor in proximity to lakes and major ski resorts, upscale pubs and cafés, and a festival honoring native son and earmuff inventor Chester Greenwood. Pop. 7,592; median home $242,500

ECO-MINDED TOWN: Great Barrington

Pop. 7,172 | Median Home $505,000

Support of local farmers is fierce in Great Barrington, a culinary cradle in the Housatonic River Valley. Indeed, in this small town named one of America’s best by Smithsonian magazine, a closer look confirms a conscious commitment at every level of eating and drinking. Restaurants raise their own meats and produce. Barrington Brewery makes its beer with solar power. SoCo Creamery sources dairy for its ice cream from a family farm (and makes its own cookie dough, to boot).

But Great Barrington shows its eco-mindedness in other ways, too. The town’s embrace of “green” burials. A cohousing cluster of sustainably built cottages, recently featured on Dwell ’s website. An environmentally friendly approach to weddings at Saint James Place, a cultural center and event venue where “micro weddings” sidestep the 1 billion pounds of trash that U.S. nuptials generate annually.

There’s more. The Appalachian Trail Conservancy has designated the town an “Appalachian Trail Community” for its dedication to the legendary hiking route. At Refill GB, locals can restock on lemongrass laundry soap and work toward zero waste. Karen Allen Fiber Arts features natural-fiber sweaters that the actress weaves herself. And at Rubiner’s Cheesemongers & Grocers, the motto “Cheese is our thing” feels like an understatement as you survey the bounty of small-farm artistry displayed like edible platonic solids. Conscious and tasty living: It’s definitely something to chew on. —Annie Graves

Worthy Alternative: Belfast, ME

This coastal town hums with art, music, boating, and hiking. Home of the Maine Farmland Trust, it also has one of Maine’s largest food co-ops, a solar-powered firehouse, a town Climate Crisis Committee, and an Ecovillage cohousing community. Pop. 6,938; median home $370,000

Affordable Option: Rutland, VT

While skiers know it as a home base for Killington, Rutland is quietly gaining fame as a sustainable-energy capital. It has the most solar power per capita of any New England city, with its Stafford Hill Solar Farm alone producing enough electricity to run 2,000 homes. Pop. 15,807; median home $265,000

HISTORIC-ARCHITECTURE TOWN: Wickford, RI

Pop. 892 | Median Home $583,250

A village of North Kingstown set on western Narragansett Bay, Wickford can feel a bit like an island, with water views in every direction, even in the slivers between buildings. Streets uncoil like rope, with sea captains’ houses leaning back from the sidewalks. Dogs amble past with their people in tow. Mellow light smooths the rose-brick storefronts. Shade trees line up like parade spectators. It’s hard to believe you’re just 25 minutes from the bustle of Providence.

Recently named one of America’s 10 best historic small towns in a USA Today poll, Wickford has one of the densest collections of 18th-century houses in New England. It makes sense that “people whose hobby and love is restoring houses” are drawn here, says one longtime resident. Preservation is a fast track to fitting in, bolstered by groups like HistWick and Historic North Kingstown.

The local art scene, too, gets a big boost from the 400-member-strong Wickford Art Association, host of the annual summer Wickford Art Festival. But there’s a lot to be said for simply cruising the compact downtown, with its engaging assortment of storefronts clustered mostly on Main and Brown streets. From vintage furniture at Eclectic Bungalow to fine art at Five Main, and to clothing boutiques, pottery, Celtic jewelry, and yarn, it’s a fine excuse to slow down and soak up your surroundings. —Annie Graves

Worthy Alternative: Woodstock, VT

Woodstock has three—count them—National Register Historic Districts. At its heart is a lovely town green bordered by the 1892 Woodstock Inn and streets filled with buildings from late 18th to late 19th centuries. Plan a side trip to the Marsh-Billings-Rockefeller National Historical Park, whose 550 acres are anchored by a handsome 1805 mansion. Pop. 3,005; median home $1.05M

Affordable Option: Skowhegan, ME

Your great-grandparents would feel at home in Skowhegan’s historic district, with its nearly 40 buildings dating from 1880 to 1910. History also resonates in the oldest continuously held state fair in the country, the 1946 Skowhegan School of Painting & Sculpture, and the local movement for preserving heritage grains. Pop. 8,620; median home $249,000

REMOTE-WORK TOWN: Kent, CT

Pop. 3,019 | Median Home $509,500

You crave clean air and outdoor space to spare, but you’re still a bit tethered to a job, a business, or life in the big city. And, truth be told, you’re more than a little accustomed to dining at the restaurants of celebrated chefs. And wandering into world-class galleries whenever you want to spruce up your place. Is there really a country retreat where you can work remotely and gain far more than you sacrifice? Where you’re 20 minutes from a Metro-North train that can deposit you in the heart of Manhattan in less than two hours… yet even closer to a riverside stretch of the Appalachian Trail?

Yes, there is. It’s Kent, in far western Connecticut: the town Yankee famously named best for fall foliage. Sublimely scenic, surprisingly sophisticated, Kent claims three state parks within its borders, along with an independent bookstore, high-end decor showrooms like RT Facts, and restaurants headlined by Ore Hill—chef Tyler Anderson’s contemporary farm-to-table venture—just named to The New York Times’ annual best-in-America restaurant list.

You’ll have robust Internet here. And you’ll get used to the occasional dropped cellphone call. After all, working from home is all about flexibility. You’ll have that in spades as you rub shoulders with other balance seekers walking their tots to preschool, snagging bestsellers at a library book sale, or tapping keyboards and sipping frozen frappamochas at 45 on Main. Increasingly, the transplants aren’t just urban escapees. They’re down-to-earth families who simply want it all. —Kim Knox Beckius

Worthy Alternative: Barnstable, MA

While your kids are at sailing camp, you can be captaining your own enterprise. Barnstable’s seven welcoming villages are more connected than ever to the world beyond Cape Cod, thanks to posh coworking spaces, high-speed ferries, and added flights from the town-owned airport. Pop. 48,916; median home $690,000

Affordable Option: Berlin, NH

If you’re itching to put the emphasis on remote, Berlin may be the work-at-home hometown for you. The mountain views and square footage you’ll score in this former mill town on the Androscoggin would cost a bundle anywhere else. And the city’s first new mayor in 14 years is actively enticing entrepreneurs. Pop. 9,425; median home $180,000

REVITALIZED SMALL CITY: St. Albans, VT

Pop. 6,877 | Median Home $346,500

As small cities across New England plot their comebacks, St. Albans offers an inspiring look at what’s possible. Less than two decades ago, city leaders launched a plan to reverse a decades-long decline that had taken its toll on not just Main Street, but also the “spirit of the city itself,” says city manager Dominic Cloud. The revival began with a $3 million reimagination of downtown, which brought wider sidewalks, more trees, and the kinds of pedestrian-friendly areas that feel welcoming to visitors and locals alike.

Today, Main Street features a thriving food and drink scene, a terrific bookstore, and a robust summer farmers’ market in Taylor Park. Elsewhere, new buildings have gone up, historic ones have been restored, and multinational firms have set up shop. In a state that has struggled with declining population, St. Albans has seen its number of residents climb 16 percent since 2010.

Of course, this being Vermont, one is always close to the outdoors. Lake Champlain is on the doorstep, while the Hard’ack Recreation Area, a 95-acre public property, features an old-school ski hill, miles of hiking trails, and a year-round pool that stays a balmy 85 degrees even in the depths of winter. Community pride, meanwhile, is front and center during a wealth of annual events, from a winter carnival to special parent-kid dances (the Daughter Gala and the Son Shindig) at the all-new city hall.

“People come here and they see just how much is happening, and they ask, ‘Is it always like this?’ ” says Kelly Viens, a St. Albans native and the city’s longtime recreation director. “And my answer is always the same: ‘It really is.’ ” —Ian Aldrich

Worthy Alternative: Salem, MA

Since 2001, Salem Main Streets has been a driving force in this North Shore city that’s anchored in no small part by the Peabody Essex Museum, the nation’s oldest continuously operating museum. And Boston, 15 miles south, is just a short commuter-rail ride away. Pop. 44,482; median home $585,500

Affordable Option: Keene, NH

The splashy renovation of Keene’s historic Colonial Theatre continues to draw attention to its reenergized downtown. Keene State College’s pretty little campus flows into a central district with what’s been touted as the world’s widest paved Main Street, locally grown restaurants and shops, and one of the best art and music scenes in the state. Pop. 23,047; median home $330,000

RIVER TOWN: Chester, CT

Pop. 3,749 | Median Home $467,500

Just two hours from New York City or Boston, Chester settles into the nooks and crannies of hilly terrain along the banks of the Connecticut River, a mere 10 miles north of Long Island Sound. In a region shot through with sparkling waterways, Pattaconk Brook ducks under Chester’s Main Street, threading itself through a compact downtown that’s friendly, attractive, and cosmopolitan while still keeping close to its small-town New England character.

Character is key here: Though settled in 1692, Chester can be a bit Auntie Mame, with her “life is a banquet” attitude. It’s an artists’ enclave dotted with galleries and restaurants. It’s a walking town that “draws creative people,” according to one shopkeeper. It’s “a great town for kids and dogs,” says another. A full dance card of events, meanwhile, includes a Sunday farmers’ market, a Fourth of July road race, the Chester Fair (since 1877), and a townwide tag sale in May.

But Chester’s roots are curled around history, too. From April through November, the 1769 Chester-Hadlyme Ferryruns passengers across the Connecticut River to the century-old Gillette Castle, dribbled onto the cliffs like an eccentric, oversize sand castle. The Old Burying Ground creaks with tombstones from the 1700s, and the 1868 Chester Fife & Drum Corps is one of the oldest continuously active groups of its kind in the nation. And through all this, a beautiful river runs. —Annie Graves

Worthy Alternative: Portsmouth, NH

Portsmouth’s modest footprint belies all that it packs in: thriving arts and culture, au courant dining, colorful historic homes, and that town-within-a-town, Strawbery Banke Museum. The Piscataqua River runs alongside pretty Prescott Park, which hosts a full-bore summer extravaganza of outdoor entertainment. Pop. 21,956; median home $711,000

Affordable Option: Greenfield, MA

Sitting at the confluence of three rivers, Greenfield is a scrappy combo of rural and forward-thinking (its mayor calls it “rurban”). The first designated “green community” in Massachusetts lures visitors with diverse restaurants, vintage shops, local breweries, a pair of marquee music festivals (Green River and Wormtown), and the showstopping Franklin County Fair. Pop. 17,768; median home $320,000

PICTURE-PERFECT TOWN: Damariscotta, ME

Pop. 2,297 | Median Home $459,250

Damariscotta would fall into the prettiest percentile of New England towns even if there were nothing to see beyond its dreamy little harbor on the tidal river that shares its name. It’s a classic coastal scene, complete with pleasure boats at anchor, a rollicking restaurant on the pier, and a white church spire closer to heaven than the treetops. But there are other visuals that make the town where Adam White set his 2022 bestseller, The Midcoast, a place where you’ll spend an inordinate amount of time snapping photos. From the ginormous banana splits at Waltz Soda Fountain, which hasn’t changed much in 75 years, to the luminous sunsets looking west toward the Great Salt Bay, preferably from the deck at Round Top with a cone of farm-fresh lavender ice cream in hand, there are sweet scenes galore to document.

Put down roots here, and your family may soon be growing… half-ton pumpkins. Of all the events that bring this community together, fall’s annual Pumpkinfest & Regatta is the zany zenith, and it all begins on Seedling Sunday in May, when townspeople adopt plants that will produce the giant pumpkins destined for use as art (or boats). Don’t imagine for a moment, though, that Damariscotta is lacking in more erudite culture. It has two resident theater companies and a cinema. It hosts Salt Bay Chamberfest concerts. Its library is supported handsomely by a volunteer-powered used bookstore that Yankee has named the state’s best. And the Peace Gallery brings neighbors together to stretch, create, and meditate. —Kim Knox Beckius

Worthy Alternative: Old Lyme, CT

The Connecticut River meets Long Island Sound near this town that’s so alluring, an Impressionist colony sprang up at the 20th century’s turn. Picture yourself taking art classes at the Florence Griswold Museum, paddling the Great Island salt marsh, and making coffee runs to an architecturally distinct Dunkin’. Pop. 7,628; median home $560,000

Affordable Option: St. Johnsbury, VT

If the Northeast Kingdom is Vermont unfiltered, St. Johnsbury is its red-brick Victorian outpost of civilization. It’s so cultivated, in fact, that its library houses about 100 framed masterpieces, and its most heartwarming attraction, Dog Mountain, is equal parts outdoor paradise for pups and enduring work of art. Pop. 7,364; median home $225,000

WALK-TO-EVERYTHING TOWN: Exeter, NH

Pop. 16,049 | Median Home $627,500

Center yourself at Exeter’s classic town bandstand, and you’ll feel pulled in all directions—but that’s a good thing. The densely packed downtown will fuel you with perfectly brewed coffee at D Squared Java, distract you with Water Street Bookstore’s whip-smart picks, and feed your art-collector fantasies at galleries like Exeter Fine Crafts. You’ll also get a hefty hit of history: Founded in 1638, Exeter is filled with fine old buildings that hint at stories churning just under the surface, partly due to its proximity to the coast (eight miles) and its odd commingling of rivers (one sweet, one salty). The Squamscott and the Exeter entwine just behind the shops and cafés of Water Street, making Exeter a kind of thriving seaport without a sea.

Walk down Water Street to Swasey Parkway, and you might find a weekly farmers’ market or festival. You’ll also encounter a half-mile path that hugs a riverbank once lined with schooners and gundalows, but which today sees kayaks and the crew boats of Phillips Exeter Academy. That storied prep school has an outsize presence here, abutting downtown with a lovely 675-acre campus filled with walking trails galore and a generous helping of academic brick. And don’t miss the nearby American Independence Museum, which holds an annual post–Fourth of July party to mark the delivery of the Declaration of Independence to Exeter on July 16, 1776. —Annie Graves 

Worthy Alternative: Provincetown, MA

It could easily take all day to absorb the diversions of Provincetown’s Commercial Street, with art galleries, waterside eateries, fragrant Portuguese baked goods, handicrafts and tchotchkes, meticulously kept historic homes, and that most glorious of pastimes: people-and-dog-watching. Pop. 3,664; median home $2.08M

Affordable Option: Brattleboro, VT 

Cradled by steep hills along the Connecticut River, this artsy enclave packs its downtown with galleries, music venues, theaters, a food co-op, and cool restaurants. Also within an easy stroll: the Vermont Jazz Center, the Vermont Center for Photography, and the Brattleboro Museum & Art Center. Pop. 7,346; median home $329,000

The post Best Places to Live in New England appeared first on New England.

By Bill Simmons

Editor’s note: On page 8 of the October 1995 issue of Yankee, the list of contributors includes this entry: “Bill Simmons is a Boston-based freelancer. This is his first piece for Yankee.” In the nearly three decades that followed, Simmons (aka “The Sports Guy”) would become one of the most celebrated sports voices in the nation. He spent more than a decade as an ESPN columnist and commentator, and co-founded the network’s “30 for 30” documentary series; he was also the founding editor-in-chief of Grantland. Today Simmons is CEO of The Ringer, a sports/pop culture website that produces “The Bill Simmons Podcast,” which regularly ranks as one of the most-listened-to sports podcasts.

* * *

On a gorgeous Friday in autumn, Harvard Square feels like the center of the universe. A man declaims Scripture. A yodeler makes his rounds. Bagpipes blare in the distance. Beggars wield cups. Students, tourists, and foreigners wallow in the sunshine. If you listen, you might hear ten languages spoken in ten minutes. If you look, you’ll see men and women holding hands, women holding hands, and men holding hands; blond hair and blue hair; people carrying purchases from WordsWorth and Filene’s in shopping bags, and people carrying their life’s belongings in them.

The Chess Master—a.k.a. Murray Turnbull—sits in the midst of the commotion at the front concrete chess table outside Au Bon Pain. He strokes his red beard, staring over the board. He wears a maroon jacket and a beaten, light brown straw hat. Dark brown glasses with thick lenses just past the brim. He wipes his nose with an Au Bon Pain napkin repeatedly. He has a cold.

His opponent moves a pawn forward and bangs a time clock on the table’s edge. (Turnbull gives opponents ten minutes to make a move, himself five.) The Master slides his bishop across the board and punches the time clock, all in one sweeping, awkward motion. He cackles and sips his coffee. He puffs nervously on a cigarette. He constantly heaves back and forth.

The crowd, typically diverse, stares at the board entranced: a male student with a ponytail, a young worker in a deliveryman’s outfit, two businessmen in suits, a woman with a shaved head and nose ring.

The deliveryman is blocking the “Play the Chess Master $2.00” sign.

“Move to the right,” the Master says. “Advertising.”

The Master’s opponent pushes a rook and whacks the clock. “Hmmm,” says the Chess Master. He cackles again—an intimidating cackle, his calling card. He strokes his beard, makes another move-the-piece-punch-the-clock maneuver, and leans back. “This is war!” he says, joking.

The Chess Master puts on a show for his audience. He chatters and heehaws and fidgets. He exhales smoke disdainfully. He spits chess jargon: “You should have moved the K-6 a little earlier.” He accentuates his gawky moves with a comic flair. This is his job, after all.

The clock winds down, and his opponent loses patience and resolve. The Chess Master edges closer to the table and follows each of his opponent’s desultory moves with a rapier-like move of his own. And a “Ha-HA!” for good measure. Soon, mercifully, the game ends. “Mate,” says the Master.

The opponent shakes his head and laughs. “I wish I didn’t make those two mistakes,” he says. “I was going so well.”

This affronts the Master. “I was two pieces up,” he says, frowning, eyebrows raised. “You never should have taken RF-1 when you had knight 6.” Cackle.

They play again. But this time the Chess Master has ruin on his mind. It’s over in three minutes.

An old foe shows up to battle the Master. The new man attempts to secure the middle. He studies the board. The Chess Master turns intense, leaning into the table, rocking. His clock runs down to less than one minute, and he plays frantically, moving-the piece-and-punching-the-clock even faster and more clumsily. His foe, in his haste, exposes his rook. The Master finagles a mate, clenching his fist for good measure.

He hops up to grab coffee. His opponent, Rob, tells me, “Murray’s in the top one percent of all tournament players in the States. I’ve played more than 100 games against the man and lost every time but once. It’s almost fun to lose to somebody when he’s that good.” Rob enjoys two more losses and leaves. No one steps forward. Is it across from the Chess Master. Within seconds I’m pushing pieces aimlessly, and time seems so fleeting, and I keep glancing at the clock, and…

“Mate,” the Chess Master says.

I shake my head.

“You need to build your center,” he tells me.

“What?” My brain is clouded.

“The center. Not only does it protect your king, but it gives you flexibility. You were playing like General Custer—moving straight ahead, blindly.” He nods at me. His thick glasses make it difficult to make eye contact.

I frown. I’m good at chess. I can’t remember my last loss. “I was a little thrown off by the clock,” I say.

“All the time in the world won’t help you if you don’t build up your center,” he tells me. Ha-HA!

“Let’s play again,” I say. I want to beat him so badly I can taste it.

Three minutes later all I taste is defeat.

“Four dollars,” says the Chess Master.

* * *

I return two days later. The Chess Master is there still in the midst of the commotion, quickening his games, trying to finish off his foes in five minutes instead of ten. Bigger crowds mean more money, and people hop in and out of his chair as if it’s on fire.

By three in this productive afternoon, clouds have drifted into Cambridge; it appears rain will hit. I sit across from the Chess Master, giving him a decent game. He fidgets more, which I interpret as a moral victory. I even check his king.

Of course, within minutes my king is in check—checkmate. I shrug, exasperated.

“That was your best game,” the Chess Master says suddenly.

“It was?”

“Yeah. You didn’t give away your center, and you took your time. You lost it here”—he points to a square in the middle—“with your knight.” The Master gives me a three-minute chess lesson, reenacting the middle of our game as if on videotape.

“How can you remember my moves?” I ask.

“I can remember the sequence of almost every game I play that day,” he answers. “If I feel like it. Sometimes someone will play illogically, and it’s hard to remember the sequence. But most games follow the same patterns. Sometimes I write all the interesting games down at the end of the day. I’m vaguely considering writing a book.”

The Chess Master leans back, not as fidgety without the crowd. He delves into some leftover pork-fried rice and chats about the Fischer/Spassky match. Rice kernels fly everywhere. “The Fischer match helped business tremendously,” he says. “There’s never been a chess player like him—especially an American. This fall was the busiest I’ve had in years.”

At the side of his table is a newsletter. He has been printing an analysis of the Fischer/Spassky matches and selling copies for a dollar. He rambles on about Fischer. The genius of Fischer. The integrity of Fischer. The honesty. The mystique.

“Once I had a dream in the mid-1970s that I attended a party with Fischer,” he remembers. “I challenged him to a game, and he didn’t want to play me. To this day I wonder if it was because he was afraid—or because I was beneath him.” He pauses. “I think about that dream a lot.”

* * *

I visit Murray Turnbull again after Columbus Day. The weather has depleted the pedestrian force, giving him time to chat. He tells of falling in love with chess, as if he were talking about a woman: In upstate New York, 1960, a tornado swept through his family’s rural neighborhood. He had played outside in the forest every day as a child, then the tornado knocked down many trees. His mother wouldn’t let him out. A neighbor named Chris Lubahn introduced Murray to chess because they had nothing else to do. Murray had just turned 11.

In high school he fell in with a group of kids who loved chess, and they played incessantly, during lunch and all recesses. Murray joined the school’s chess team and honed his skills. He studied from 1967 to 1970 at Harvard University, where his father is a professor emeritus in the School of Applied Science. Senior year, Murray dropped out and moved to California. He became a “homeless hippie” for a couple of years.

My eyes widen. “You studied at Harvard?” I ask. “You were homeless?”

“I just didn’t feel like continuing school,” he says. “I was never interested in the corporation route mapped out by my parents. I’ve had many a disagreement with them, but they’re aware I didn’t function well in a business environment. They love me. I see them almost every weekend. Sometimes my father even stops by the table to say hello. This is perfect for me—I like working outside. The only tough part of being homeless was the rootlessness of it all. Now I have a place.”

He sighs and talks about tournaments he played in—the Massachusetts Open, the Newton Open, the Greater Boston Open—and a stint on the U.S. Amateur Championship Team from 1984 to 1988. “It’s such a great game,” he says with a smile. “There’s no luck involved. You can test a conclusion to its limits whether it’s good or bad. In politics or in other arenas, there isn’t the same ‘yes or no’ finality; in chess, there is.”

He tells me his favorite anecdote: The Boston Globe’s chess writer, Harold Dondis, brought a young friend to play. The Master used a defense created by British champion Nigel Short, but his opponent picked it apart and mated him. Murray had used all of his time, while the ringer had spent hardly any of his. “So after it was over, Harold says, ‘Murray, I’d like you to meet Nigel Short.’ I couldn’t believe it!” The Master is in hysterics.

Murray Turnbull may be eccentric, but he holds no illusions about himself. He strives to be the Chess Master. That’s all. He plays every day (weather permitting), seven days a week, from the beginning of April to the end of October. Does he think he’s a prisoner of the game?

“Everyone  is a prisoner of something,” he says. “Being a prisoner of chess isn’t bad. I’m my own boss. There’s truth and justice, no ambiguity. I play so many games that each square has its own personality. I can look at that square,” he points to the right corner, “and remember a mate I had there in 1987. I can play blindfolded and see the board as if it were in front of me.”

In Murray’s decade in Harvard Square he has seen the smaller businesses vanish and the street performers and crazies flourish. “They don’t even respect me,” he says icily. “One guitarist sets up 20 feet away. He just has no grasp of chess or its culture. In Europe it’s a competition between nations, a substitute for war. Here it’s just a game.”

Murray associates just about everything with chess. Chess is his job, his hobby, his mistress.

“Are you married?” I ask.

“I don’t have enough to give to a relationship right now,” he says. “I work eight to 12 hours a day and barely make a blue-collar wage. Sure, I’d love to be married—especially to someone who could make money as well. But…” Then he shrugs uncomfortably.

“Why are you out here every day?” I finally ask. “Is it because you love chess, or—” “I love chess,” he interrupts. “I love being outside. I love the independence of it. That’s why I’m out here. I have a place.”

* * *

We play one last game, my final chance to beat the Chess Master. I pack the middle, my eyes searing. He moves his king to the left corner. I move my queen and bishop to attack that side. We exchange pawns. We exchange knights. He steals another pawn. Suddenly I’m in check, and my bishop’s gone, and the clock’s running down, and I’m in check again.

“Mate,” the Master says.

I laugh. I shake my head.

“You should have brought your other knight forward,” he suggests, rocking back and forth, puffing on a cigarette. “You didn’t use the left side of your board.”

I pay him six dollars, two for each of my three thrashings. We shake hands like old friends. Another person slides into my seat, ready for a beating. It’s midafternoon in the Square, and the yodeler wheels by us. “Yoodle-lay-hee-hoo,” he yells. A woman who owns a games store approaches the Chess Master. “Murray, can you still come by today at five?” she asks. He had agreed to come over and demonstrate moves. “You can either have a new set of pieces or a new time clock.”

“I’ll take the new clock,” the Master says quickly. He fidgets excitedly. “I need a new clock.”

The post Yankee Classic | “A Lesson from the Chess Master” by Bill Simmons appeared first on New England.

The post Earl Grey Hot Toddy appeared first on New England.