South Shore Journal

September 6 - Back to Birdland

With all the excietment of the past week going on in my personal life, I still managed to come to work every day. And they were good days. On Tuesday, August 28th, I helped lead a bus tour of the community for the new teachers in the Hull school system as volunteer trip leader Tim O'Neil took my regular Tuesday spot and led the gang down Duxbury Beach. Two days later, I rushed from the gym to the beach, chatting on my cell phone with the aforementioned reporters along the way to make sure Paul and Linda, the CPR heroes, got their due (see the entry previous to this one). We had a wonderful morning, sadly the last weekday Duxbury Beach program of the summer. We birded, seeing a huge flock of black-bellied plovers, some very active northern harriers, and, of course, our ubiquitous whimbrels. All in all, it was a beautiful way to officially end the summer for the Duxbury Beach program.

But Friday Morning birders never stops! We started out with great hopes and expectations the next morning, dreaming that maybe a wave of warblers might be passing through the area. We started out at Daniel Webster Wildlife Sanctuary - after a screeching halt to check out the eerily silent woods at the end of Ruggles Road in Marshfield - to check out the work David Ludlow had been doing in the wet panne. We've been holding onto a grant for three years in anticipation of a dry enough summer to get in and do some revitalization work, eradication of some invasive phragmites plants, redistribution of the mud to create a bigger "island," etc. As those of us in eastern Massachusetts know, this was one of the dryest Augusts on record for our area, so the time had finally come.

We sat down in the second blind (near Webster Pond) and I immediately called out a young red-shouldered hawk sitting on a tree swallow box. As all focused on it, the bird was chased from the box by an immature red-tailed hawk. Coming around to the first blind, we were accosted by phoebes, with at least six flying around the area. We got into the vans and drove the main path toward Fox Hill, but knew there was no point in going all the way out there, as a fog bank had closed in on us. No need - as you will see by the pics to the left, the hawks gave us quite a show on the way out, at the expense of one poor little meadow vole. We hit the Secret Trail, and scored Philadelphia, red-eyed and warbling vireos.

That was just about it for me for the day. We headed for Webster's Wilderness, finding a handful of wood ducks before going up and over the hill on which the statesman gave his final speech. On the trail below, I felt a sharp pain in my ear lobe, and swatted away a yellowjacket that had already gotten the best that my lobe had to offer. The little bastard then stuck its stinger in my right forearm, up near the elbow, before I shooed him away again. I then felt a third sting, as he got me on the inside of the same arm. With three stings, all rapidly swelling, I headed for the van and considered myself done for the day. That afternoon, I took two Benadryl, and slept for five full, zonked-out hours. I awoke at six, thinking I was late for work.

By Sunday morning, the swelling had gone down enough for me to head for Woods Hole and our scheduled trip to Cuttyhunk Island. I had done the trip once before, in 2005, without any real knowledge of the island, and very little natural history knowledge. But when pressured, a well-trained historian can tap dance with the best of them. Between coastal artillery history, lighthouse history, Life-Saving Service and Coast Guard history, the history of the Industrial Revolution, and American social histroy, I had plenty to talk about.

Luckily, since that time, I've studied the heck out of the island, and have learned how to properly identify a few species of birds to boot. Unfortunately, except for swirling cedar waxwings and a brief appearance of a lone green heron, the latter did not come into play. I saw more rabbits than birds.

After taking the long run along the southeastern sides of Naushon and Pasque Islands, we headed through Quick's Hole to see Nashawena, Penikese, and our target, Cuttyhunk Island. We split into two groups, one taking the longer trip for the day, one taking the shorter, with me. My group walked up to the old Anglers' Club, and then back through the crossroads and up the military road to Lookout Hill. We checked out the historical society, admired the view from above (spotting the railroad bridge on the Cape Cod Canal), and I let them all go for two hours of free time in the gorgeous sunshine of the day.

As I wandered around, I bumped into some of our South Shore regulars, Beth and Jane, who had broken away from the bigger group to find me. I led them up to the top of the hill for the view, and we enjoyed the rest of the day together. Beth had old friends who'd lived on the island years earlier, and was happy to see the church hall on the island dedicated to them. (And you certainly know, by the way, that fishing has played a large role in the history of a community when the church steeple sports a striped bass weathervane). After just a few hours, the call went out to get back to the boat, and we headed for home. On the way back, we took the northwest side of the islands, catching terns in migration, and watching a bird of prey diving on cormorants (my guess was a young, brazen sharp-shinned hawk).

Lucky for me, this was just the first of two trips to Cuttyhunk Island this September. I'll be going again on September 30, but there is so much going on between now and then, I don't even want to think about it!

Real World Time-out

Something inspiring has happened in my life, or, I should say, "around" my life, and it's something I just have to write about.

Last week, on Thursday, August 30, at 7:45 a.m., I was 4 minutes away from finishing a one-hour session on the treadmill at Planet Fitness in Weymouth. It was only my fourth day back since March, after I suffered a concussion that to this day still affects me in minor ways. I'd been feeling good, and thought the time was right to get back to the gym.

At that moment, I heard a crash. I looked around, but couldn't see anything wrong. Occasionally someone slips on a treadmill and pops right back up, more embarrassed than anything else. But this time a woman was waving from a treadmill well across the room, pointing at something. I stopped the treadmill and started to move quickly to where she was pointing.

As I turned the corner to a row of elliptical machines, a man stood up - someone I'd seen in the gym dozens of times, but had never met - stood up and looked at me through hazy eyes, breathing very heavily. He rested his head on his left arm on the machine, and then went down in a full-body collapse. His head lolled back, his left pupil was dilated, and he was breathing so heavily it sounded like he was snoring. Worse yet, he was jammed in what looked like a very uncomfortable position between two of the machines.

Linda Natale, the woman who had been waving, met me there as he fell. She reached for his throat to help open his airway and called for someone to grab a defibrillator. Paul Basile, the man in charge of the gym that morning, did so as he rushed over to the scene. Linda called for others to move the machines out of the way so they'd have room to perform CPR. I - and several others - did just that. I reached under the man's head so it wouldn't bounce off the floor when the machines were moved, perhaps a sensitivity reaction to having my own head smash off the gym floor back in March. Paul called for someone to call 911, and the rest of us then moved to clearing a pathway through the machines for a gurney to move through. Someone also opened the emergency exit door to allow the paramedics ease of access to the scene.

Paul, a retired firefighter, and Linda, an off-duty nurse, began two-person CPR, as the rest of us stood by helplessly, wanting to help. They called for the defibrillator to be applied and one of the gym patrons grabbed it. "I can't open it!" he said in a moment of panic, his hands shaking from the rush of adrenaline. I reached for it, found the tab that had to be removed, and opened the package containing the pads. I handed them to him, and he followed the instructions and placed the pads on the victim's chest.

By now, with Paul pumping on his chest and Linda breathing into the breatuhing tube placed in his mouth, the man seemed to be lost. He had turned grayish-green, his breathing had slowed and stopped, and the man who had placed the defibrillator pads on his chest could not find a pulse. Linda would say later that at that point, he was clinically dead.

But they kept working, as a dozen of us watched, ready to cover any detail called for by Paul or Linda. The defibrillator failed to deliver a shock on the first attempt, but a second attempt provided one. Minutes that seemed like an hour crept by, and when the sirens sounded in the distance, I told Paul and Linda that the ambulance was on its way. They kept working, and soon Linda announced that his breathing was coming back. The paramedics moved in and took over the scene. They told Paul and Linda to keep on doing what they were doing, as they placed their own defibrillator on his chest. Moments later, they announced they had a pulse, and told Paul and Linda they were clear to move back from the victim. They shocked his heart back into normal rhythm and began to work him onto a stretcher. When he was ready to go, I joined Paul and the paramedics in lifting the stretcher onto the gurney.

The staff scrambled to find out what his name was. Paul had it in his head, but was having trouble recalling it. That's the odd thing about the gym. You know so many people by face, but so few by name.  By the time the paramedics reached the door, the staff had come up with what they thought was his name, and off to the hospital he went. As soon, as they were gone, I hit the showers. Someone asked in the locker room if anybody knew what had gone on "on the floor," and I told the story. "What a way for that poor guy to start the day," one man said.

I walked back out and shook Paul's hand, simply saying "Good job." Linda was leaving at that moment as well, heading straight to work at South Shore Hospital. She promised she would update Paul on the man's condition. I asked her if it would be okay if the press contacted her.

On the way to work (I was on my way to Duxbury Beach for a birding trip) I called the Patriot Ledger and spoke to reporter Sue Scheible.  She got a hold of Linda and had a brief story in the paper that afternoon. She followed up the next day witha  longer piece. I also called Ed Baker at the Weymouth News, and he picked up the ball and ran with it.

For various reasons - including a yellowjacket attack on Friday, an early morning trip to Cuttyhunk on Sunday, etc. - I didn't get back to the gym until this morning, Thursday, September 6. I walked in and Paul shook my hand at the desk, thanking me for calling the story into the press. He asked me the same question I was going to ask him: "Have you heard anything?" Neither of us had heard any news of the victim since that day.

I was just about done with a 45-minute treadmill session, at 7:45 a.m., when the door to the gym opened. There he was, our heart attack victim, standing straight and tall, alive and well. Paul sprung out from behind the desk and gave him a big hug. He walked back outside and came back with a group of people, including his mother and father. I couldn't suppress my smile.  It had to be a mile wide, and yes, there were tears in my eyes. I hit the showers.

When I came back out, the group was still standing there. As I did, another employee came in with a copy of the Weymouth News, handing it to Paul.  "Have you seen this yet?" she asked. 

"This is the guy right here!" Paul said, pointing to our friend.

"I'm here to sign autographs," he joked.

I snuck past to get out the door to get to work, looking back at Paul to give him a thumbs-up.