River of Glass

         Perhaps, like me, you wondered what the San Lorenzo River looked like after the first big rain of the season. It rained almost nonstop for about ten hours, dropping over three inches in Santa Cruz and even more in the hills. With the river level rising for the first time in months, it stood to reason that all kinds of interesting debris would be swept downstream. Unfortunately, the rain let up on Monday around noon, and you were too busy to get down there.

         Well, that’s why you have me. So sit back, close your eyes and read on about that magic day… October 19^th, 2004.

         From up on the levee it was clear that the river had already risen a few feet. In the summer it runs pretty clear, but now it was muddy and had a ribbon of yellowish foam where the current was strongest. Mixed in with the foam was a steady stream of stick, leaves, odd junk, and outright garbage.

         Lightweight trash like plastic water bottles and styrofoam containers swirled around in eddies near shore, but the heavier stuff, like glass bottles, rode the main current.

         The bottles were the main theme, rolling into town like Harleys into Hollister. Every few seconds another one went by, and before long I realized that almost every single bottle was identical to the one that came before it. After just ten minutes of research into the state of the river, I already had my first finding: among upstream litterbugs, the number one choice of bottled beverage is a hefty 32 ounce serving of Miller beer.

         As someone who appreciates a good brew, the fact that most of the garbage was Miller-based just added insult to injury. Miller is nasty, nasty stuff. It smells like cheap dry dog food (it’s the corn) and the aftertaste experience is similar to getting flipped off. It’s chief attribute is price, which also makes it popular among those who use beer in the garden to kill slugs.

         From the pedestrian bridge near the county building, I watched things float by for almost an hour. I was mesmerized. I became a riparian anthropologist, forming some idea of upstream culture based on its garbage. Every bottle of propane, macramé throw pillow, and Spongebob Squarepants rubber ball was another piece of the puzzle. At one point, three different shoes went by, and then no more shoes. Why would three unrelated shoes come by at the same time?

         (If you’re thinking, “Doesn’t he have anything more important to do?” the answer is “Yes.” But as they say, hard work and diligence may pay off over time, but procrastination always pays off right now.)

         A procession of three ducks approached the debris stream, saw an opening, and swam through. They lived in and along the river, and didn’t seem to mind the mess. I, on the other hand, was developing dark and uncharitable thoughts about those who left all this crap along the banks of the river all summer. Maybe fishermen and maybe day visitors, but more likely illegal campers, abandoning bottles and garbage and probably a lot of human waste that just got swept into the river. Fly away, ducks, fly away. Nothing good can come of all this.

         “Society’s to blame,” said a voice in my head. “Freaking bums,” said another. “Zees magnificent habitat,” said the voice of Jacques Cousteau, “zee juxtaposition of human culture and zee natural world. Zeez empty bottles at the bottom of the river form a protective ‘abitat for zee fresh water crayfish.”

         When Jacques pops in your head, it’s time to stop what you’re doing and go. Besides, I was starting to wonder if I was about to get my name in the paper for spotting a dead body.

         Near the Soquel Avenue bridge, three boys were standing on the shore trying to hit the passing bottles with rocks. They were really into it, but they missed every time. Whippersnappers. I’ve got years of rock throwing experience on them, and nailed a bottle with a good size rock on my first throw. It just bounced off, and the bottle kept bobbing towards the sea.

         That night and the next day I visited the beaches, thinking I’d find hundreds of bottles washed ashore, but they were nowhere to be seen. The bottles without caps on might have sunk after getting the air knocked out of them in the surf at the river mouth, but what became of the sealed ones? Are they a navigational hazard, denting hulls and chipping propellers? Are they visible from space as a thin white line? Will they ever return? Or will fishermen in distant lands use them as net floats, providing a silver lining to the whole mess? 

         “Apply for ze research grant, zat’s how I got started,” Cousteau said.