The Island Queen Creates Ripple of Change with Cape Cod’s First Seabin

By Sarah E. Murphy

The Island Queen is making waves and taking strides to promote clean waters with the purchase and installation of the “Seabin,” Cape Cod’s very first floating trash bin. The device is part of a global initiative founded in Australia by two avid water lovers committed to reducing trash with the end goal of eventually making the need obsolete through education and awareness. The company was founded on a simple premise – trash cans are just as necessary in the ocean as they are on land. 

Island Queen Manager Michael Reposa discovered the Seabin Project last summer, after searching online for a solution to the trash build-up that he routinely witnesses firsthand in the water surrounding the Island Queen ferry terminal, located on Falmouth Heights Road. 

“All of us spend many hours a day, every day, standing at this dock, and when we first start maintenance on the boat in early May, you can see the bottom of the harbor. But as more people come, and more boats are in the water, it slowly becomes murkier,” he observed. 

Additionally, the boat is anchored in one of the harbor’s only inlets, so with the tide comes cigarette butts, fish heads, and plastic – specifically bags, food wrappers, and nip bottles – with microplastics proving to be one of the biggest culprits. To that end, the Seabin can collect items as small as two millimeters, objects unseen by the human eye but consumed by organisms in the local food chain. 

Mr. Reposa believes the majority of the trash is not a result of intentional littering but primarily accumulates in the harbor from storm drains and wind. Despite the use of a pool skimmer, the problem continued. 

“Keeping the area clean was becoming a full-time job,” he said. 

Mr. Reposa spent a few months last year in the off-season researching the innovative Seabin technology, founded in 2017 by an engineer and a boat-builder, and learned the product could be purchased and shipped from a company in Canada. He presented his findings to his employer, owner Charlie Bardelis Jr., who agreed to the idea immediately.

Cape Cod’s first Seabin is now up and running. Custom signage is being created by Locust Street Sign Company in Falmouth, and the Island Queen will cross-promote its participation in the global effort with Seaside Sustainability of Gloucester.

A quiet motor on the bottom of the Seabin creates suction, pooling and collecting small trash, while making it easier to reach in and grab the larger items that are also attracted. The unassuming piece of machinery connects to a floating dock, so it rises with the tide, and remains at water level. 

According to the Seabin Project, 8.1 million tons of mismanaged waste enters our oceans each year, and each seabin has the capacity to catch a half ton of debris annually, in the form of:90,000 plastic bags; 16,500 plastic bottles; 35,700 disposable cups; 16,500 plastic bottles, and 166,500 plastic utensils.

General Manager Todd Bidwell credited Mr. Reposa for introducing the idea and Mr. Bardelis for his commitment to clean oceans.

“When Mike told us about this initiative, and that this would be the first Seabin on Cape Cod, we thought it was a fantastic idea. By purchasing and installing the Seabin, we now feel like we’re contributing to the health of Falmouth Harbor, which ultimately is going to benefit not just the businesses and residents of the area, but all our waterways, in Falmouth and beyond. Hopefully this is the beginning of a trend,” he said. 

Mr. Reposa credited Mr. Bardelis and Mr. Bidwell for recognizing the importance of such an investment. 

“One Seabin isn’t going to clean up the whole harbor, but it’s a start in the right direction,” he said. 

For more information about the Seabin Project, follow The Island Queen on Facebook or visit

From Cape Cod to Congo: Shining a Light on Clergy Abuse

By Sarah E. Murphy

Courtesy Photo by Benjamin Kitobo, St. Peter’s Square, Rome

Life couldn’t be more different now than when I last wrote. In January of 2020, the year held much promise, and despite all that has transpired since, I still believe that. The onset of the global pandemic almost seems like a distant memory here in the United States, for those on the front lines of that battle are joined by Americans fighting for racial equality. Meanwhile, countries all around the globe are standing in solidarity, demanding the US finally take accountability for the systemic racism dating back to our country’s inception, a shameful by-product of the slave history that was glossed over in my history textbooks. Before I had any idea of what this winter would hold, I was contacted on Facebook by clergy abuse survivor/activist Benjamin Kitobo, seeking my help sharing his story. His life was forever changed in 1980, when he was a 13-year-old student at an African seminary in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC), then known as Zaire. Benja suffered sexual abuse for four years at the hands of a Belgian priest who had been sent to Zaire after being accused of abusing a child in Belgium. His “punishment” was the signature response of the Roman Catholic Church – a quiet reassignment to avoid scandal – in this case to a remote African village, where he would ostensibly be out of sight and mind. Predictably, taking a page out of the predator playbook, he continued his behavior in his new environment, and the bishops who ignored the potential danger he posed were complicit in his crimes against Benja and the other boys he targeted at the school.

Benja was featured last November in a documentary on CNN titled “Abuse and Scandal in the Catholic Church: The Case of the Predator Priest,” detailing his courageous journey seeking accountability, resulting in obtaining a taped confession from his abuser. But after issuing an abuse complaint, he later discovered his abuser was still working with children in Rwanda, which is part of his motivation as a survivor advocate. According to Benja, it can be life-threatening to speak about abuse in Congo, where the topic is swept under the proverbial rug.

Benja was the only survivor representing Africa at the global summit of bishops in Rome in February of 2019, which I also attended, billed by Pope Francis as an “all-out battle” against this scourge that has plagued the Roman Catholic Church since its beginning. Despite the pope’s claims, no concrete change has occurred since then, which is unsurprising to anyone paying the slightest bit of attention to this criminal issue. Benja and I both participated in the March to Zero, a peaceful protest through the streets of Rome on a crisp, sunny Saturday morning, organized by Ending Clergy Abuse, with participation from other prominent groups, such as SNAP (Survivors Network of Those Abused by Priests) and Our paths didn’t cross during that invigorating walk across the Tiber river, from the Piazza del Popolo to Castel Sant’ Angelo, just outside the unwelcoming walls of the Vatican, but I was honored and taken aback when he contacted me seeking my help telling his story in the form of a memoir, and to bring attention to Africa’s handling of this particular plight. Benja’s life is fascinating and full of accomplishment. Now a father, living in St. Louis, he left Congo as a refugee, spending a brief time living in Foligno, a small town in the Umbrian region of Italy. 

Copyright CNN/Photo Courtesy of Benjamin Kitobo

We first spoke in depth over the phone last January, in between his busy schedule as a nurse, and trying to finish his dissertation. A sweet and funny man, the same age as my husband, Chris, he explained reasonably yet passionately the vital importance of shining a light on his native land and the most marginalized of abuse victims.

“They knowingly send these predators to prey on these innocent victims, who are powerless to fight back. It’s risky to speak out. The control they have is like slavery all over again. You’re only free when you speak up, but the price of speaking is very high,” he said. 

Although I have no idea what it’s like to be targeted for my skin, I do know what it’s like to be discounted for my sex, in society and religion, which is one of the primary reasons I left the Catholic Church, after being confirmed as a teenager. In 2020 America, despite fighting tooth and nail for suffrage a century ago, a topic also glossed over in the history books, women are still not equal to their male counterparts, starting with their paychecks. I write this on Juneteenth, a holiday I never knew existed until a few years ago, and only now am getting a more clear understanding of, for it was not even mentioned in those same history books. Needless to say, it was obviously a bit impulsive, if not incredibly naive, to immediately say yes when Benja asked if he could obtain financing, I would accompany him to follow the story to Congo. Although Chris supports my clergy abuse investigation wholeheartedly, despite the fact it doesn’t garner any kind of paycheck, he shot down the idea of such a trip, considering he could hear Benja on speakerphone describing the potential dangers I might face. In my earnest desire to give voice to the voiceless, it didn’t initially dawn on me that I could now be the target of race, and a victim of physical and sexual violence due to my skin color. Talk about white privilege.

Although the pandemic has put so many things on hold, Benja and I have spoken a few more times since, and I remain committed to the project, while we try to find someone with the affluence to aid us in seeing it to fruition. For a Cape Cod freelance writer, already struggling to make ends meet, it’s even more challenging now to pursue my passion in our pandemic world. In our most recent Facebook exchanges, Benja candidly discussed his own far more serious challenges – as someone who is fighting both of the aforementioned battles – saving lives from Covid while also living with racial inequality. In a moment of vulnerability, he shared his despair, while I apologized for my race. 

“Don’t take it that way. You are a link of hope. We all need a hopeful outlook,” he wrote. 

I hope that I can help my new friend…

March to Zero, Rome, February 2019 – Sarah E. Murphy

2019: A Year to Remember

By Sarah E. Murphy

It’s a new year and a new decade, but I’m still reflecting on 2019. 

Over the past twelve months, my life has changed and my world has expanded, in countless ways. After working secretly with Dan Sherwood, a clergy sex abuse survivor from my hometown, who has since become a trusted friend, he decided last February it was time to tell his truth, and asked me to share his story.

Not long after emailing my copy and photos to the local newspaper, where I had been working as a human interest reporter for twelve years, I found myself on a plane to Rome, headed to meet Dan, who was embarking on his own profound journey.


Within 48 hours, Dan was sharing his story at an international press conference, detailing the decade of sexual abuse he suffered as an altar boy at St. Anthony’s Church in East Falmouth, Massachusetts, and the two of us were peacefully protesting in the streets of Rome, as military police silently walked alongside us wielding rifles. 

The trip felt like the next logical progression in a personal and professional path I started to embark upon in 2002, when my parents and I began watching the clergy sex abuse crisis in the Catholic Church unfold each day in the pages of The Boston Globe, as reported by the tenacious Spotlight team.

I’ll never forget seeing those headlines splashed across stacks of frozen newspapers piled up next to the Clam Shack on Falmouth Harbor, waiting to be transported aboard the Quickwater Ferry to Martha’s Vineyard. I was usually out taking landscape photos, and I’d jump in my car and head to my childhood home, two minutes away in Falmouth Heights, on the other side of the harbor. My parents, who never began a day without the Globe, were waiting with the tea kettle on, ready to discuss the latest developments. Although self-described “typical Irish-Catholics,” who both attended parochial school, as they grew older, they began to question what they viewed as the hypocrisy of the Church, and its teachings, as evidenced by the sermons we heard at our local parish. Now 84, my mother has been sounding the alarm on the danger of Patriarchy long before it became a hashtag. So when Voice of the Faithful met for the first time in a church basement in 2002, she was in attendance; my father dropped her off on his way to teach at Boston College one Saturday morning.

Fast-forward 17 years. When I started to feel the Universe was urging me to follow the story to Rome, my mother not only agreed, she insisted. “This is something you must do,” she told me. If my father were still with us, there’s no doubt he would have said the same. Before I left for my trip, my mom presented me with the keychain she bought when visiting Vatican City as a young woman in 1959. My dad was also touring Europe that summer, but they had temporarily broken up and and were unsuccessfully attempting to avoid each other throughout their travels. But all roads lead to Newton…

Once I made the decision, everything seemed effortless – from finding an affordable flight to Rome, just days before departure, to the indescribable feeling of homecoming that I felt upon arrival, to the affable strangers who were kind enough to offer directions when I needed them, usually punctuated by “Follow me,” and a wave of the hand. A metaphorical reminder that when you’re feeling lost, stop and ask for help. 

Along with the keychain, I brought a green rubber bracelet, similar to the one my dad wore in his final year, as his wrist, covered in spots from the early leukemia we didn’t know was ravaging his body, continued to wither. It also symbolizes the courageous cancer battle conquered by our dear family friend, Wayne, with a simple, one-word reminder in white letters: PERSISTENCE. 

I returned to Italy seven months later and, on September 27, the fourth anniversary of my father’s death, I wandered around the Eternal City, imagining him joking with his travel partner about how they had to “get the hell out of there” before they ran into Margaret Ann Matthews. Like a wholesome version of “The Talented Mr. Ripley,” culminating in marriage rather than murder.

All day long, and all throughout my trip, from Rome to Cinque Terre to Lucca to Assisi, I could feel my dad’s presence. Although I ache to share my adventures of the past year with him, I know he is watching, and his silent voice has been one of my loudest cheerleaders. 

Like travel, my investigation has revealed what I already knew: the world is smaller than it is vast, and we are all more alike than we are different. My work on Cape Cod has led me to Benjamin Kitobo, who suffered abuse as a young boy in the Congo, and was recently featured in a CNN documentary. Benja’s mission is to highlight the issue in his native Africa, demanding zero tolerance and accountability for abuse and cover-ups, a message he brought to the Pope’s summit last February as the only African victim protesting in Vatican City. Somehow our paths never crossed in Rome, but we recently connected on social media, and he has requested my help in bringing this cause to the forefront of this global safety crisis.

To say that I’m honored is an understatement, and I’m excited to see where this journey will take me in 2020.