Souvenirs - Part 3

This is the third in a series about the non-traditional souvenirs I’ve brought home from my travels, and I have just noticed that all three feature things found on beaches. Next week I’ll delve into other types of souvenirs, but for today, a sadder beach memento.

I have never until this moment thought of this as a souvenir, but if a souvenir is things we bring home from our travels, this qualifies.

It’s also a bit weird.

In 2013, my partner retired from teaching. The Canadian school year starts in September, and we’d always said that when he retired, we’d spend that first September travelling. We drove our motorhome down the Oregon coast, a favourite spot of mine. 

While there, a massive storm blew through the area. It may have been the remnants of Hurricane Manuel; I don’t recall the details. But I do know that we had advanced warning, and we found a campground that was somewhat protected. We hunkered down for a number of days. The weather was so bad that the only reason we’d go outside was to walk the dog. 

Our motorhome rocked night and day as if it were a ship on the ocean. The wind and rain was fierce. It was an awesome experience.

When we were able to return to the beaches, I was shocked at what I found.

We’d experienced storms before that have left the shore strewn with all manner of dross. I remember particularly the beach in Cuba that was absolutely covered in old flip-flops and beach toys after a storm. But this was different.

The entire beach, for miles and miles, was covered in bits of plastic – not big, identifiable bits. Small pieces of plastic of every colour and description – too small to remove efficiently from the sand. It was heartbreaking.

I took a small bowl out on the beach with me, and I filled it. As someone who loves to pick up shells, rocks and sea glass, I’m happy to halt my beach walks to pick up something in the sand. But this was no beach walk. The beach was so thick with the permanent refuse of our over-consuming lifestyle that I did not need to walk at all. It was all there, laid before me.

I kept that bowl of plastic bits on the counter in my motorhome kitchen for years, as some kind of sick souvenir. I’m not sure why – it made me sad every time I looked at it.

But I guess that’s the point of souvenirs – to help us remember. Even the bad things.