Down By The Jetty REPACK
These are some of the very last cats collected from the Gold Beach jetty this spring. All were spayed, neutered, vaccinated and dewormed. Some went to homes, others to stores or barns, and some were taken to an animal sanctuary in Florence.
Down by the Jetty
I have Jetty 8.1.14.v20131031 is running on EC2 Ubuntu 12.04. It shuts down automatically around in 3 HOURS after it is started. Just to confirm that it is not the issue of my code I removed war file from the server and started with default [spdy.war and test.war] but the same outcome. It got shut down after 3 hours. Jetty does not log any error in the log. Just to mention that this issue started a month ago, before that it was working fine.
I started jetty ignoring the hangup signal and this work around seems to be working as of now. I started jetty with this command [nohup java -jar start.jar &]. But root cause of shut down signal is still away from my sight.
Note: The canonical repository for Jetty is Maven Central. All releases are always available there first and this download page may lag a bit update wise as post release resources are put into place. You can always browse for Jetty releases here.
We recently stayed in Jetty East for Thanksgiving week. We were very pleased with the resort. The amenities do not disappoint! The heated pool was a big plus for my granddaughters as they were able to swim daily. There are also wonderful tennis courts, pickle ball courts and a wonderful cookout facility.Also, having the beautiful jetty area within walking distance was so nice. As for our unit, it was outstanding! We stayed in unit 318C and it is gorgeous! It is so comfortably furnished and provided plenty of room for our family. The view of the jetties is top notch! We thoroughly enjoyed our stay and look forward to booking this unit again.
This diagram shows the percentages of websites using the selected technologies broken down by ranking.How to read the diagram:Jetty is used by 0.0% of all the websites whose web server we know.Jetty is used by 0.0% of all the websites whose web server we know and that rank in the top 1,000,000.
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We emerge, breathless, at the palatial Grandhotel Giessbach. A funicular runs from its terrace to the ferry jetty below, but spotting an unmarked gravel path we opt to test tyres and nerves down a dozen tightly coiled switchbacks instead.
We look enviously on at a family having a picnic and a couple of farm hands lifting huge wheels of cheese into a small outhouse, but we still have one more ascent to make, sandwiched between the promise of some ripping downhills.
We are at the gate. I hand the idents to the guard, who gives the thin metal plates little more than a passing glance. He looks us up and down - a thin, prematurely grey, man and a scrawny little girl in a torn and grubby dress - features and expression hidden behind the reflective visor of his air conditioned helmet, then waves us on. We are about to step forward when the guard shoots out an arm to stop us. For a moment, my heart is in my mouth, but then he points at the ground. Stripy Ted. Bea must have dropped the old and battered soft toy when she covered her eyes to blot out the guard's intimidating visage. I pick up the comforter, hand it to Bea and lift her over the shallow gunwale onto the packed deck. As soon as I follow, the guard snaps the gate shut behind me, the ferry's engines launch into an ear-splitting roar, a couple of shoremen toss the hawsers to the crew and we are off amidst a fugg of palm diesel smoke.
They seemed friendly enough, half a dozen or so in all, a few girls amongst them. They were seeking food, but didn't appear armed or dangerous. Still, I should have known not to let my guard down. I only turned my back for an instant, but the next thing I knew I was lying on the ground in the hut, head splitting, hands tied in front. Bea was next to me, screaming. Ruth was slumped in the far corner, also bound and very still. There was smoke and a strong smell of the palm diesel that we used in our small generator, and flames were already licking at Ruth's feet. The fire spread with unbelievable speed. By the time I managed to struggle to my feet, Ruth was hidden by a curtain of flame and chunks of burning wood and straw were falling from the roof. There was nothing I could do for her. I kicked at the wall closest to us; the rickety corrugated iron sheets requiring little effort to batter down. As best I could, I grabbed Bea's ankles with my bound hands and dragged her through the gap and away from the hut. A minute or so later, there was nothing left of it but a smouldering heap. Bea didn't stop screaming for a long, long, time and hasn't spoken since.
Even more astonishing than the gate itself is the enormous bay that opens up beyond. Along its entire length, countless spider-like cranes are in constant motion; sliding up and down their rails beneath brilliant arc lights like a troop of meticulously choreographed dancers. Around the clock, in an unending ritual, container after container is scooped from the decks of a stream of gargantuan freighters, to be added to the many thousands that cram the dockside. More luxuries for the inhabitants of London Max awaiting onward transport to the stores, boutiques and restaurants, more material distractions to keep guilty minds turned inward, away from the awful reality of the world beyond the Bulwark. Far to the left, a fleet of palm oil tankers pumps out the lifeblood that keeps the extraordinary gigacity functioning and its residents cocooned from the chaos and despair outside. Pipelines as tall as a man suck the oil into clusters of globular storage tanks from which it begins its journey south to meet the needs of London Max's 200 million citizens.
As the helmsman hauls sharply on the wheel and the ferry turns hard to starboard, the oil terminal slides out of view. Ahead, now, is a different prospect. More than a dozen wooden jetties, matching the one we embarked from, project into the oleaginous waters of the bay, around which are gathered an army of boats of every shape and size, many of which seem barely sea-worthy. Several ferries, some in a far worse state than ours, are docked, embarking and disembarking incomers, while others jostle for the few free jetty berths. Beyond the jetties, covering every available patch of quayside, is an enormous souk, a profusion of stalls, small sheds and pre-fabs; grocers, bars, knocking shops and small businesses, most in little better condition than those of the favela, which cater to the basic needs and desires of the countless incomers who pass through every day. On the souk's far side is the maglev loop, its trains slowing, but never stopping as they cart the incomers speedily and efficiently to work and return them, sucked dry of spirit and stamina, to the ferries. But I have no eyes for these. My gaze is fixed above and beyond, at the multitude of brilliantly-lit towers of glass and steel that hem in the port like some bastardised surrogate of a primaeval forest. Many are so high that I have to crane my head far back to see their upper levels. Some even penetrate the cloud base, their pinnacles fading into Stygian gloom. The spectacle is so astonishing, so beyond anything I have ever experienced that, for a brief time, I forget Ruth, forget Bea, forget even why I am here.
As the ferry puts on an extra burst of speed to squeeze out another boat that has crept up on our inside, I am jolted back to the here and now. The helmsman shows no sign of slowing as he single-mindedly sets course for a recently vacated berth. Just as it seems we must crash head-on, he again performs his party trick, cutting power and swinging the ferry through ninety degrees, so that it crunches into the tyre-lined jetty. As we lurch as one to the left, I wonder absently how long the boat can withstand this kind of treatment.
Countless experiences since we were burned out of our home have taught Bea to recognise desperation in my voice, and she needs no further urging to take off along the jetty as fast as her small legs can manage. I follow close behind, my body protecting her, my progress hobbled as I am forced to match Bea's pace. We are almost at the end of the jetty when the first fizzer misses my shoulder by a fraction. I can smell the ozone as the electric charge ionises the air, but the bolt thuds harmlessly into the quayside ahead of us; the attached filament drifting onto the wooden jetty. We leap the few steps down onto the quayside as two more bolts fizz overhead, one embedding itself in the jetty's wooden gateway. Seconds later, we are enveloped in the noise and smells of the market, our passage slowed by the crush of sweaty, ripe, bodies, but our safety assured by the sheer number of people that jam the narrow spaces between the stalls and shacks.
Wading onwards, we find ourselves at the maglev loop, where we are caught up and carried along by the hordes of incomers boarding and leaving the trundling autonomous railcars. Keeping Bea close, I forge a way across the powerful current of humanity and into a narrow jitty. Its pitted and potholed surface is littered with rubbish, and worse, but the food smells from the stalls that jostle close along either side are too enticing to ignore. I collapse into a battered rattan chair outside a baker and hoist Bea onto my lap. Neither of us have eaten for more than twenty-four hours and I know Bea must be desperately hungry and thirsty, though she never indicates as much. Installing her on the chair, I walk a few paces to the shack's serving hatch. A grubby, bearded, face appears around the door into the back kitchen and vanishes almost immediately. Moments later a scruffy little boy, no more than eight year's old, is ushered out from the doorway by an apparently disembodied pair of very hairy arms. Barely able to see over the counter, the boy says nothing but stares at me expectantly. So much of the food on display behind the serving hatch is new to me that I struggle to make a choice. On the young boy's recommendation, I plump for a pasty filled with some sort of meat, and choose a couple of jam-filled tarts for Bea. Ingrained wariness of cholera, which rages unchecked beyond the Bulwark, prompts me to turn down an offer of a jug of water and two smeared glasses, instead taking a couple of rusty cans of a fruit-flavoured drink. Like the favela, the port market is alienated from the city's cashless monetary system, so goods and services are bartered or paid for in kind. I am relieved when the shop's hirsute owner accepts in payment, via the boy, a single, small, silver earring.