The White Reefs

by Victoria McNally (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Belize

Several miles off the coast of mainland Belize, white tents arranged along the shore welcomed us to our new home for the coming weeks. The bottom of the boat ground into the sand as it slowed, and the Belizean family made their way forward to greet us. A young native girl skipped behind her mother, her heels kicking up a sandy cloud and her tightly-wound twists bouncing on her shoulders. This island strip of about three acres was its own tropical ecosystem, with all sides sloping into vast blue waters and nothing but the horizon line ahead. We threw our luggage into our designated tents and explored the island in awe. It was evening, and as the sun dipped into the ocean, the low blow of a conch shell echoed across the beach, commanding us to crowd around the campfire. Over the plucks of a ukulele, the island owner laughed away at his many stories of diving barefoot into unknown territories. He cautioned us that manta rays bury themselves beneath the ocean floor. Dragging your feet will warn them of your presence, but stomping the ground will reward you with a spine through the ankle. He raised up faded photos of coral with many textures and colors: lemons and reds and greens which adorned the sea floor. Quickly, his brows furrowed and he spoke with sternness: “The coral sustains all life, both above and below the waters. Without it, the fish would have no habitat and we would have no catch to eat.” He held the wisdom of every scholar, but his knowledge didn’t come from textbooks. It came from his dependency on the ecosystem which sustains his own family. “Tomorrow, you will see them.” Sleep wasn’t an option that night as we anticipated tomorrow. When the morning came, we rose from our tents, had a breakfast of papaya and fry jacks, and boarded the fishing boat. Two straps sucked my chest into the life jacket, but it wasn’t a thought in my mind. I would only lose my breath if the coral reefs were half as beautiful as the island above. I fastened the snorkel mask behind my ears, protecting my eyes from the salty blue water which looked oh-so-sweet, and lunged off the stern of the fishing boat. Air bubbles crowded the front of my goggles, and they quickly cleared, opening my view to the haven beneath my flippers. Then my stomach turned. Next to me, the biology student’s mouth gaped open, as did mine. “They’re dead.” White skeletons were dispersed around the seafloor. Some remaining branches stretched to the waters above, but most were scattered as new grains of sand. I floated ten feet above the seafloor, my eyes desperately searching the underwater desert for any signs of life. Every inch of the floor was bleached; the urchins abandoned, the angelfish vanished, and the coral eroded. In a barely visible glimpse, a speck of red emerged from the sands. At last. I sucked in air and dove beneath the surface, stretching out my hands as I yearned to see some lifeform. My palms collapsed around it and guarded its ascent to the air. I swung my goggles above my head and opened my hands as if they were the bindings of a sacred book. It was a single beer cap, glistening amongst the white dunes. I toyed with it between my fingers before returning to the fishing boat in defeat. The hot waters suffocated the ecosystem, leaving a sick and barren graveyard. The coral gardens flourished and grew for thousands of years, and in only ten, they were lost to carelessness and greed. The sins of the world-- all of the pollution, all of the destruction-- made their home below a three-acre island in the Caribbean sea. Two years later, the beer cap still resides in the back pocket of my travel bag, not because it’s pretty, but because it is frighteningly ugly. For it to be the only brightness in a wasteland of coral corpses is a tragedy I never left behind.