86 tons of ghost gear removed from Cape Cod Bay since 2013. Crews pulled up more Tuesday.
A bounty of abandoned, lost and discarded fishing gear was unloaded at MacMillan Pier in Provincetown Tuesday afternoon.
Known as ghost gear, the equipment was recovered in and around Provincetown Harbor by a team from the Center for Coastal Studies' Marine Debris and Plastics Program. The crew started around 7 a.m. and arrived back at the dock after 1 p.m. More than 20 lobster traps, along with fishing ropes and some netting, were found.
Since 2013, more than 86 tons of ghost gear have been removed from Cape Cod Bay, according to a press release from the Center for Coastal Studies.
The Marine Debris and Plastics Program will continue its work through April. This is the 10th year for the center's ghost gear removal program in Massachusetts.
Ghost gear is primarily comprised of plastic, said Laura Ludwig, director of the Marine Debris and Plastics Program, in a phone interview Wednesday morning. Plastic is the main focus of this program, she said. The agency wants to remove the large pieces of debris before it becomes microplastics in the ocean.
This is a way to help clean up the ocean, she said.
Ghost gear is typically found on the ocean floor, Ludwig said, adding that — despite some misconceptions — it is not the cause of whale entanglements. Entanglements are caused by active fishing gear, she said.
"We're providing a service for the fishing industry and the habitat," she said.
The program is supported by a grant from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration Marine Debris Program with additional funding from the Bilezikian Family Foundation.
On some of the recovery trips, side-scan sonar surveys are used to identify targets in areas identified by fisherman as likely locations to find the ghost gear. They'll be looking for the gear in Cape Cod Bay, Boston Harbor and Stellwagen Bank National Marine Sanctuary.
All of the recovered gear will be brought into piers in Provincetown, Boston and Sandwich. The gear will be sorted and documented and, when possible, returned to their owners. Other debris will disposed of by recycling or incineration.
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This article originally appeared on Cape Cod Times: What to know about ghost gear hauled from Provincetown Harbor Tuesday
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As he drives off I think about the hundreds of terminally ill combat veterans I've worked with as their hospice social worker. Most were, as combat veteran Tim O'Brien puts it, 'carrying stuff.' Stuff many ― maybe most ― civilians wouldn't understand. That's probably why so many of these veterans had locked it up inside and hidden it from view. Long days in a hospital bed, though, have ways of dredging stuff up. It's normal for patients approaching death to look back on their lives and take stock. When you're looking back on a life that includes the cataclysmic violence and horrific loss and grief of war, this life review process can be psychologically and spiritually complex ― even painful. Many of the combat veterans I've known had spent decades trying not to think or talk (at least not with civilians) about what they'd seen and done. Many suppressed undigested grief for friends who'd been killed or struggled silently with survival guilt, anger or feeling unsafe in the world. Some struggled with explosive tempers, anxiety or depression related to the scars of war; others with emotional numbness, alcohol and/or drug addictions, or feeling disconnected from others. Some had polished up a handful of well-rehearsed war stories sanitized of blood, gore or moral ambiguity, which they'd offered family and friends so as not to upset them. Others simply kept quiet. But as death approaches, it can claw up stories and memories that have been suppressed. These memories can be fragmented and poignant with details of war's horror ― the smell of burning bodies, the eyes of a dead buddy gazing up at the sky, the numb immersion day after day after day in violence, killing and death. Sometimes they are laced with moral pain and shame ― the killing of civilians, lifeless bodies of 'the enemy' being desecrated in the rage of a battle's aftermath. As I walk back to the training, I think about a B-17 pilot who participated in bombing raids during World War II intended to incinerate German cities. The point had been to kill every man, woman and child ― every dog and flea unlucky enough to be on the ground. He'd done his duty and returned from war assured that he'd helped save the world from fascism. But humans, despite misguided notions about war being part of the 'human condition,' are not wired to kill each other however just the cause may seem. As an old man, he was haunted by the belief that he was a mass murderer. He was convinced he was going to go to hell after he died and there he'd feel the kind of fiery torture he believed he'd inflicted on others. Like James, he had winced at reflexive expressions of thanks for his 'service.' The message he heard was: W e believe that you were performing a service, standing up for freedom, protecting the weak, saving democracy. You're a hero. That's our story and we don't want to hear your story if it makes us uncomfortable or challenges us in any way. He didn't want someone else's story shoved down his throat; he wanted someone with whom it was safe to tell his own without being judged or rejected. He wanted to unpack some of what he'd been carrying and find compassion for the 20-year-old young man he'd been when thrust into the bloody savagery of war. He wanted to begin to heal before he died. As someone who works with dying veterans, I've learned to never automatically thank them for their service. I realize many are justifiably proud of their time in the military, of friendships forged, courage shown and service given. I know that most appreciate expressions of thanks and that these expressions are often genuine and heartfelt on the part of those offering them. But I would rather disappoint those who expect me to join the chorus of thanks than close the door on a single veteran like James who needs someone who won't flinch or look away if they choose to share what they have been carrying. Refusing to lead with the culturally sanctioned chant 'Thank you for your service' sends the message to veterans like James that I'm not pushing a story that denies their experience. It's safe to talk. I can be trusted to listen without judging. Those veterans who have noticed and asked about my lack of obedience to the social custom of using the euphemism 'service' have generally understood and appreciated my reasons once we discussed them. Several shared things with me during those conversations they would not otherwise have shared. Things they, too, had been carrying. But there's another reason I never give automatic thanks or use the word service. It's an easy out for the rest of us. It lets civilians like me off the hook when it comes to taking any responsibility for what we have allowed political and military leaders to do in our name. It allows us to wash our hands of any culpability for how they, and we, have used our troops. That's part of what I think James meant when he said all wars are acts of betrayal. Calling the sum of actions taken in war 'service' is a convenient way for the rest of us to deny what our warriors have been asked to do. It makes it easy for us to turn away from or to deny the burning anguish, grief and regret many carry. Insidiously, it also allows us to avoid asking awkward questions: Were we really justified in using violence to kill so many other human beings? Why are we so desperate to idealize those who have done the bloody, heartbreaking work of war? Who profits ― politically or financially ― from all this division and violence? What are we so damned afraid of? The 'service' euphemism has become so prevalent that it is now part of a cultural trance state that shuts down honest conversations about these and other questions. Automatically thanking a veteran for his or her service can inadvertently telegraph to those whose experiences fly in the face of our well-rehearsed storyline that we don't want to hear what really happened ― that we don't care about what they might be carrying. This not only reinforces our collective conceit that our own hands are clean, it ensures that we will not have to carry anything ourselves. Euphemism piles upon euphemism. Hiding the slaughter of war behind the innocuous word 'service' allows us to call the children James saw killed 'collateral damage.' Calling bombs 'smart bombs' and calling it 'precision bombing' when we unleash them on others allows us to conceal those children from our awareness as well as the pangs of grief in those left behind. It even allows some of us to vilify those Americans who dare dissent or protest the dropping of bombs as 'unpatriotic' or 'un-American.' When American troops are killed, we are protected, as though we are children, from any images of their charred and mangled corpses. Once more we are slathered in reassuring euphemisms. Our 'fallen heroes' and their 'brave sacrifice' are lauded by a ratings-obsessed media and politicians vowing revenge on an enemy also in thrall to the delusion that they are providing a service by killing young American men and women. If we really want to 'honor the ultimate sacrifice' our soldiers have made, if we really want to ensure that they have 'not died in vain,' we need to stop lying about war by hiding behind socially enforced rituals, platitudes and euphemisms. If we really want to help those who have survived and carry the wounds of war, we need to stop hiding from and denying war's cruel brutality. We must make sure it is safe for veterans who have been in the military during a time of war ― regardless of whether they were directly exposed to combat ― to speak for themselves and to speak the truth. And we need to listen to all of them, not just the ones whose stories make us feel good about ourselves. Note: Names and some details have been slightly altered to protect the privacy of the individuals discussed in this essay. This essay originally ran in January 2022 and is being rerun now as part of HuffPost Personal's 'Best Of' Series. Scott Janssen is a hospice social worker and writer. He has written extensively about providing trauma-informed care for patients who are terminally ill and has spoken nationally about ways to better support veterans who are nearing the end of their lives. His work has appeared in dozens of publications, including Social Work Today, Psychotherapy Networker, American Journal of Nursing, Reader's Digest, and The Washington Post. His novel Light Keepers is a visionary adventure about the transformational power of kindness and love when the world appears lost in anger, conflict, and fear.
