A Cruising Guide to the New England Coast, including Long Island Sound and the Saint John River, New Brunswick

1947 ◽  
Vol 20 (2) ◽  
pp. 278
Author(s):  
Peter Oliver ◽  
Robert F. Duncan ◽  
Fessenden S. Blanchard
1975 ◽  
Vol 53 (8) ◽  
pp. 1110-1115 ◽  
Author(s):  
D. H. Steele ◽  
V. J. Steele

Gammarus finmarchicus is an amphi-Atlantic species. In the western Atlantic it is found from the island of St. Pierre south to Long Island Sound. At St. Andrews, New Brunswick, 50% maturity occurs at 10.5 mm in the females. Reproduction is in progress throughout the year, but small females evidently are in a resting condition during September–October before breeding. The release of young by the population is greater in the spring, summer, and early autumn than it is in late autumn and winter. The young released in the spring and summer do not reproduce until the next year so that the life cycle is annual.


2021 ◽  
Author(s):  
Larry Ward ◽  
Paul Johnson ◽  
Michael Bogonko ◽  
Zachary McAvoy ◽  
Rachel Morrison

Author(s):  
David Fisher

One day at Ithaca I had screwed my courage to the sticking point, hopped on my Honda scooter, scooted over to the Ithaca airport, and joined the East Hill Flying Club, an organization that owned a Piper Cub and a Tri-Pacer, and I learned how to fly. I had taken a few lessons at the age of fourteen, but quit when we began to do stalls and my stomach had dropped faster than the plane. Now I found that although I was still scared, I could handle it, and I progressed quickly. Probably the single most terrifying, exhilarating moment in my life was my first solo. I hadn’t yet earned my private pilot’s license, but I was able to fly by myself and was allowed, even encouraged, to take short crosscountry trips. For this—and for me—Ithaca was ideally suited. The Tri-Pacer had a four-hour range at 120 knots cruising speed, and Ithaca was well within flying range of Washington, New England, New York—and Brookhaven. I took off and was soon approaching Long Island Sound, and having second thoughts. Whenever I flew out of sight of the Ithaca airport I not only continually looked around the skies to be sure there were no other planes anywhere near me, I also kept my eyes on the ground, picking out level places where I could put the plane down if the motor in front of me ever quit. Now, approaching the Sound, it looked vast and never-ending, with Long Island nothing but a dim, dark line on the horizon. If the engine quit over that water, if I went down … I turned around, was ashamed of myself, turned back again, turned around again, took a deep breath and headed out over that endless expanse of water. Ten minutes later I was approaching Long Island. I skimmed over Port Jefferson, found the little airport that served the lab, and set her down smoothly. A cab took me to Brookhaven, I said hello to everyone, found Joe Zähringer’s notebooks, and was amazed.


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