Scars and Seashells

All my life I listened to the call of the rivers and fought the sirens' songs lilting from the reef. Their voices echoed off of shipwreck cove lurking out of sight from unsuspecting tourists. 

I had grown up here, but this wasn't my home alone. They were here first, I simply shared with them. I shared with every turtle that ducked beneath fallen tree trunks in the Rainbow River. I shared my days with sprawling sea grass tendrils that fluttered against the suns rays playing across the water. I shared my nights with the fireflies that danced just above the river's water as manatees breached the surface for air. They knew me, better than anyone could, and up until the cleanup, I had thought I'd known them.

They never told me their biggest secrets.  Looking back, I can't blame them. 

Every year from the age of nine, I would help the dive shop to clean up local beaches and swim areas. I loved the feel of the sun on my skin and the freedom the water offered. Growing up, it was hard to be upset whenever I was in close proximity to the water. That is, until I seen how poorly humans repaid the beaches for the fun and happy memories it provided. It was here that I learned of humankind's selfishness. It was here that I earned my most meaningful scar.

The picture of the manta ray spoke to me most. The beach I cleaned began with plastic bags, bottles, cardboard boxes and cartons. The more my friends and I dug into our work, the worse it seemed to get. Slimy plastic bags turned into daggers in the guise of beer bottles, boxes and cartons turned into more abstruse items. Broken snorkel gear and floaties, an unaccompanied shoe, and an old tire.

One of my friends had become tired and I decided to help them carry the bag back to our base camp. It was heavy, but I pushed myself to carry it all the way back. It wasn't until a family friend and shop worker seen my leg that I realized it was now painted with blood. A broken bottle had stuck through the bag and sliced down my leg leaving a hook-like gash.

Blood hadn't scared me, but the thought of alcohol swabs terrified me. Tears threatened to spill from my eyes as Sean grabbed the first aid box.

"This will only hurt for a second." he wiped the blood away as I winced. "Now, now, every scar heals. Think of the manatees' tails, every cut tells a story." Binding a nonstick pad on my leg he looked up with a sad smile, "this one tells a very important one."

"What?"

"The environment's hurt is our hurt, but we can always make a difference."

They say scars fade, but I don't think I'm ready to let this one. There is still much to be done before we are redeemed in their eyes. Let's get to work.