Legacy - #PlanetorPlastic entry

Planet or Plastic?

They say that the beauty of the ocean was once unrivalled. They talk of white-sand beaches and water of ethereal blue. They speak of creatures that inhabited it; whales that delved to great depths, seals that frisked in the waves, fish that flew. 

Looking out onto the expanse of beach rolling away before her, Alexis Parks would find it hard to believe had she not experienced it herself. Shifting in her chair, feeling both bones and wood creak beneath her, she traced her finger along the windowsill, smiling at the delicate dusting of sand that clung to its tip. Sand. Why, that was a rare treasure to be found now. She remembered when she used to detest it, for how it clung and burrowed into her hair or wormed between her toes. At least grains of sand hurt less than grains of plastic. Sand wouldn't pierce the skin of her granddaughter's feet the same way plastic does.

Outside, children comb the beach. Gone are the cockles and mussels of the past, so the youth hunt for the only treasures they have known. They come in the form of transparent scriptures that swathe bottles or the tattered remains of bags. The only shell Alexis has seen in more than 50 years is the one tied around her neck, resting close to her heart.

Something has been discovered, for there's a great commotion on the shoreline. Her granddaughter hurtles towards her, scrambling over tyres and a treadmill of bottles.

"Grand-mama!" She charges into the house, the foundations trembling under the heavy footfall and excited frenzy. "Grand-mama, look! Look at this!"

The child thrusts out her hand, and nestled within the grasp of tiny fingers is the latest artefact in her shimmering hoard. It's a gem, worn from an eternal game of catch among the waves and encrusted with clusters of barnacles. Yet its shape and ghastly pink shade still remain intact, as with the other items that wash up into the cove - the perfect translucent pearls, originated from the very beginning of plastic manufacture; the gnarled hoops of bottle caps; the intricate nets, sometimes accompanied with a bleached skeleton, snarled in the hoops and knots of blue nylon. To say that the attic bedroom was overrun with the beach treasures would be an understatement - the windowsill alone was equipped with an array of relics. To look through them is like walking through a museum, observing a timeline of manufacture and mistakes.

History, to Alexis, is about learning from these mistakes. It's about listening to the warnings of our ancestors. It's about taking action to make change happen. And, as she returns the gem with a smile and a more-than-heavy heart, she thinks of the missed chances of the past. The wasted opportunities. The headlines, the footage and photos that shocked  - but not enough to change. 

They say that the beauty of the ocean was once unrivalled. Perhaps, if we had been different, her granddaughter could see it too.