I was
unprepared for my visit to New Bedford last week. I had called the mayor's office,
looking for some useful 'insider's' insight for a newspaper story; my questions
were vague, my impressions of the city were vaguer, and I had to look up the
mayor's name. My call was routed to the mayor's "PR person." I was
impressed that the mayor had a PR person: most local governments could probably
use one; and the some of the 'spokesmen' for state agencies seldom did anything
as useful and get on the phone and welcome my inquiries. The New Bedford PR person, however, managed to persuade me in an upbeat
minute or two that I absolutely needed to pay the city a visit.
We made a
tentative date; she would call me back. My meeting proved a moving target, variously
planned for the mayor, the economic development director, the PR person
herself, or the head of the tourism office. When I got there the agenda turned out to
be, in order, the mayor, the tourism director, and the mayor's chief of staff.
Maybe some credit
goes to the absolutely gorgeous late September weather that accompanied my visit
-- blue skies, seventies, sun glinting off the water -- but my impressions of
the city were altogether rosy.
Cobblestone
streets, restored 19th century buildings, inexpensive loft space, a helpful cop
who gave good directions, busy downtown activity, and an even busier port.
Though
photography was not (nor is ever) my job, when I was taken to the third story balcony of the Whaling Museum for the view of
the harbor, I could not help taking out my camera. The photos of the harbor posted
here are from that vantage.
I'm fascinated by the port, which (I
was surprised to learn) is the number one fishing port in the country according
to the total value of the catch. Wouldn't the biggest fishing port be in Florida
or somewhere on the Pacific or in one of those Cajun crawdaddy spots? (Answer:
no). Apparently Atlantic fishermen are still bringing them in, quotas and all. And
more of them bring their fish to New Bedford than anywhere else.
The harbor
is now also the site of the new staging area for the assembly of the gigantic Cape
Wind off-shore wind turbines. Cranes rising from the harbor are now building a dock sturdy enough to hold these weighty components.
The official state
sailing vessel, the Ernestina, is berthed there there. The Charles W. Morgan, the
last remaining vessel from America's one-time globe-circling whaling fleet,
paid a visit this summer and drew 35,000 visitors. Regular weekend festivals lure big catches of tourists as well.
I am
fascinated too by the map of the harbor the tourism director gave me, along
with a score of other promotional materials.
Tops on the
list (for stirring the imagination at least) is the little rectangular inlet
called "Ishmael's Landing." Not many of us sail our eyes all the way
through "Moby Dick" these days, but almost all of us remain
intermittently charmed by its first three words: "Call me Ishmael."
I imagine
Melville's Ishmael, the novel's first-person narrator, wandering into New
Bedford these days and looking for a berth on a fishing vessel. He gets a
craving for the sea (just as Melville tells us). He wanders into town late one
evening and spends a night in the new Marriott Hotel. He finds a self-guided
walking tour along the docks. There's the "fishermen's wharf" and "state
pier," a high-speed ferry terminal to Martha's Vineyard (well now, he ponders,
what can happened to Nantucket?). He stares at the highway bridge that carries
Route 6 to Fairhaven and Pope's Island. He continues strolling, past the "visitors
waterfront center," the dingy dock, the coal pocket pier, Homer's wharf --
Homer, you say? In honor of the old Greek mariner and travel yarner? -- and then
stumbles on the sign for "Ishamael's Landing."
He stares
in surprise. They knew he was coming? What a city -- it throws the welcome mat
out for everyone.
What does he do now? Well, according to another map I found
online, he's in the right place to find a "water taxi."
Call me
Ishmael. And call me a water taxi.
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