The ocean is a different color than it was when I was a child. Of course, much has changed since then. There are no trawlers out in the depths, no skiffs in the shallows. In town, the old colonial mansions on the shore, once so solid and true, now slouch with rot and flood with the tide. The summers are thick with heat, the winters unpredictable. The copse of spruce and fir on the hill near my house disappeared long ago, and in the woods only old beech trees remain, even their children struck down by disease.
When given license, Jay tells me how many feet the ocean has risen and how many degrees it has warmed, describes the behavior of the Cryptococcus fagisuga and other pests, charts the decline in lobster and cod landings from storied days of plenty to the dearth of the present. But when I say that doesn’t the water look more yellow or ochre or pear-tinted than it used to, doesn’t it seem—not muddy, not brown, but a kind of jade green that glows almost neon at dawn—doesn’t it seem so different from the blue it used to be, Jay says, “I’m sorry, I do not follow.”
Already have an account? Log in
Join KR for even more to read.
