Twenty-four years and thirty-eight days of remembering what it was like. Twenty-four years and thirty-eight days since the outflow of human filth finally turned that once-beautiful, pristine playground into a cesspool filled with toxic sludge released from the bowels of humanity. It’s been that long since the EPA–or what remained of the organization, anyway–finally deemed the ocean “unfit for humans.” The animals are still in there, of course. Some of them, at least. We couldn’t live on this planet without them, after all, but they’ve been decimated by the decades-long onslaught of poisons we released–and continue releasing–into their home.
I live inland now. Far inland. It was a forced migration, but I guess I’m glad I’m here. If the rumors are true, living in the coastland would kill me–although I thought living inland might do that, too. I was born on the coast and spent over thirty years traipsing along its vastness, finding waves where I could, living out of a 1981 Dodge camper van.