Postcards from the South Coast

Editor’s Note: These New Bedford scenes were reported by The Light’s 2026 summer interns, who are part of the South Coast Internship program, designed for local students.

Chains jingle against the bottoms of docked boats like wind chimes. A briny scent rides the afternoon breeze across Mattapoisett Town Wharf. A few people bike up and down the wharves.

“Are we getting ice cream here?” a young girl asks her mother as they approach a small shack by the water. She reads the menu boards and asks, “Have I had a cheese dog before?”

After her mother assures her that they’ll leave room for ice cream, the girl runs off with two other children, shouting “quahog and lemonade,” over her shoulder. Flip-flops slap against the pavement as they run toward the gazebo — then the footfalls are absorbed in the grass.

With the children gone, the mother talks with another woman whose pregnant belly shows beneath her dress. Through wide smiles they discuss the baby due soon.

The shack is called The Slip, but doesn’t have a sign. Locals line up anyway for lunch and ice cream. Across the grass, an elderly couple pulls camping chairs out of a wagon and spreads out crackers and seltzers across a picnic table. On a bench overlooking a thin stretch of beach, a woman rubs her partner’s back, pointing to sights across the water. 

Then the young girl and the other children return to the shack; the three of them hold out their arms for balance as they hop across the rocks.

Nearby a family has propped their bicycles on kickstands and are enjoying snacks they brought in plastic bags. As the father eats, he reads an informational sign titled, “Historically Speaking… Mattapoisett Wharves.”

Most of the movement on the wharves comes from the boats themselves, rocking gently on the surface of the water, which is clear enough to see to the ocean floor beneath the dinghies. Seaweed coats the sand like moss, and small fish occasionally dart by. 

Water drains from an oyster nursery into the sea, and — when standing next to it — the rush of water drowns out the rustling wind and rattling chains. On the parallel wharf, a woman reads an e-book. Two men on bicycles stop beside her to chat. Further along, another woman holds the hand of a young child. “You know what this is called? It’s called a boat ramp,” she says. 

Gray clouds begin to roll in, but the line at The Slip continues to grow. Like the boats tied to the wharf’s colorful ladders, the people seem bound to this place.

— Julien Pedro

New Bedford’s Brooklawn Park is home to many noises, but the loudest might be the squeals of children. The shouts ring out loudest when the red bucket above the park’s splashpad fills completely, tips over, and dumps onto the gleeful heads below. 

A familiar tune lilts through the playground when the ice cream truck arrives. Right on cue, the children stream through the gate of the splashpad, leaving puddles behind them. 

“Ice cream! Ice cream!” they shout. They stand empty-handed in front of the van until their parents trickle towards the truck, rummaging through their purses and pockets. 

Brooklawn is visited by people of all ages. While children bounce around the splashpad, a young woman jogs with her dog. A group of men play basketball, and shouts of victory drown out groans of defeat. 

A father and son walk toward the pond, where dozens of geese dip their heads under the water and ruffle their wings to beat the heat. Occasionally they spray water through the air. 

The boy tosses bread to the geese as he moves along the path. The geese, after eagerly pecking the crumbs off of the pavement, begin to follow the boy, hoping for more. 

“Dad, look! They like me,” he says, and throws them more food.

The far side of the pond looks onto Acushnet Avenue, where construction and clanging machinery are making their way toward the park. The geese respond with loud honks of their own.

On a lunch break, one of the construction workers heads toward the park. He pulls a small blue cooler behind him, and while still wearing his safety vest and sunglasses, the man arrives at a shaded bench and eats his sandwich. 

When a teenage boy rides his electric bike into the parking lot and begins to practice wheelies, the group of elderly people sitting in the community center share their distaste, shaking their heads in unison. The boy — whose stuffed animal keychain contrasts with black clothing, helmet, and bike — seems to notice, and leaves after a few minutes. 

As the day continues, the sounds of Brooklawn shift. Children’s cheers transition into farewells, and the dribbling of a basketball turns into the jingling of car keys. The one constant is the ever-present honks of the geese.

— Samantha Medeiros

Families occupy every picnic table at Westport Sea Farms, choosing between lobster rolls, oysters, and hot dogs. And just beyond the restaurant, a crowd gathers along the docks as musicians play folk tunes on mandolins, guitars, an upright bass, and other instruments.

Nine musicians sit in a loose semicircle beside the lobster boats, singing “Good Old Mountain Dew,” a Prohibition-era tune about moonshining. Their feet tap to the beat next to instrument cases strewn on the pavement, coffee tumblers resting beside folding chairs, and scattered sheet music. With no stage, no sound system, and no seating, people pause during evening walks, listen for a few songs, chat with neighbors, then continue on.

The wind, the restaurant’s dinner rush, barking dogs, and conversations from the audience all blend into the music. The musicians don’t compete with the atmosphere — the music settles naturally into it. 

Regulars know to arrive on Wednesday evenings. Visitors often discover it by accident.

Behind the musicians, weather pilings rise from the harbor and fishing boats undulate at their slips. This waterfront has changed since Westport Point was a busy whaling port in the 19th century. As many as 20 to 30 vessels sailed at a time from these wharves at the height of the industry. Carpenters, blacksmiths, coopers, and sailmakers lined these docks, preparing voyages that could last for years. Today, only the lobster boats fill the slips. 

When the music fades, dock lines pull against cleats and creak when they get too far. Water laps beneath the wooden piers. An occasional whoosh of cars comes from the Route 88 bridge. 

Odors of lobster pots, damp wood, and bait will linger at the point until the music returns next week. 

— Anna Brenner

Visitors look from the boardwalk toward Battleship Cove. They see the 680-foot-long USS Massachusetts and the 5-inch guns aboard the USS Joseph P. Kennedy, Jr. Shadows from the Charles M. Braga Jr. Memorial Bridge, named for the Fall River serviceman killed at Pearl Harbor, spill over the ships on a cloudy evening.  

Bright lights from the carousel glow as children ride the painted horses. Runners, families and dogwalkers pass by. Some talk with each other, some speak on the phone, while others admire the solemn view.

A child on a pink scooter rides by, her ponytail flying in the wind. At the same time, a swan floats on the water. The whooshing sound of cars from the nearby bridge blends with the footsteps, conversation, and seagull chatter.

A gold plaque in front of a tree reads, “This American Elm symbolizes the spirit of USS Massachusetts Sailors, from the Battleship BB-59 to the Submarine SSN-798.” The shade-giving branches honor the legacy of sailors who served aboard the World War II ships and submarines preserved here.

A water taxi passes and a dozen sailboats sit upon the flat river. Steps away is the Captain Thomas J. Hudner Jr. Memorial Building, which serves as a visitor center. Inside, the plaque memorializes the Navy officer and Fall River native who earned the Medal of Honor for his actions trying to save the life of his squadron mate, Ensign Jesse L. Brown. 

Today, signs posted on the building offer free events — film screenings, scavenger hunts and dance performances. 

As the evening wears on, the steady rhythm of the boardwalk, named for former Fall River state representative and mayor Robert Correia, grows ever livelier. More walkers arrive, joggers make their way down the boardwalk, and the waterfront fills with the sounds of quiet conversation.

— Aida Delano

Residents and visitors on West Island are active during a windy summer evening. This includes the osprey nest that towers 30 feet over Hoppy’s Landing’s parking lot. A mother and her juvenile occupy the nest, and the younger bird continuously calls out. 

Across the street, people sit outside at Off the Hook, a restaurant connected to a bustling boat dock. Tonight it’s filled with powerboats flying American flags of varying sizes. At a window outside the restaurant, a group of people wait in line for ice cream. Two toddlers play Jenga together before one yells “Destroy!” and knocks the tower over. A father and son compete in a game of cornhole. An employee on break sits on the railing above the water scrolling his phone. 

On West Island the roads are mostly empty; only an occasional car or golf cart passes by. Off the causeway road, only two chairs enjoy a small beach. A man sits in one while watching a younger girl walk along the shore. 

Most of the houses that line the road to the larger town beach are raised on stilts. Multicolored towels hang on a clothesline outside one cottage. Beneath a World War II lookout tower, cars line up at the town beach’s parking lot. 

The pathway to the beach is surrounded by tall grasses. It’s high tide, so a family of three reaches the water almost immediately. They walk parallel to the shoreline over piles of rocks, shells, and dried seaweed. Further down the beach, a mother and daughter walk their dog. 

Sandpipers hop near the water as a sailboat glides past. In the distance, the Elizabeth Islands peek over the horizon, along with a faint outline of the Bourne Bridge over the Cape Cod Canal.

Other birds fight the wind while diving into the ocean. One part of the beach is roped off, and a sign says the area is restricted to protect the nests of terns and plovers. On another part of the beach, the remainders of a sand castle slump into the sand. 

One couple walks up the path towards the parking lot. Behind the beach and parking lot there’s a salt marsh, where a crane walks near pools of water. 

— Liv Hunt

The wind pushes through the trees at Apponagansett Beach in South Dartmouth as a flock of seagulls glide over the water. They plant their webbed feet into the sand and squawk like they’re trying to get attention. Then they fly off, onto their next scavenge. 

Just yards away, groups of friends and families sunbathe – though it’s an overcast day. Two women sit far from the water, leaning back in their chairs, entranced by their conversation. Towards the shore, a group of kids try to catch a fish. Pam Allison, a grandmother who enjoys spending time at this beach with her family, guides one of the young boys through the water with a fishing net in hand. 

“Catch a fish,” Allison says. The boy pokes the top of the net against the sand while giggling, and laughter erupts from the group around him. 

Back on shore, Allison describes the beach as beautiful, quiet, and a “great place to bring kids.” With the swimming area, park, playground, and The Bucket food and ice cream stand, Allison and her husband Paul said they love going to the beach without the hassle of finding parking, shade, and somewhere to eat. 

When the sun breaks through the clouds, a woman laying in her chair pulls out a sun hat with a yellow bow from her bag. The lifeguard sits in a tall chair behind her eating lunch, legs dangling toward the earth. 

Traffic passing over the nearby Padanaram bridge occasionally intrudes onto the beach, and the dull roar of planes overhead complement the squawking seagulls, crows, and a gaggle of geese. 

A man walks his dog through the grass next to the gazebo. But after only a few steps the dog plops onto the ground, rolling onto his back and stretches his paws to the sky. 

Three teenagers emerge from behind the playground on bikes. “Watch this,” one of them says, speeding ahead of the others and jumping, both wheels coming off of the ground. 

Tires screech and the three stop at The Bucket to peruse the menu. By now, the line has lengthened a bit, and families and friends linger near the pick-up. They eat beneath the pavilion, and the geese once again make their way over to inspect for scraps, their feet slapping against the cement. The groups laugh as they eat, but then the largest goose hisses at a man for getting too close with a camera. 

— Samantha McCarthy

Email Julien Pedro at jpedro@newbedfordlight.org, Samantha Medeiros at smedeiros@newbedfordlight.org, Anna Brenner at abrenner@newbedfordlight.org, Aida Delano at adelano@newbedfordlight.org, Liv Hunt at ohunt@newbedfordlight.org, and Samantha McCarthy at smccarthy@newbedfordlight.org.