Siege at Seabrook

A proposed nuclear power plant at Seabrook, New Hampshire, has been a focus of anti-nuclear power efforts by environmentalists and others for over a year. In addition to deep concerns about safety and the disposal of nuclear wastes, which undergird general opposition to nuclear power, opponents of the Seabrook plant have also objected that this seashore facility would draw 1.2 billion gallons of water each day from the ocean and then return it 39 degrees warmer. Damage to the area’s fishing is feared, and, in particular, harmful effects on the offshore soft shell clam beds in the region. Primarily because of questions like these concerning the plant’s cooling system, the government’s Nuclear Regulatory Agency recently temporarily suspended much of the construction at the site.

The Clamshell Alliance was formed as a coalition of various groups opposed to the Seabrook plant, and they began a campaign of direct action--peaceful sit-ins at the site attempting to halt construction--last summer. Similar anti-nuclear power efforts have been wide spread in Europe, and stopped the proposed construction of a nuclear reactor in West Germany. On April 30 of this year, about 2,000 people opposed to the Seabrook plant entered and occupied the site, marking the largest protest action against nuclear power in U.S. history. One thousand four hundred fourteen were arrested, and the high financial cost of their confinement began to create a political problem for arch-conservative Governor Meldrim Thomson. An agreement was reached on May 12 for the release of all those arrested and later dates set for their trials.

One of the participants at Seabrook was Father Dick McSorley. When this article was written, he was a professor at Georgetown University, where he taught peace studies, and was a member of the Community for Creative Non-violence in Washington, D.C. Sojourners readers will remember his article in the February, 1977, issue titled “It’s a Sin to Build A Nuclear Weapon.” The following is Father McSorley’s personal account of his time at Seabrook with the other demonstrators, who came to call themselves the “clams.”

Today, April 30, 1977, I am marching with the “clams” to occupy the Seabrook Nuclear Reactor site. It is noon as we start the five mile hike. We are 250 strong. Spring is in full bloom; Lou Phelan, a freshman from Dartmouth, points his movie camera at fresh buds on the trees. Our colored packs, tents, and sleeping bags add orange, blue and red to spring’s panoply of colors.

We bring food and water for four days. Following us is our emergency ambulance, a white Volvo. In the bright sun under the weight of our luggage, we soon peel off our sweaters. We carry signs which say, “No Nukes” and, “Better active today than radioactive tomorrow.”

Last night we camped out in the meadow behind Joe Bigler’s farm in Kensington. Newcomers like me rose early for several hours of training. We discussed the legalities of arrest procedures. Then we considered the possibility of the police using gas against us. Above us a helicopter circled, a sign that all we did was observed.

At the small seacoast town of Seabrook, New Hampshire, (pop. 6,000) which in March 1976 had voted against the nuclear plant, three hundred “clams” from a different campsite joined us. Together we filled sidewalks on both sides of the streets. Residents came out to wish us good luck as we marched by their homes.

At the entrance to the plant a group from a third campsite joined us. Singing, chanting, waving our banners, we passed through the police barricade and onto the 715 acre site.

For a mile we hiked along the forbidden road. Now 1,000 strong and ten abreast we sang, “When the clams go marching in.” It was exhilarating. What New Hampshire’s Governor Thomson had said would never happen was happening. To the tune of “Frere Jacques” we sang him this song:

Meldrim Thomson, Meldrim Thomson
Can you hear? Can you hear?
We won’t let you build it.
We won’t let you build it.
Is that clear? Is that clear?

We marched across railroad tracks and into a dusty parking lot. Around two sides of it were high wire fences topped with barbed wire, behind which police in blue uniforms stood guard. A third side dropped 30 feet to the fenced-in reactor site. Across the road on which we came were fields full of pipe sections and construction equipment. In the distance beyond them we glimpsed the sea.

In the parking lot we were joined by new contingents of “clams” who had spent the night on islands offshore. Now we were about 2,000.

With two young women I strolled over to a fence where five police stood facing us. They seemed to be the ones fenced in. “You know why we are here?” I began.

“Yes we know everything you are doing. You know why we are here.”

“Do you like it here?” asked a woman.

“No, I ought to be home moving furniture.”

“Don’t let us keep you,” I suggested.

After dark, soft singing accompanied by guitar and violin attracted me to a circle of 25 who joined arms and danced to tunes like, “This Land is Your Land,” and “We Shall Overcome.”

Under the stars, surrounded by our tents, with the police standing guard behind their illuminated fences, we slept peacefully, breathing the soft sea air. Where could you spend a weekend at the seashore in better company?

Sun was up when I awoke. Two friends and I walked to the town of Seabrook. When we reached the en-trance to the access road we found that police were warning people they would be subject to arrest if they entered. Patrols from our camp tried to keep away all those who were not with the occupation group.

After breakfast we had meetings of all kinds. We discussed whether to begin blocking the access road on a Sunday, or wait until Monday when those who worked on the plant would arrive. We considered climbing the fences immediately, thereby taking the offensive and forcing arrests. However, this suggestion was turned down.

“We are occupying,” said most. “They are upset. We have the initiative. They can’t build with us here. Wait till tomorrow and see the effect of our occupation before acting. Even now the school buses are moving in. They are preparing something.”

In late morning those of us who were Catholic celebrated the liturgy accompanied by guitar and violin. We sat in a circle around an altar formed by a tarpaulin on the ground. Nearby Quakers held a prayer meeting. God was with us, in us.

Later, news spread through the camp that Governor Thomson would meet us. A committee of six was appointed to talk with him. At 2 p.m. he swooped down in a helicopter behind the wire fence for the encounter. Surrounded by police he warned, “I will enforce the law. You will all be arrested if you don’t leave by three.” Then he flew off in a cloud of dust.

The colonel of the state police offered us a free bus ride to any reasonable distance. We laughed, “No thanks.” He set 3:30 as the time for the arrests to begin. A state police car moved up the edge of the parking lot and with a loudspeaker repeated the warning, noting, “It is now 3:09.”

“This perks everyone up,” said Ted Brameld, a senior citizen of our group, who smiled, looking forward to his first arrest.

A mood of joy and unity spread through the camp. No more meetings. Singing and talk of re-occupying began. Lou Phelan, the photographer from Dartmouth, readied his movie camera. He was making a documentary. Later, as another Dartmouth student was roughly dragged by police to the bus, Lou risked himself and his camera by following a step behind for closeups.

The arrests began at 3:45 p.m. and continued to 3:45 a.m., when tired police abandoned those remaining. Those willing to walk went first, carrying their baggage. Those who went limp were dragged over the rough ground. As the police approached we sang, “Love, Love, Love Your Neighbor.” One trooper said, “That’s a tough song!” The police averted their eyes as they made arrests.

At Portsmouth Armory, 16 miles away, the governor had two judges ready to release everyone on personal recognizance. But it didn’t work. Most “clams” refused it. Five days later there were still 1,400 in custody. The first 400 had overcrowded the armory. New arrivals were put into meat vans without windows. Close community developed as 75 people sang and shared food from their pack.

Three other armories were opened. New Hampshire prisoners were ordered released until trial. Trial dates filled the summer calendar and spread into September. Judges complained that the occupiers were disrupting the judicial process. Five days after the arrest, the “clams” were costing the state $50,000 per day. Governor Thomson was asking donations to pay for jailing. On the way back to Washington, D.C. I determined that when it becomes clear that the cost of operating Seabrook must include food and lodging for thousands of prisoners, the plant will close. Then the nonviolent direct action will have completed the work so well begun on April 30, 1977.