When you go to sea with one of America’s southernmost lobstermen, it’s best to just stay out of the way

By Bill Newcott
Photograph by Jay Fleming
From the April 2023 issue


The lobsters keep their secrets,” says Wes Townsend almost absentmindedly, pointing us straight out to sea, the soft gray glow of a pending sunrise just beginning to define the dark horizon. 

It is 4:45 a.m. The good ship Paka has been pushing through 4-foot seas and battling 20 mph winds for the past hour, ever since we emerged from under the Indian River Inlet bridge.

Paka rises and falls rhythmically: Sploosh … sploosh … sploosh. Every once in a while, the hull rides a particularly high wave, hesitates at the crest, then freefalls to the trough: SPLOOSH!  

Fundraiser donates 100% of profits

By Maddie Laurie
Photograph coutesy of Winter WonderFest
From the Winter 2022 issue


As in winters past, tens of thousands of people from across Delaware and beyond are expected to visit Hudson Fields near Milton this year to immerse themselves in the sparkling colors of the holiday season. More than a mile of light displays, featuring six dozen classic holiday and “Small Wonder” Delaware-centric scenes, will light up the night during the seventh annual Winter WonderFest. An early evening New Year’s Eve fireworks show returns, as well.

Not only does the event’s “Light Spectacular” literally light up visitors’ eyes, but it’s also a dedicated effort to lift up the community.

‘Alternative medicine’ practitioners followed varied paths to their treatment specialties

By Bill Newcott
Photograph by Carolyn Watson
From the Winter 2022 issue


“You feel that?” whispers Liz Guida. “It’s different, isn’t it?”

I am lying on a table in a softly lit room, immersed in gentle piano music. Guida has her hands on my lower left leg, and she isn’t letting go.

She isn’t rubbing it, either — which comes as some surprise because this table, this darkened room, that mystical music all whisper: “massage.” 

Instead, Guida leaves both hands perfectly still, positioned on a calf muscle that’s been giving me trouble ever since I tried to stride up a steep hill in Pittsburgh a few weeks ago. 

And there they stay. The seconds pass by. Then, it seems, minutes. And she’s right: It is different. I’m feeling the same amount of relief I’d expect from a rub-it-until-it-hurts deep-tissue massage, but without the wincing.

“That’s pretty remarkable,” I say.

Guida just smiles softy. Yes, she knows.