Danny and I dived for forty minutes that day, and collected rubbish that had been strewn into the sea.
First mission of the day; collect fisherman’s dropped knife. This was essential, in order to avoid any potential Alf Stewart-esque situtions; “I need my knife, ya flamin’ galahs!”
Second challenge; retrieve drunken young man’s deck chair. (Don’t even ask.) And don’t get me started on the bike.
Then we found a wheelie bin. It was somewhat ironic. (Not to mention I got quite a fright from the looming black shape as it appeared.) Not just that, but the rubbish was more natural than I would care to believe. A tiny blue-ringed octopus, perfect in its flashing neon complexity, living in a bottle. Us at a loss to remove its home from the system. The vast quantity of objects borne on tides to gather. Enough lures and fishing line tangled amongst the rocks and weed to stock a tackle shop. I counted on two hands the things that didn’t belong. From things carelessly dropped from the wharf, to things that had no doubt travelled miles on tides and currents. Beer bottle; brick; plastic wrapper; caterpillar treads, to name a few. And some of these things will become a part of the ocean. The bottle is a home. The treads are relics. The brick, artificial reef stock. And creatures adapt.
But not all of the rubbish assimilates in this way. A plastic wrapper looks like a jellyfish. Turtles eat jellyfish.
End of story.