Robert S. McNamara and Me

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From the Archives: The Fenced Letter

When I was a reporter for the Martha’s Vineyard Times during the nineteen-eighties, one of my beats was the town of Oak Bluffs, Massachusetts. A story I covered concerned a private beach club, the East Chop Beach Club, suing the town over the ownership of a bulkhead.

At the turn of the 20^th century, the body of water adjacent to the beach club was known as Squash Pond and was probably fresh water. At that time, about 300 feet of beach land was taken by eminent domain and a channel was dredged, creating a salt water harbor. In the 1930’s the town built a bulkhead. In order to do this, Oak Bluffs was granted an easement to give them access to build and maintain the bulkhead. Members of the town and residents of Oak Bluffs both shared the use of the bulkhead. In 1958, the beach club became a yacht club but kept the beach club name. The town said that they maintained the bulkhead until 1978, when the private club constructed a gate at the entrance to the bulkhead, limiting the town’s access.

 The town owned two acres of beachfront adjacent to the club and you had to cross over club owned land to get to it. This easement remained unobstructed and I would often use that stretch of beach as it was close to where I lived. I would also jog through there during my morning run. One dawn I noticed that the club had started to construct a second fence. This one was on the beach separating their beach from the town beach. It was an eyesore.

By this time, I had quit the Martha’s Vineyard Times twice, which is another story. I was working at a radio station, but this didn’t seem like much of a radio story. It was more of a literary event. I decided to write a letter to the editor and in addition to my former paper, I also submitted it to the Martha's Vineyard Gazette, which was established in 1846. The Martha’s Vineyard Times was established right before I got there. That’s another story.

I remember when I hand delivered the letter to my old paper, the News Editor asked, “Is this an exclusive? Are you just giving this to us?”

And a reporter who knew me better than he did said, “No, he wants this to be read.”

She was right. I gave the letter to both papers. As a matter of fact, I gave it to the Gazette first. They had an earlier filing deadline.

So here’s the letter I wrote.  There’s a lot of metaphor. You may be able to tell I had recently graduated from college with an English degree.  Some people liked this letter. Some people did not. This is what it said:

August 12, 1985

To the Editor:

I was sitting on the public beach in East Chop early one morning late last week, reading a book, when Robert Frost suddenly said, “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall, that sends the frozen-ground-swell under it and spills the upper boulders in the sun, and makes gaps even two can pass abreast.” It was not an unusual thing for the poet to say. He had said it before.

I looked up from the book and noticed that someone had started to build a wooden fence to separate the town owned beach from that portion claimed by the East Chop Beach Club. Whoever the builder was must have done  it during the night or on a previous day, for there was no one at the half completed structure to take responsibility for what was being done.

"The gaps I mean," Frost said, "No one has seen them made or heard them made, but at spring mending-time we find them there."

I stood up and walked over to investigate the fence builder’s handiwork. I brought the book with me.

It was shaping up to be a fine fence as fences go. The builder had gone to the trouble of pouring concrete into the sand to anchor the wooden poles. Further down the line, there were already other holes dug to pour more concrete in to anchor more poles to complete the structure.

As I said before, it was early. The beach was deserted. I looked over at the beach club building and its structure seemed to say, “Good fences make good neighbors.” I think if there had been a member there, I would have asked him to explain.

And Frost said, "We do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across and eat the cones under his pines.”

Although I don’t always agree with Frost, he was right this time. But I didn’t tell him because I would never hear the end of it. I put the book down and ran into the water. There,  the beach club had no authority to build a wall.

On Saturday I returned to the beach with my book and the fence was almost complete. There was someone in the employ of the beach club making a great deal of noise, banging wooden boards onto the fence. The worker then proceeded to staple signs to the board which read: "WARNING! NO TRESPASSING. THIS IS PRIVATE PROPERTY. Hunting, Fishing, Trapping or Trespassing for any purpose is Prohibited Under Penalty of the Law." It was a common sign, not made expressly for the club.

When the worker was done, so was the fence done. He returned to whatever his other duties were at the club. Perhaps he worked at the front desk making sure that everyone who passed his way was a member.

"Before 'I built a wall," Frost took up where he had left off a previous day, "I'd ask to know what I was walling in or walling out, and to whom I was like to give offense." The poet sounded angry, but the beach club did not listen. 

I put the book down to go for a short swim. On my walk to the water I wondered if there would be more fences at the bulkhead if the beach club won the pending land court case. 

"Something there is," Frost grumbled as I dove into the sound,  "that doesn't love a wall, that wants it down.”

                                                                        James Tripp

Oak Bluffs

The Editor of the Martha’s Vineyard Times gave the letter the headline: “Frost on Walls.” I forget what banner was used by the Martha’s Vineyard Gazette. One of my roommates, who sold ads at my paper, asked me if I really had a Robert Frost book with me. I said, “No.” That seemed to bother him. He shouldn’t have been bothered; the letter was the result of the scars of a New England liberal arts education. It was bound to come out that way. He had had a New England business school education---different perspective. It probably would have bothered him to know that I really wasn’t at the beach that first day. I was just jogging through. That’s when I got some of my best ideas. One of my other roommates was a typesetter for the Gazette. She typeset my letter. She didn’t get it either. She thought I was weird. Those two were actually having summer sex with each other---nothing serious. I’m not sure if they got each other.

It turned out I was right to put the letter in the Gazette. Someone on the Planning Commission told me his father read the letter out loud at the dinner table. The next time the Planning Commission met, they determined the fence was built without a permit and they made the East Chop Beach Club take it down.

I don’t know how the lawsuit turned out. I didn’t stay on the island much longer. I did an internet search and I couldn’t find anything about it. I don’t really care anyway. That’s not the point of the story.

I remember that every time one of the DJ’s at the radio station saw me he said, “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall, that wants it down.”

Hurricane Gloria

The recent passing of Hurricane Irene reminds me of similar hurricane warnings along the northeast coast in the fall of 1985 for a storm called Gloria. I was the News Director for WMVY FM, a 3,000 watt radio station out of Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts. Our audience was Cape Cod and the islands of Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket.

WMVY was a small station. It was the type of a station where you knew a lot of your listeners. It was the type of a station where the subject of a story might call up because a friend of his, who I also knew, had heard the story I’d just done about him and he’d ask me to run it during my next report so he could hear it himself and I would. I should point out that in 1985 we did not archive things online. As a matter of fact, there was no online. There was no internet.

In addition to having no internet, I had no wire service. By wire service, I don’t mean Wi-Fi. I mean Reuters or A.P. This meant all the copy I said on air, I had to write. I had a person who covered an afternoon drive position who also covered some local meetings from which she’d create pieces I could plug into my broadcasts and I had some stringers. We were also part of the Mutual Radio Network, which meant that in addition to an hourly report, I could run their coverage of any national story. I could not interact with the network, which meant I was really only set up to cover local stories.

For example, when the space shuttle Challenger exploded, it was such a big story, I had to interrupt programming and lead every report with it. After the initial explosion when the Challenger fell from the sky, but before they started assessing the cause, the next story was going to be when the astronauts were officially pronounced dead. You couldn’t say they were dead before they said they were dead even though everybody was saying they were dead. And they were dead. Everybody knew they were dead. But you couldn’t say it---until they said it.

A news conference was scheduled at exactly the same time as I was scheduled to go on the air and I knew they were going to announce that the astronauts were dead. The only way I could follow the story was to have a television in the booth turned down very low with Dan Rather covering the press conference, while I read the other news. You go about your business, Dan. I’ll go about mine.  It was like having an earpiece in my ear, only much bigger. You might say Dan was an unpaid stringer. And sure enough, as soon as Dan Rather announced that the astronauts were dead, so did I. What a scoop!

So when Hurricane Gloria showed up as a category 4 storm, it was a big story. It was a big national story. My connections with the local selectmen probably wouldn’t do me much good. It was definitely the type of story where, in those days, you needed a wire service if you wanted to know what was going on, so you’d have something to say on air. At one point we hooked up the Weather Channel, but its coverage was national and not specific to Cape Cod and the Islands. And who watches that station, anyway? Not me.

On the morning of the storm I received a telephone call from some LA TV news producer for a Ken and Barbie type noon news show, who summered on the Vineyard, and he thought it would be neat and keen to call me during the broadcast to get an update on the storm from the Vineyard. Say, that did sound like a good idea. Good luck. The only way I could really tell what was going on with the storm on the Vineyard was to look out the window. And even then, the station was surrounded by trees, so you never really got a great look at the sky. I said, “Sure!”

This was in the days before graphics took over news shows, but they were just starting, calling Gloria “Stormwatch ’85!” I felt like I was getting in on the ground floor.  And I was. “The world will end at ten. Film at eleven.”

The thing about this storm is that it never materialized. I mean, there was some rain, but not much. It didn’t live up to the hype. In preparation for the storm, hatches got battened, windows were taped and vehicles were prohibited from being on the road unless you were police, fire or press. That’s right. I got to be out in the storm. That certainly would have been one way to report about it, but not for what they paid me. I stayed indoors and looked out the window or watched the Weather Channel.

So when the producer from the Ken and Barbie LA noon TV news show called up, I was ill prepared. What did I care? They weren’t paying me. This wasn’t my big break. When I heard the phone ring I looked out the widow. “Yup,” I said to myself. “It’s dark out there. It looks like it’s gonna rain. “It ain’t a fit [day] out for man or beast.”

So it turned out this was a big story in L.A. Rain in L.A. was a big story. They were gonna lead their noon news with the hurricane. “They’re gonna throw to you, James Tripp, to find out what’s going on in the eye of the storm.” 

“Sounds, like a good idea,” I assured him, although it sounded like a horrible idea. I didn’t know what was going on. The window was starting to steam up.

This producer did less prep with me than a segment producer from the Tonight Show. A Tonight Show segment producer would be like, “Okay, so what other storms have you done? How can Ken and Barbie set up your lead? What’s your closing bit? Do you have any storm dates in the future?” If he asked just one question, “What’s your closing bit?” He would have found out I didn’t have an opening bit. He wasn’t smart enough to ask. What could you expect from an off-islander who just summered on the Vineyard?

So I could hear on the phone their noon news theme starting and a roll call of all the Ken and Barbies on the show and the first story is Gloria “We now go,” says Ken, “To WMVY News Director James Tripp, who is on Martha’s Vineyard in the heart of the storm. Welcome James.”

“Thanks Ken. It’s good to be here with you and Barbie.”

“James, can you tell us what it’s like back there?”

“Well, it’s really not so bad, Ken. We’re still kind of waiting for the storm to hit, but nothing’s happened so far.”

I could tell Ken and Barbie were a little put off. Clearly, they had access to information I did not. “But James,” said Barbie, “According to our Accuweather Satellite map, the storm has already passed over your region.”

“Oh, really?” I said. “I guess it wasn’t so bad.”

Clearly, this was not what Barbie or Ken wanted to hear. I felt bad for them. At this exact moment, we lost power at the station. And in my best Ted Baxter voice I said, “Ken, we’ve just lost power in the station, and I can only imagine it’s off all over the island.”

At this point Ken said, “We’re going to go to a commercial. We’ll be right back.” And they were but I wasn’t. Oh well. I wondered if that segment producer would ever be able to summer on the Vineyard again. Not my problem.

The only thing that could have made that lead segment worse was a version of Van Morrison’s Gloria, which everyone seemed to be playing that week including WMVY. It’s a good thing James Taylor or Carly Simon hadn’t recorded a version of that platter or it would have been in a constant rotation.

So I had destroyed Ken and Barbie’s noon broadcast. My work was done. I had finished my own broadcasts for the day. My afternoon person was on air for the rest of the day. I stuck around and filed a story that I had run on WMVY with the Mutual Network, which they failed to buy. It was a story about a bunch of people at one of the island shelters throwing a Hurricane Party. A Mutual Radio Network editor deemed it “unprofessional.” The storm was not a party. The storm was a disaster.

When the County Commissioners declared that the disaster was over, I announced it over the air and my day was done. I drove the deserted streets of the island. There were no other police, fire or press vehicles.  I thought about the day and I thought about Ken and Barbie. Poor Ken and Barbie. It was pretty funny.

Still, I felt a little bad. Their noon broadcast, Pacific Standard Time, seemed important to them. It was not so important to me. Maybe being a reporter wasn’t for me. Maybe I should be a stand-up comedian.

Robert S. McNamara: 1916-2009

When I was the News Director for WMVY FM on Martha’s Vineyard, I had occasion to interview Robert McNamara about a particular story.

I believe it was the summer of 1985, although I may be wrong. It could have been the summer of 1986. I am no longer a reporter and so I am no longer under any obligation to check the facts. It’s not really important to the story.

I do know that it was summer. I do know that Robert McNamara kept a boat docked in Vineyard Haven Harbor.

On this particular occasion my program director came to me and said, “Some people are saying that Robert McNamara’s boat is sticking out into the traffic lane.”

“Some people?” I said.

“Some people.” he said.

“What people?”

“Some people.”

I did not know who some people were, but clearly they were some people. They were saying that Robert McNamara’s boat was sticking out into the lane of traffic.

Martha’s Vineyard is an island. Although they had an airport, most people came onto the island on ferries that docked in Vineyard Haven. Some people were saying that Robert McNamara’s boat was making it difficult for the ferries to dock. It may still be that way today. Somebody else will have to check on that.

Then my program director told me I should call Robert McNamara and ask him about the charges. I inquired if he had McNamara’s number. He said, “No,” but some people he knew might have it.

Sure enough, some people did have his number and I gave him a ring. I don’t know what kind of boat he had, but it must have been a big one, the kind that some people will just never have, the kind that sticks out into lanes of traffic.

I don’t remember exactly how our conversation went, but it went something like this:

“Mr. McNamara, my name is James Tripp and I’m the News Director for WMVY. I’d like to ask you about where you dock your boat.”

“Oh, that again?” he said or something like it.

“Can I record this interview for broadcast?”

I don’t remember exactly what he said, but the general tone was, “You’re darn right you can!” Clearly, here was a man who wanted to get out his side of the story.

I said, “Some people are saying that your boat is sticking out into the lane of traffic, making it particularly hard for the ferries to dock.”

“Some people?” he said.

“Some people.” I said.

“What people?”

“Some people.”

“Well, that’s a lot of horse hockey,” he said, or something like that or not like that at all. He then went on to defend his boat slip. He outlined the history of his boat in that slip with a passion I’m sure he brought to his study of the history between China and Vietnam. By the time he was done he had me thinking, “Mmm…maybe some people are wrong.” Of course, maybe they were right. On any occasion, I had my sound bite. Thank-you, Mr. McNamara.

Perhaps I should have asked him if his boat was sticking out too far into the Gulf of Tonkin, but that was another story, not as important as this particular one.

To this day I’m not sure what kind of a boat he had. I was never invited onboard.