Plastic

Our inland lakes have their troubles, that’s for sure: HAB’s, invasive species, wastewater and runoff management…the list is long and troubling, the problems relentless and complex. But yesterday I took a long walk on an isolated beach while here on a long-deferred trip, a stretch of golden Caribbean sand that faces the Atlantic and whose far shore is over 4,000 miles away. Looking up and away towards the horizon, nothing could have been lovelier: the azure sea breaks onto gently sloping beaches while pelicans and terns and the occasional frigate bird soar overhead like feathered sailplanes, hovering effortlessly in the on-shore breeze, checking out the buffet below.

I was first here fifty years ago as a college student tagging along on my girlfriend’s invitation to join her family on a sailing adventure. That girl is with me now, walking on this beach, saddened as I am about what we see half a century later. For rolling in the warm waters, undulating on the sand and basking at the high-tide line is a scourge of our time: plastic. As remote and as far-flung from activity as we are, the evidence of negligent prosperity is everywhere. I bend down to sift a handful of sand in my palm and feel a ridge of plastic, a “safety” ring of the kind that captures the cap of a bottle. Did it drift here from a cruise ship? From the Azores? From Europe? As we walk up to the high-water line, it is impossible to sift through a square meter of sand that does not carry some vestige of man. Our tailings are everywhere, broken down by abrasion and sun and time to almost granular sizes and stamp-sized shards. But it’s there, these plastic nodules, more dangerous to the environment and to animals in microscopic form than they were as bottles or intact rings. I’m told that the microscopic plastic residue is ingested by the “wild” fish that we eat and, once it’s in us, it’s come home, full circle. 

My impulse at the moment is to apologize to them, to the birds. 

I do. I’m sorry, I shout. We have spoiled our nest, and yours. It’s our doing, all of it. We’ve invented, produced, and even legislated our way to low- cost ultra-convenience. We’ve adopted our throw-away mentality as a habit, even as a right, oblivious to the fact that there is no “away” anymore. And the idea of a manufacturer being held fully accountable for the true life-cycle cost of its product would be laughable in Congress. If we can’t summon the resolve to control guns, for goodness sake, when will plastic show up on their to-do list? (Or, wait. If I looked into it, perhaps I’d find that we’re being more proactive about plastic than about guns as a public health issue?) 

It’s daunting to know that one is part of the problem simply by being a cooperative member of the species. My shouted apology to the birds is hollow, even hypocritical. The plastic in my life is ubiquitous even though I try to be mindful, environmentally responsible, and accountable. 

I’m ready to return home, back to inland lakes where “away” is as close as a neighbor’s shoreline and where our neglect, choices, and progress are more immediately apparent. The plastic and refuse I’ve seen on the beach today is distressing, especially since it has taken only 50 years to invent, manufacture, and fully distribute. 

There’s hope closer to home, I think, and models to show what is possible when we pull in the same direction. I’m grateful to the folks at Keuka Lake, for example, for the example of their shared resolve and action. In 2015, their eight municipalities rallied around the idea of the common good as they implemented a basin-wide policy to address septic and wastewater issues. It’s worked. I rowed their lake last summer and it was delightful, especially as I came to learn the story of their commitment and collaboration. Keuka Lake is an example of how the needs of a distressed eco-system can and must transcend political divides. It’s an idea that needs to arrive elsewhere, and everywhere, and soon.

Sorry about the rant, folks. But if you saw what I saw on the beach today, you’d be tappin’ the keys, too.

I’d better get on the water soon and start writing about a row, yes?