Small Plane Crashes into Long Island Sound Near Tweed Airport, FAA Confirms
A small aircraft crashed into the Long Island Sound south of Tweed New Haven Airport at approximately 10:30 a.m. Sunday, according to the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA).
The plane, identified as a Piper PA-32, was carrying two people at the time of the crash. The condition of those on board has not been publicly disclosed as of this writing.
Emergency services, including the East Haven Fire Department, responded promptly to the scene. In a statement shared via Instagram, the department confirmed that it was working alongside multiple agencies in a coordinated response effort.
The FAA is investigating the cause of the crash. Further details, including the identities of those aboard and the circumstances leading to the incident, are expected as the investigation develops.
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Cedar News
3 days ago
- Cedar News
Small Plane Crashes into Long Island Sound Near Tweed Airport, FAA Confirms
A small aircraft crashed into the Long Island Sound south of Tweed New Haven Airport at approximately 10:30 a.m. Sunday, according to the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA). The plane, identified as a Piper PA-32, was carrying two people at the time of the crash. The condition of those on board has not been publicly disclosed as of this writing. Emergency services, including the East Haven Fire Department, responded promptly to the scene. In a statement shared via Instagram, the department confirmed that it was working alongside multiple agencies in a coordinated response effort. The FAA is investigating the cause of the crash. Further details, including the identities of those aboard and the circumstances leading to the incident, are expected as the investigation develops.
Nahar Net
26-05-2025
- Nahar Net
Meet Hercules and Ned, the border collies fending off wildlife at West Virginia's busiest airport
by Naharnet Newsdesk 26 May 2025, 16:13 Hercules and Ned have quite the spacious office at West Virginia's busiest airport. The border collies and their handler make daily patrols along the milelong airfield to ensure birds and other wildlife stay away from planes and keep passengers and crew safe. Hercules is also the chief ambassador, soaking in affection from passengers inside the terminal while calming some nervously waiting to board a flight at West Virginia International Yeager Airport. Chris Keyser, the dogs' handler and the airport's wildlife specialist, said preventing a bird from hitting a plane "can make a difference for someone's life." How it started Collisions between wildlife and planes are common at airports nationwide. With that in mind, Yeager management in 2018 bought Hercules at the recommendation of a wildlife biologist. Hercules spent the first 18 months of his life training to herd geese and sheep around his birthplace at Charlotte, North Carolina-based Flyaway Geese, which teaches border collies to help businesses address nuisance wildlife problems. When Hercules stepped onto Charleston's airfield for the first time, "I held my breath," Flyaway Geese owner Rebecca Gibson said. "But boy, he took hold of the reins. It was his place. "He's done an amazing job and has just been a great dog for them. We're very proud of him." Along the way, Hercules became a local celebrity. He has his own Instagram and TikTok accounts and regularly hosts groups of schoolchildren. Now 8, Hercules has some help. Ned was 2 when he was welcomed into the fold last year from another kennel where he trained to herd goats and geese. Ned has shadowed Hercules, following commands from Keyser and learning safety issues such as not venturing onto the runway. "Ned's ready to go," Keyser said. "He's picked up on all that. He's doing fantastic, running birds off." Inside the airport operations center, Hercules is laid back until he's told it's time to work, barking at the door in anticipation. Ned, on the other hand, is always moving. When not outside, he'll bring his blue bouncy ball to anyone willing to play fetch. A mountaintop menagerie Charleston's airport is on top of a mountain and has a menagerie of wildlife, including Canada geese, hawks, ducks, songbirds and bats. After it rains, worms come to the surface and cause an increase in bird activity, Keyser said. In addition to taking the dogs on their regular rounds, Keyser is in constant contact with the airport tower, which looks for birds on the field or relays reports from airplanes that see wildlife nearby. "We get plenty of exercise," Keyser said. "You don't gain no weight in this job. It's an all-day job. You're always got your eyes on the field, you've got your ears open listening to the radio." Border collies are among the most energetic dog breeds. They've been used for decades to shoo Canada geese off golf courses. They've also scared away birds at other airports, military bases, and locks and dams. The dogs' instincts are to herd, not to kill. "But in the mind of the bird, they're no different than a coyote or a fox, which is a natural predator for the bird," Gibson said. Bird strikes cause delays About 19,000 strikes involving planes and wildlife occurred at U.S. airports in 2023, of which 95% involved birds, according to a Federal Aviation Administration database. From 1988 to 2023, wildlife collisions in the U.S. killed 76 people and destroyed 126 aircraft. Perhaps the most famous bird-plane strike occurred in January 2009 when a flight from New York's LaGuardia Airport almost immediately flew into a flock of Canada geese, knocking out both engines. Pilot Chesley "Sully" Sullenberger guided the powerless jet into the frigid Hudson River. All 155 people on board survived the incident, which was captured in the 2016 movie "Sully," starring Tom Hanks. At the Charleston airport, wildlife-plane incidents vary each year from a few to a couple dozen. "Anytime a plane hits a bird, it has to be inspected, and it causes a delay in the flight," Keyser said. "And sometimes you don't make your connecting flights. So that's how important it is to keep everything going smooth." In 2022 alone, there were five airplane strikes at the airport involving bats. In December 2000, a plane collided with two deer after landing. The tip of the right engine propeller blade separated and punctured the plane's fuselage, seriously injuring a passenger, according to the FAA. A comforting paw Inside the terminal, Hercules wags his tail as he moves about greeting passengers. Among them was Janet Spry, a Scott Depot, West Virginia, resident waiting to board a flight to visit her daughter and grandchildren in San Antonio. Spry needed a bit of cheering up. In addition to having a fear of flying, Spry's 15-year-old cat was euthanized the previous day after being diagnosed with an inoperable condition. An impromptu visit from Hercules brought a smile — and more. Hercules placed a paw on Spry's arm and delivered plenty of wet kisses. "He's making my day better," Spry said. She also joked whether the airport might want to let Hercules stay with her a while longer. "I think there was an empty seat on the plane beside me," Spry said.
L'Orient-Le Jour
08-05-2025
- L'Orient-Le Jour
When the song stops echoing
In the hills of Mount Lebanon, my grandmother used to sing a lullaby in a now-vanishing form of Lebanese Arabic, echoing the pre-modern cadence of village storytellers. The words, warm and untranslatable, drifted through the cedar trees like the scent of baking bread. But as I write this from my apartment in Beirut, windows open to the hum of traffic and a skyline of cranes, I wonder if that lullaby will be sung to anyone after me. This is the quiet war of cultural preservation in the Middle East. It isn't always fought with arms — more often, it's fought with memory. And in a world racing toward the future, memory is heartbreakingly easy to lose. Modernization has swept the region like a tide: glass towers replacing stone houses, Western curricula replacing oral traditions, TikTok videos replacing folktales. For some, this is progress. For others, it's a slow kind of erasure. The tension between development and identity defines our generation. We are the bridge between what once was and what might never be again. Take the youth of southern Iraq, for example. They've taken to Instagram to showcase traditional reed house construction. Once dismissed as backward, these homes are now reframed as brilliant examples of sustainable architecture. They're using the very tools of globalization to preserve what it once threatened to erase. In Lebanon, the fight is quieter, but no less urgent. It's not just buildings or dialects at risk, but the soul of entire neighborhoods. In Beirut, Mar Mikhael used to smell like manousheh dough. Now, century-old Armenian bakeries stand beside neon-lit bars. The dough still rises, but the context is slipping. Some call it coexistence. Others, like community organizer Silva Chahinian, see it differently. 'When rent triples and the baker closes, we don't just lose bread,' she said. 'We lose memory.' Lebanon has long known wars, and each has left a mark deeper than the rubble. The 15-year Civil War didn't just topple buildings; it cracked open the fabric of daily life. Families were torn apart, neighbors became strangers, and many grew up with memories they were too afraid or too exhausted to speak of. Villages emptied. Dialects slipped away, unspoken and forgotten. Church bells went silent. Songs once passed from one generation to the next faded into the noise of gunfire and sirens. And now, decades later, with tensions rising again in the South, these old wounds feel fresh. Villages near the border have emptied once more. Schools sit in silence. Weddings are postponed with no new dates. What used to be a rhythm of life: early morning songs from the fields and evening stories told over tea have been placed on hold. But even now, people find ways to hold on. A friend from the southern Lebanese coastal city of Sour, heavily bombarded in the latest war with Israel, told me his grandmother still gathers the children each evening to tell them stories she heard as a girl, her voice steady despite the distant hum of drones. 'If the walls fall,' she told them, 'let the stories stand.' In Saida, volunteers preserve folk songs sung by the newly displaced people by recording them on phones, uploading them online and sharing them like treasured keepsakes. In every word and every note, there's a quiet act of defiance: a way of saying, 'We're still here.' Students at the American University of Beirut began an initiative, recording their grandparents' stories in Arabic, Kurdish, and Armenian. Culture in Lebanon has always been more than tradition; its resilience stitched into sound, scent, and memory. It's the unshaken belief that even in the worst of times, something beautiful is still worth saving. In Jordan, Bedouin musicians are digitizing their maqams, preserving not just notes, but the silences between them. In Palestine, embroidery circles have become cultural sanctuaries, where each thread is a story, and every pattern an act of quiet resistance. In Tunisia, a small initiative called " Toufoula" (childhood) brings people together in a deeply personal way. Every month, villagers gather under olive trees or in open courtyards, where elders teach traditional weaving techniques to local children. It's not a lecture but a shared moment. The kids aren't just learning how to weave; they're laughing, asking questions, spilling threads and soaking in stories. It's loud and messy and beautiful. What they're taking in isn't just a skill; it's a way of life, passed down one thread at a time. These efforts may seem small, even invisible. But, they are tectonic. They remind us that culture is not something to be sealed in a glass case. It breathes. It adapts. But, it must not be uprooted. I keep coming back to my grandmother's lullaby. I looked everywhere for it online, but nothing came up. No digital archive, no YouTube cover. Just her voice, now gone. So, I recorded myself singing it, shaky but honest. I sent it to my cousin in France. I scribbled the lyrics phonetically on the back of a receipt. I called my uncle to confirm the melody. It's not a perfect recording. But maybe that's not the point. Maybe what matters is that the song still lives, even if it trembles. Preserving culture doesn't mean standing still. It means moving forward without forgetting where you started. It means carrying your grandmother's voice in your pocket while learning to live in a world she never imagined. In a world that urges us to upgrade, update, and upload, may we also remember to listen. Not just to what's trending, but to what is quietly disappearing. Before the song stops echoing.
