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human world. But instead of finding degraded ecosystems that I could treat
as though
they
were beautiful, I was just finding beauty. The Earth had gotten there first. I went looking
for a radioactive wasteland and found a radioactive garden. I went looking for the Pacific
Garbage Patch and found the Pacific Ocean.
I sat on the bowsprit, leaning my face on one hand, a walkie-talkie slung around my
neck, listening to the ocean crash against the ship. Soon, when we came closer to land, dol-
phins would find us, capering through the water below the bow net. We would lie in the
netting, listening to them chatter and squeal. But for now, I was alone.
A plastic bottle ran under the boat.
I keyed the radio to report it to whoever was manning the debris log. But before I could,
a sprinkling of confetti appeared on the water, and then another bottle. Then some more
confetti, a piece of tarp, some other objects—a crescendo of trash that peaked within a few
seconds. I looked out to starboard and saw us bisect what I thought was a stripe of garbage
several meters wide that ran toward the horizon.
It wasn't solid. No carpet of trash. But it was the densest, most localized stretch of
debris I had seen all voyage. I called the wheelhouse on the radio and told them we had just
crossed over a current line.
We didn't stop. Nobody even called
Where away?
Who was in the wheel-house—the
Pirate King? The captain? They had eyes only for San Diego. But I had just seen it: the
Great White Stripe of Trash. I keyed the radio again, filling with rage. This was fucking
stupid, I told them.
I think we just crossed right over a current line.
The
Kaisei
motored on toward San Diego. I think Mary was in her cabin.
