The Narrow Escape: Two Stories of the Local Fight to Save the Environment

No one had ever seen a storm like the Portland Gale.

Residents awoke on the gray morning of Saturday, November 26, 1898 to lashing wind and driving rain that fiercely battered the Eastern Coast of New England for twenty-four hours until the eye of the storm offered some relief. After another full day of battle, the nor’easter, at last, retreated -- leaving the exhausted New Englanders to tend the wounded strewn across Cape Cod and the South Shore.

This storm was more powerful than any preceding storms weathered by New Englanders – the force of the gale even blew out the barrier beach between third and fourth cliff at Humarock and created Rexhame beach. The gale, taking its name from one of the largest ship downed by the gale, was less than merciful: when this steamer went down, contributing massive quantities of tradable goods to the waterlogged refuse lining the east, no lives were spared.

Since that grey morning in 1898, we have become all too familiar with the grave connotations of hurricane and Nor’easter warnings as well as the panicked rush to snatch toilet paper and water jugs from the shelves. However, despite the research linking climate change to worsened storms, we still behave like the New Englanders of old – caught off-guard by devastating weather. Now, unlike then, our knowledge makes merely reacting to the symptoms of climate change instead of addressing the root cause inexcusable.

One look at Peggoty Beach in Scituate reveals our dedication to action that deals with the affect of climate change instead of the cause. Two houses stand high above the surf like strange, long-legged birds – evidence of humanity trying to race the rising tide. And we are not just are trying to outrun climate change, according to Bryan Taylor with the North and South River Watershed Association. “Humans use funny methods to try to stop coastal erosion,” said the naturalist and educator, referring specifically to riprap -- the method by which large rocks are piled along the shores to prevent erosion. Ironically, Taylor says, the waves tend to dig out the land underneath these rocks, increasing the rate of erosion in places like downtown Scituate.

Despite our very best efforts, we cannot beat climate change this way; nature always wins. Even as we frantically push houses up on stilts and stuff boulders beneath coastal beaches, erosion is happening faster than ever – exemplified by our loss of a foot of sand every single year at Fourth Cliff in Scituate.

Instead of merely reacting to climate change, we must focus on solutions that will create a long-lasting impact, a strategy in line with the ancient Iroquois idea known as the ‘seventh generation principle’: the decisions we make today should result in a sustainable world seven generations from now.

While this idea is admirable, one often wonders what impact our actions realistically will have 100 years from now. As humans, we often struggle to plan for our next week or next month, so peering that far ahead into the future can feel pointless. However, were it not for the hard work of local environmentalists fifty years ago, the local ecosystems that we know and love would not be here today.

In the 1970s, rapid development of the South Shore wetlands left many environmentalists very concerned about the future of the delicate riparian biome that connects the marine and freshwater ecosystems. “The wetlands are the artery that transfers energy between the upland forests and oceans,” said Brian Taylor as we stood on the dunes of the Spit in Scituate, gazing at the sparkling water of the North River. These wetlands often get overlooked in favor of the picturesque beaches of the Cape or the arboreal beauty of the dense forests. But, according to Taylor, these wetlands are spectacularly unique because they are one of the few places where we can see the transfer of energy between two major earth systems.

Herrings, when they swim upstream to lay their eggs in the interior waters of wetlands, take energy from the ocean and move it inland; the eggs that do not hatch fertilize the trees on the edges of the river. Right outside our doors exists this dynamic dance in nature’s complex ballet -- and fifty years ago, we almost lost those ecosystems forever.

As demand for beach-front housing grew on the South Shore, developers encroached further and further on the wetlands, one of the first lines of defense against great storms like the Portland Gale, ecosystems that cannot be easily replaced. They are formed painstakingly as layer upon layer of sand and silt granules are deposited when the water momentarily stills before changing from high to low tide and vice versa. Every year, a scant four millimeters of wetland is formed, so any loss to the local wetlands was devastating.

After years of hard work by advocates, scientists, and citizens with the North and South River Watershed Association, the North River Scenic Protective Order was passed in 1978, and the North River became the only protected scenic river in Massachusetts. One of the many provisions of the law states that no trees may be cut down within 100 feet of the river, protecting the delicate land from soil erosion. Thanks to this act, “there are still places in our heavily developed, busy, populated area that you can go and feel disconnected from everything,” mused Taylor. But without the efforts of those activists who were able to think fifty years down the line, some of our favorite havens on the South Shore -- the Driftway, the Spit, Norris Reservation -- would be gone.

In the face of the issues that threaten our coastline today, we cannot be like the New Englands of old, caught off guard by a storm that will destroy us. Instead, we must be like the brave activists in the 1970s, who considered all of our well-being without even knowing our names. If the local environmentalists hadn’t fought for what they believed in fifty years ago, our wetlands would look utterly different in this lifetime -- not in some reality far, far away.

In this story -- no longer our future, but our present -- what role will you play? Will you take action to prevent the worse consequences of climate change and erosion, or bury your head in the rapidly eroding sand?

On that sunny day when I stood at the Spit with Brian Taylor, looking out at the North River, beauty of the place was stunning -- something about the white sand against the water dotted with the fuzzy, young marsh grass peaking out of the high tide typified New England natural beauty. As we stood on the dunes that day, I felt it: the connection between the people and the land that made these seemingly simple marshes worth fighting for.

As I am now an alumna of Norwell High School, this article is the last in the series known as the Conscious Clipper. I hope that, over the past two years -- during which we have traveled from the farms of India to the forests of the Northwest to land in the ecosystem right outside our door -- you have become a more aware of the environmental issues facing our very own community as well as your role in the solution. You are all conscious clippers, armed with the knowledge you need to make informed decisions about how you vote, what you eat, where you shop, and how you live. And you are not a lone ship bobbing in the sea; instead, we are a strong battalion prepared to fight the forces that threaten our world.

And while I sadly write the final words of this article, there is one thing that I know for certain: our fight is only just beginning.

For the final time, the Conscious Clipper is written by Rose Hansen