Fate Is Not Far From Our Plate

“Daddy, why does the water look so horrible?”

I had been dreading the drive to Mom’s for a very long time, for my inquisitive son would doubtless ask why the Florida coastline resembled the unflushed toilet that it had become, after decades of pollution (namely fertilizers and pig faeces) from industrialised pig-farms located throughout the Mid-Western and Southern states of America.  As inquisitive as little Darcy is, I found it difficult finding the words to explain to him how this environmental disaster had eventuated.

“Pollution, son” is all I could manage.

I am glad for my car’s air-conditioning, for if I were to open the window, the pungent smell of algae would be far too much to bear.  Even the sight of it, a living organism which spells the end of existence for any other creature that shares the same environment, is proving too much.  The fish that once thrived in this waterway and ridded it of any toxins; gone.  I had once dreamed of the day when I could take Darcy fishing at this very spot long before he was born, but sadly, because I could not resist eating pork and bacon on a regular basis (like so many others), that very dream has ended up becoming a nightmare.

“Do fish still swim here?” he asked.

After a long silence, I reply “fish don’t swim in many places anymore, son”.

I used to love my pork, sausages, bacon, cured meats...  You name it.  Not even Anthony Bourdain, a favourite travel/food writer and documentary presenter, could consume the volume of pork that I did in my younger years (the fact that I don’t smoke would probably give me the upper hand here, as nicotine is a known appetite suppressant).  Put a full Irish breakfast in front of me, complete with crispy-crunchy bacon, beautifully saline black pudding and buxom Irish sausage, I would devour it in minutes, and would go for seconds.  Thankfully, on the strength of advice from my GP, I changed my diet, thusly avoiding paying the cost of such gluttony with my health.  But as an avid (but misinformed) environmental activist, I did not foresee the cost of pork consumption upon our waterways.

I feel grateful for the fact that Darcy cannot apparently notice the pile of syringes that lay dormant on the sand as we travel South.  Or if he can see them, he certainly could not comprehend what the objects are designed for.  Indeed, I would almost prefer it if they had been used as a means of intravenous illicit drug-taking.  Looking at the amount of dried blood that has covered each needle, like a layer of age-old rust, it is clear that they were most likely used to inject medication into the bloodstream of livestock.

I turn on the radio with the hope of taking my mind off of this.

“Yale University scientists have reported that a new flu strain, believed to have emerged from Vietnam, is highly resistant to current flu vaccination and other medication.  It is believed that human’s susceptibility to this new flu strain has resulted from injecting pork livestock with an antibiotic, used to promote growth”.

Should I be thankful that Darcy has fallen asleep?  Not even the dead ocean to the left of us could come close to the sickly feeling that has erupted within my stomach.  This is the future that over-consumption, and the industrialised farming methods used to accommodate it, has left behind for Darcy and his generation.

“Unless science can engineer a suitable vaccine or treatment for this deadly flu strain, populations the world over could be decimated in a matter of months”.

I reach over and gently stroke my hand through Darcy’s hair, the sun reflecting upon it, creating a golden halo, but the queasy feeling within continues.  There is nothing that I can do to absolve myself, for it is I who deserve the fate that awaits us, not someone who had no hand in its cause.