Biggest great white shark recorded by group moves up Atlantic coast
Contender, a nearly 14-foot long adult great white male shark, was first tagged by OCEARCH in January 2025. He was first spotted off the coast of Georgia, then spent time near Florida. For the past several weeks, he has been moving northward, with his tracking device pinging multiple times off the coast of South Carolina and North Carolina. On June 11, his tracker pinged just 22 miles off the coast of Cape Hatteras.
OCEARCH said in an Instagram post that Contender appears to be following standard great white migratory patterns and heading up north for the summer season, and is "making moves along the Atlantic coast." The species spends the winter in warmer, southern waters, OCEARCH said. The sharks then head to "cooler, more prey-dense waters" near Canada for the next few months.
The Outer Banks are a "common rest stop" for the species, OCEARCH said, likely because of rich food resources in the area. The spot also allows the sharks to prepare for the journey north, which may span more than 1,000 miles.
Tracking Contender's movements gives OCEARCH "valuable data on the lives of white sharks in the Northwest Atlantic," the organization said.
"Every ping helps us get one step closer to understanding and protecting these incredible animals," the agency said.
Contender's tag pings, as well as those of other tagged sharks, are publicly available on OCEARCH's site. Contender's tag will provide his location for about five years, CBS News previously reported.
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Los Angeles Times
13 hours ago
- Los Angeles Times
A Palestinian home kitchen reopens in Watts with falafel and fundraisers for Gaza
Mid East Eats — a popular falafel pop-up turned private dinner service — is now open as a fast-casual destination for homestyle Palestinian cuisine with an L.A. edge. It's also the first legally permitted home kitchen in Watts. Sumer and Andrew Durkee's nearly 700-square-foot home on Grape Street has a white banner stretched across the front gate, with blown-up photos of pita wraps, rice bowls, tacos and nachos topped with falafel. Enter the front yard, outfitted with a few tables, and maybe one of the home cooks will greet you, if they're not busy wrapping burritos or throwing meat on a grill. Business has kicked up since the Durkees relaunched Mid East Eats three weeks ago. The restaurant initially began as a private dinner service in February, when Sumer and Andrew offered Palestinian feasts in a decorated tent on their front lawn. For the July 12 opening, the pair added halal chicken and beef shawarma to their largely vegan menu — think fast-casual food like Shawacos (corn tortillas filled with shawarma, cilantro-lime hummus and feta) alongside dishes like the El Jifnawi falafel wrap, named after Sumer's father's Palestinian village, and the West Bank burrito, with fresh fries like the wraps served by street vendors in Ramallah and Jerusalem. From the ages of 9 to 12, Sumer and her family lived in Jifna — a village outside the West Bank city of Ramallah, where she and her brother went to school. The Maryland native recalls living through the Second Intifada, a Palestinian uprising against Israeli military occupation, which began in 2000. 'My brother and I saw a lot of terrible things just by crossing the checkpoint to get to school in the city,' Durkee said. 'When they would close the checkpoints, we'd have to travel over the hills. … We've been shot at.' For Durkee, being able to serve Palestinian food in L.A., sometimes to local Palestinians, is bittersweet. As an entire generation of Palestinian children suffer irreversible damage from starvation and malnutrition, Durkee grapples with her role and platform as an owner-operator of a Palestinian restaurant. A week after reopening Mid East Eats, she announced that she would stop posting pictures of her restaurant's food on Instagram until Israel ended its blockade of food aid into Gaza. 'It feels insensitive to hold a grand opening during these times, but the time has come to open consistent business hours. Mid East Eats is our only source of income,' read an Instagram post from the restaurant. 'Our grand opening is dedicated to all oppressed communities. We need each other more than ever now.' Before it opened as a microenterpise home kitchen operation (MEHKO) in Feburary, Mid East Eats got its start as a pop-up last summer. The Durkees served dishes like falafel tacos at events across L.A., sometimes up to five per week. It's the same food they now serve in Watts, where many residents live more than half a mile from the closest supermarket, according to the U.S. Department of Agriculture's Food Access Research Atlas. 'I wanted to make food more accessible to our neighborhood — Watts is a bit of a food desert,' said Sumer, whose bubbly personality and warm hospitality has helped the restaurant maintain a flow of customers. 'There's a lot of fast food … there's no Mediterranean, Middle Eastern or Palestinian food.' Mid East Eats is one of the greater L.A. area's roughly 150 MEHKOs, thanks to a state program that was passed in 2018 and was implemented in L.A. County last November. It allows residents to cook and sell food out of their homes and plans to subsidize 1,000 home businesses through June 2026. MEHKOs are limited to serving up to 30 meals per day and 90 meals per week, with no more than $100,000 annual gross sales. Since its pop-up days, a common thread throughout the Durkees' business has been advocacy for Gaza. Many of the pop-ups Mid East Eats attended were fundraisers for families in Gaza, along with other causes such as local wildfire relief. The restaurant's reopening, which featured a few local vendors, raised money for two local community organizations and $100 for a family in Gaza. On the last weekend of July, Mid East Eats fundraised with sales of its West Bank burrito, donating $400 to two other families in Gaza. 'We [donate] direct to families that are unable or too far away from aid distribution,' Sumer said. 'Unfortunately, they have to buy food at inflated prices, so that's why I try to focus on rotating families.' Mid East Eats is best known for its herbaceous falafel, which Sumer stuffs with mint, cilantro and parsley. While she doesn't use an exact family recipe, Sumer said that it 'comes from my soul,' and tastes like the falafel her aunt would make. She and Andrew also take pride in cooking with olive oil made by a Palestinian family in Garden Grove. Vanessa Guerra, a loyal customer who discovered Mid East Eats through a fundraising falafel-making class the Durkees held last year, has no problem driving from her home in Northridge to Watts for falafel. 'They're amazing people — if someone needs help, they're there to help you,' said Guerra, whose great-grandfather is Palestinian, of the Durkees. 'I'm not just paying for the food. I'm paying for the service, everything. … It's very home-like. It's like going to your mom's house.' Open the Durkees' front gate to find tomato plants growing along the fence. To the left is another table accompanied by fig and lime trees. Next to the house, a young watermelon plant, and in front of it, the colorful tent where the couple formerly held private dinners for $95 per person. 'I really wanted to do the Palestinian experience — I wanted people to come over, feel like they're at home, come sit on the ground,' Sumer said. 'Back in the village, we would sit on the floor and eat. Most modern-day Palestinians don't do that anymore, but we did … I wanted to have that vibe, and I wanted to cook traditional food.' Though the Durkees have paused the private dinners until mid-August to focus on their fast-casual service, it remains a core aspect of Mid East Eats, according to Sumer. Now, for $195 per person, diners will sit inside the tent on colorful cushions around a circular wooden table, feasting on a selection of mezze and mint lemonade followed by Sumer's maqlubeh, or fragrant rice flipped upside down, revealing a layer of eggplant, cauliflower and tomatoes. 'When we do the private dinners, what I really focus on is the foods that we really eat back home — the stuffed grape leaves, stuffed cabbage, stuffed zucchini,' Sumer said. 'It's important to me to preserve my culture through food.' The Durkees continue to support both families in Gaza and their Watts neighbors however they can — which, after the reopening, most often manifests as falafel wraps and forearm-length shawarma burritos bursting with garlic toum, tahini and Andrew's homemade jalapeño sauce. 'Of course I'm gonna fight for Palestinian liberation. These are my people,' Sumer said. 'I want to bring people here, and I want them to come and experience that Palestinian hospitality, and that is important to me — to show people that we are humans.' Mid East Eats is open in Watts on Thursday through Sunday from noon to 9 p.m. 9613 Grape St., Los Angeles,
Newsweek
a day ago
- Newsweek
Abandoned Dog Found Tied Up With Heartbreaking Note: 'Don't Want Him Back'
Based on facts, either observed and verified firsthand by the reporter, or reported and verified from knowledgeable sources. Newsweek AI is in beta. Translations may contain inaccuracies—please refer to the original content. An abandoned dog, found tied up at the park with a note, landed in the right hands, despite the unfortunate circumstances. Erica Loring received a call from a neighbor who found a pup tethered at the local park. As someone who has fostered countless canines, Loring knew she needed to step in and help. She arrived to find the dog, Juniper, calmly lying on the sidewalk, tied to the park's entrance sign. He greeted her with happy tail wags and sniffs. The note read: "Just got him and it was too much for me. Nice dog. Can't keep him and the original owner doesn't want him back. Please help." Loring immediately took Juniper to the car, and he hopped in, no questions asked. She said in her June 27 Instagram video to the account @super_scooty that the dog seemed to be thrilled about driving in the car. It was as if he knew a better life was in his future. Screenshots from a June 27 Instagram video of a dog tied up to a park sign, left, and abandoned with a note, right. Screenshots from a June 27 Instagram video of a dog tied up to a park sign, left, and abandoned with a note, right. @super_scooty/Instagram However, because no one was available to be an immediate foster to Juniper, Loring brought him to the San Diego Humane Society. A dog in her home prevented her from taking him back to her place. "I knew the SD Humane Society is the best-possible no-kill shelter in the country," Loring told Newsweek via Instagram. "We have an amazing program here. I dropped him off, but I went to visit him every day." Every day since then, Loring came bearing doggy treats and smothering Juniper with love. She posted daily videos about the pup, cautious that he wouldn't slip through the cracks and be forgotten, but, soon enough, seven families expressed their interest in adopting him, Loring said. One family got matched with a different pit bull, which freed up space in a foster home and allowed Juniper to move in once his stray hold time expired. "Because the families came from various areas of the country, Oregon, Nevada, Utah, northern California, etc., we didn't know how long it would take to actually get people to come visit him," Loring said. "We decided to foster him while we figure out who was the perfect home for him." Within a week, Juniper's forever family came and adopted him. She said they absolutely adore him and his "big personality." Juniper has especially taken to the family's child, with the two being inseparable. Viewer Reactions The Instagram video, which reached almost 1 million views as of Tuesday, instantly left people heartbroken, but they applauded Loring's selfless and quick action. "Glad you took that horrible collar off he was left with," posted a viewer. Another added: "I'm sick of this world. What a sweet boy. I wish I could take all the animals." A third person commented: "Can you imagine if someone tied up a baby to a tree and left a note? To me, it's literally the same thing." Do you have funny and adorable videos or pictures of your pet you want to share? Send them to life@ with some details about your best friend, and they could appear in our Pet of the Week lineup.
Time Magazine
2 days ago
- Time Magazine
The Unspoken Etiquette of Mourning on Social Media
When Molly Levine, 28, lost her father in the summer of 2023, 'life stopped.' Just weeks earlier, she had been dating, posting comedic TikToks, and balancing a high-stress product job at Google with sweaty nights out in New York. Now, she could barely get out of bed. She took leave from work and holed up with her family, surviving on chunks of chocolate babka she'd eat late at night, when everyone had cleared out of the family kitchen. Reading about death, finding meaning in memories, and searching for signs from the other side consumed her days. But another, more frivolous concern gnawed at her. 'After you lose someone, you have to immediately decide whether you're going to be one of those people who posts or not,' Levine says. 'And I know people say, 'There's no right way to grieve,' but on social media—it almost feels like there is.' What do you share? When do you share it? And is it bad if you don't post at all? These were the questions that tormented Levine in the weeks after her father's death. 'It feels silly,' she says. 'You're like, 'Is this what I'm really thinking about?' But you are.' Grief gone viral Jensen Moore, a journalism professor at The University of Oklahoma, studies how people grieve on social media. '[Millennials and Gen Z] post their breakfast. They post themselves on the toilet. They've done everything,' she says. 'So mourning online is just an extension of living their lives online for everyone to see.' Ten days after her father's passing, Levine crafted a 350-word caption to accompany a photo of her father to post on Instagram. Comments and DMs from her community poured in, offering their memories and condolences. But Levine, a social media savvy young millennial, knew the line between sharing and scaring. 'I really refined my message,' she says. 'I was very cognizant of how uncomfortable I could make other people.' As social media reshapes how we share—and grieve—there are many for whom public mourning still feels gauche, even offensive. Vogue editor Chloe Malle notably loathes mourning-by-emoji. 'An Instagram feed is just too public a platform for meaningful mourning,' she wrote in her 2014 essay, 'Why We Should Give Up Public Mourning on Social Media.' Yet, others are crucified for not posting quickly enough—like when 90210 fans attacked Jenny Garth for her silence after Luke Perry's death, or when the internet turned on the Friends cast for waiting days to acknowledge Matthew Perry's passing. In one of her studies, Moore examined how people self-police online grief. 'It used to be, you would never post a picture of someone grieving or a photo of the deceased,' Moore says. 'This generation is posting TikToks of themselves crying.' In 2013, the millennial 'funeral selfie' trend broke the internet, triggering a flood of commentary about the generation's perceived apathy and vanity. Over a decade later and the conversation still hasn't moved beyond moral panic. 'Do I have a photo with them? It's the first thing you think of when someone dies,' says Jay Bulger, a 43-year-old filmmaker from D.C. 'It's a mad scramble to post.' When Kobe Bryant died tragically in 2020, social media became one giant memorial. But mourners were criticized. 'Why are you sobbing online about a basketball player you didn't know?' Moore recalls the pushback. Public grief often reads as strategic—an invitation for sympathy, likes, or cultural proximity. Some call this new wave of mourning content 'performative grief,' says Moore. 'Because those likes can potentially earn you more followers, or in some cases, money.' But for those genuinely trying to express their loss, the online landscape can feel like a minefield: sincere grief is often met with suspicion, judgment, or the assumption that it's all for show. 'I have friends who've been very vocal with their grief, and people didn't know how to handle it,' Levine says. She recalls a conversation with friends, criticizing someone's post for being too raw, too unfiltered. 'People just don't know what to do with grief. We don't know how to talk about it without freaking people out.' Read More: When the Group Chat Replaces the Group There are practical reasons for grieving online, says Pelham Carter, a psychology professor at Birmingham City University. It spreads the word. It offers catharsis and connection. Engaging with a deceased person's profile can help sustain a bond beyond the grave. But every post, photo, or story risks transgressing invisible social landmines of what is and isn't acceptable. 'There are these very nuanced rules that are hard to navigate, because they are unwritten,' Carter explains. 'But you get a feeling for when there's been a breach in etiquette.' For Jack Irv, a 30-year-old actor who grew up in New York City, the entire production of grieving on social media 'feels exhibitionist.' In his early 20s, he was part of the city's graffiti scene, climbing up scaffoldings to spray paint with some of the city's best artists. But 'graffiti writers die all the time,' he says. It was the first time he saw his network mourning publicly. 'You get forced into action,' Irv explains. 'It's like proving who is closer. There's a competitive aspect.' Social media can breed competition and comparison, which extends to online grief, says Moore. 'Who's grieving better, who wrote the best eulogy, who posted the best photo, who was closest,' she says. Irv resents the tone of these posts—'It's like a long rambling story about the time they spilled making pasta together.' It feels cheap, he says, that intimacy gets flattened into a caption. Irv recalls in one instance, an acquaintance who was not especially close to the deceased, became the loudest mourner online. 'It made us all feel strange,' he says. Navigating grief's social hierarchy online can be fraught, Carter says. Posting too soon or too often can give the impression you were closer to the deceased than others believe you were. 'It's bumping yourself higher up in the hierarchy than people feel you should be,' says Carter. 'But it's very hard for us, especially in the throes of grief, to acknowledge that there are different forms of closeness.' Who gets to mourn online? In a 2022 study, Carter and co-author Rachel King found a striking disconnect: participants saw their own grief posts as genuine—but assumed others were just seeking attention. Most cited a 'genuine outpouring of grief' as their reason for posting. Yet they believed others were abusing the process. 'There was a hypocritical side,' Carter says. 'People assumed their grief was sincere—but others' were performative.' In 2019, Jennifer, 30, who asked that TIME not include her real name because of the sensitivity of the circumstance, lost a close friend to suicide. The loss sent shockwaves through her tightknit friend group. 'Privately, there were vulnerable conversations between friends where the grief felt real,' she recalls. 'But online, something shifted.' On Instagram, she says, the mourning felt curated. 'It felt more like perception management than actual grief.' In the weeks after her friend's death, unspoken rules emerged. 'The etiquette was: those closest to the deceased had the right to post, and their posts should be engaged with. If you weren't in the inner circle, the rule was: don't post,' she says. These rules were administered via cold shoulders and whispers. Digital anthropologist Crystal Abidin interviewed young people experiencing the first death of a friend to explore a core question: who gets to grieve, how, and why? She found the tension had less to do with competition between mourners and more to do with how grief was received by the inner circle. The young women in Abidin's study outlined unwritten rules: who gets to grieve first, who gets to grieve more, and what must stay private. Breaches often came down to timing—like posting before a partner or family member. On Facebook memorial pages, they didn't want the first post coming from a random friend. 'There's weight given to your tie to the deceased,' Abidin says. As consumers of the internet, 'we're savvy,' says linguist Korina Giaxoglou, author of A Narrative Approach to Social Media Mourning. 'Even at our most sincere, we still want our posts to reach and engage—that's what posting is.' But that doesn't make us hypocrites, she adds. 'You can want attention and still be fully present in your grief.' Read More: When TikTok Trends Send Kids to the Emergency Room In Western culture, open grief is often frowned upon, Giaxoglou says. There is an understanding that 'during the bereavement period you shouldn't seek attention.' But in other cultures, grief is communal. In the Asia Pacific region, where Abidin conducts much of her research, grieving loudly and publicly is 'how you show that you're a part of that community.' She says, 'It's not uncommon in some funerals to hire mourners whose jobs are to cry, because the louder the cries, the more it shows how loved this person was.' As younger generations move grief from bedrooms and chatrooms to public profiles, conversations around death are returning to the public square. 'As a community, we need to see these expressions in order to recover,' Giaxoglou says. 'Otherwise, it's like we're hiding our emotions.' A year later, Levine has developed a dark humor about grieving online. 'In some ways, if you don't post about your grief, it's like—did you even care?' she says with a smile. She remembers staring at her Instagram grid, wondering how to follow up a memorial post of her father: 'What's my re-entry going to be? I don't want to signal that I'm over it. I'll be grieving forever.' Years later, Levine is once again making funny videos on TikTok. 'I look back now, and wonder what changed where I was like, 'Okay, now I can post a sunset again.''
