Sea Rim
Shenzhen, China
2021, Senior, Creative Writing
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
—W. H. Auden, “Funeral Blues”
Jim and I used to kid that we were allergic to June. Every inch of our skin would start to itch with the distant rumbles of the first thunderstorm. We’d get restless and… hopeful, as if something huge was coming up, some Leviathan, looming across the sea rim. Gazing beyond the tide, we saw the nice plans we had for the summer. We would charge our electronic puppies before we went to sleep every night, play VR games all day long, and hang out with our friends online.
Summer hadn’t always been like this. Growing up by the sea, we had experienced all the wonders the cool waves had to offer. Percy’s dad was the Lead Scientist at our local Bluepeace, and we’d tag along every time he visited the fisheries. The water was clear and sparkly then, like the Heart of the Ocean we saw in the movies. But there were also lots of complaints. Factories whined about the sky-rocketing taxes, and fishermen were bewildered by the various rules telling them what they could and could not catch. Percy’s dad would give speeches where we didn’t know half of the vocab, reporters would listen in silence, snapping a picture once in awhile, as the workers at the factory yelled in rage. Then, near the end of these speeches, the shouts would turn into murmurs, and the cameras would frantically crescendo. The new mayor, in his Sunday best, beamed, patted Percy’s dad on the shoulder, and reassured the audience that the government had everything under control. Perhaps it was the sun in our eyes, but I think the scientist flinched at this touch.
By the time I was in middle school, things had changed for the better. There were fewer strikes, and everyone seemed happy. Well, everyone, except for a few scientists and Bluepeace activists. But these protests died down too, as a dozen respectable government scientists issued a joint statement, exposing the “conspiracy theories and scare tactics” of the local Bluepeace. We tended to steer clear of the beach, though, as litter had taken the place of shells and crabs. But we were mostly fine with it, because we had too many nice toys to be worried about water rising.
That summer, there wasn’t anything cool… except for more water. Pretty soon the grown-ups were getting worried, which usually meant the end of any fun. But they decided to wait and see—the government should be able to work it all out before long.
The official decision to evacuate came in midnight bangs on home doors by law enforcement. Mom switched on the TV. The new mayor had exchanged his smiles for sincere apologies, as he “trusted that the citizens sympathized with the government’s persistent effort to ensure calm and order.” Jim lay in bed thrashing around, sobbing, but Dad was adamant at packing. “C’mon now, gotta do as they say.”
It was daybreak when we started trudging uphill. By then, the children had stopped chattering and were huddled close in a sulking mess. Total silence, save for the downpour and a few gasps when some kid slipped. You see, the thing with grown-ups is that they never see it coming. But then we looked up and saw Percy’s dad. He was busy making phone calls, brows furrowed. We thought about how we’d all have become shark food if it wasn’t for this timely evacuation, and counted our blessings.
We spent a whole month up in the mountains, and it was a nightmare. For one thing, Jim kept worrying everyone with our puppies. As the older sibling, though, I had more important things on my mind. For example, would thieves come to our house and steal our latest VR helmets? And what were we gonna eat? The few people that had brought food stopped sharing after a couple of days, so for everyone, there was little to no food. We decided to talk to the authorities, and learned that the mayor had been relocated to somewhere safe a week ago, coordinating rescue efforts from there.
Then the Supply Drop happened. Helicopters buzzed above us, and cans of beans, pork, and tomato soup were seized by eager hands. The food had flushed away our table manners and concepts of healthy eating. Kids stopped bothering with spoons altogether. Feisty theft and robbery festered into fistfights all over the place. Friends trampled each other, desperately trying to fill their empty stomachs.
The only two families who’d had sense enough to bring a radio had rations to spare, as everyone bribed them for news. At the end of every show, a famous scientist from some lab would tell the audience to please have patience and faith in the government. They sounded tired but hopeful, and it was soothing to listen to them readily quoting data in a drawling monotone. I sighed, picturing a perfect Saturday with my puppy, just lounging before the television. That was when I felt an invisible tongue lick a stray tear off my face, or maybe it was just wind blowing away the rain in my eyes.
The whole thing was all over as suddenly as it had begun. Wide-eyed children raced down the mountain, squabbling over who would have the hot bath first once they got home—if it was still standing intact. Jim was shivering from the drizzle. I stopped, making sure the others wouldn’t run us over, and let him climb on my back.
“Hey, chief, you sure we didn’t forget something up there?”
“Whatcha mean? We didn’t bring anything much, did we?”
“Nothing. Just wondering.” And he dozed off before I could press him.
Turns out there was something we left behind on that hilltop. The grown-up Jim, a poet now, likes to be super nostalgic about it and says it was our childhood. You wouldn’t argue, though, if you think of childhood as that simple ability to have fun without a care in the world. A sorry sight greeted us when we got back. The PCs and our smartphones were replaced, easy enough, but our puppies were gone for good. The footage in the black box displayed disturbing images of one of them trampling the other, desperately trying to keep its head above water. Then we saw its limbs lax; the water must have gotten into its battery.
Mom told us not to worry, that she’d ask Dad to get us a new pair, to which we politely declined. That image of a cute little angel stepping on its pal just stuck. Plus, it felt like we were too old for Smart & Snuggly’s Cyber Companions anyway.
All summer long, we’d play VR games with the soaked helmets that were too expensive to replace, and everywhere we quested in our Dreamscape, there were haunting hints of blue. But soon, this anomaly too would blend into the floods that come and go. We questioned it, then normalized it. You know how the story goes.
Reflection
When I examine intersections between environmental protection, social justice, and queer and feminist theory, I am fascinated by the parallels among the relationships we humans form and nurture among ourselves, and our interactions with Nature. My animistic background has taught me to have the utmost respect for seemingly small things as well as profound ones. In my story, I present a clash of interests, and the government’s deceptively simple resolution. Times of crisis, like this one we are currently braving through, offer us new perspectives on human nature. I did not set my story in a specific time or place, and tried to keep my narrator gender-neutral. In a word, I am trying to warn my readers: Hey, this catastrophe could happen to YOU any day, unless we start to do something about it! The ending came really naturally, as I kept pondering these ocean conservation questions, and failed to come up with easy answers. I hope that you would be greatly disturbed by the sense of complacency that poisons many invaluable things in our lives, and let us all think twice before we take anything for granted.