Ethan Bennett, a graduate of Middletown High School North, will receive his Eagle Scout award, the highest award in Boy Scouting, at ceremonies Tuesday evening , June 23, at 6:30 at the Navesink Fire House. Bennett is one of two scouts being honored and receiving the award that evening.
The son of Jessica Bennett and Milton Valenti, Ethan has been a boy scout since he first joined the Cub Scouts 12 years go when he was seven years old and thought it not only “looked like fun but I saw it as a means of learning a lot.”
Looking back on it now, the scout says there is no doubt he has learned considerably about a variety of topics, honed his own abilities and learned more, and yes, it has been great fun,
But camping has been his favorite part of the years long experience, he laughs. “We got to explore and always did something new pn every camping trip,” he added, in praise of his troop leaders.
Through his experiences, Ethan has also achieved a number of other awards prior to the Eagle. For that honor alone, he had to earn 14 badges, in addition to the other 14 he had earned. He was also part of the order of the Arrow, the award that provides opportunities for its members to excel and be recognized for their accomplishments at both the local and National level.
In addition to having to earn the merit badges, Ethan had to select an individual project to complete for the Eagle citation; as part of that regulation, he had to create, plan, design, and oversee the project, had to involve other scouts in its completion and had to have specific reasons for his individual selection.
“I wanted to help improve the school’s appearance,” the scout said, explaining why he chose to clean up the landscaping and bricks round the Ocean Avenue Elementary School in Middletown. For his work, he led two adult scouts and five other non-scouts in the project in addition to the six other scouts he also incorporated.
“The hardest part was not being able to do the project myself,” he said, “I had to manage, teach and supervise the others who helped with it. That part of it took a day,” he said, but he added, “it took a few days to organize the supplies and the people in advance of actually getting the project completed.”
With his high school years behind him following his graduation last year, Ethan remains busy now making flower deliveries, while he is looking for another job. “ I am still exploring my options, experiencing different vocations to see which one I enjoy the most. “
Looking back on his scouting years, Ethan reiterates how much he has learned from the experience, and how it has helped him in so many ways. “I have used the leadership and teamwork skills I have learned in Boy Scouts within the jobs I have had and in my personal life,” he said, grateful for the experience.
Eagle Scout is the highest rank attainable in Scouting. Since its inception in 1912, only four percent of Scouts have earned this rank after a lengthy review process.
Basic requirements include earning at least 21 merit badges, 13 of which are specifically required; the others are chosen by the Scout. He must then demonstrate Scout Spirit, an ideal attitude based upon the Scout Oath and Law, service, and leadership. This includes an extensive service project that the Scout plans, organizes, leads, and manages. Eagle Scouts are presented with a medal and a badge that visibly recognize the accomplishments of the Scout. Those who have earned the rank of Eagle Scout also become eligible to join the National Eagle Scout Association.
eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle eagle HAPTER 1 LOOMINGS. Call Me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme down-town is the Battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there. Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?—Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster—tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here? CHAPTER 1 LOOMINGS. Call Me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme down-town is the Battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there. Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?—Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster—tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here? CHAPTER 1 LOOMINGS. Call Me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme down-town is the Battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there. Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?—Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster—tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here?
