DAVID BUTTERWORTH

Washed Up

He stepped his right foot from the pedal and stared. He dismounted and tilted the bike against the trunk of a nearby palm tree and moved back to where he’d stopped. The front of his plimsolls touched the edge of the sand. His eyes waned as the stand and the stare became fixed. The waves curled and pushed further into the beach as though they had to win, but the win didn’t last. They skimmed back dragging the films of sand and shingle as though they weren’t allowed to remain where the waves had pushed them. Dismay then sadness spread across his face as he watched the waves lick and dislodge the crowded plastic. They petered out and wormed between the empty bottles. Others he noticed had been squashed, flattened by a burst of violence. They’d be no further use to drink from he thought as he watched them skim and glide on the water. He went over to a nearby seat and went on watching.

Andreas, a Brazilian farmer who held a few acres of land west of Sao Paulo, several miles from Rio de Janeiro, decided to take an afternoon off from tending his crops and visit one of the beaches. There were many coves along the coast and there was one he liked. Maybe it had some hidden attraction as it was behind thick trees and palms that held some silent non-commercial value. His rolled-up white pants and folded-over thin dull white shirt sleeves showed spindly legs and arms. The shirt, unbuttoned to the middle, revealed his sternum sticking out under dark tanned skin. As he grabbed his bike and wheeled it out from behind a shack at the bottom of one of his fields, he felt grateful for his woven frayed-edged brimmed straw hat protecting his head from the beating sun he felt every day.

His plimsolls arched and pressed on the pedals as he rotated the cranks. The wheels jumped and shuddered over stones and bumps on dirt roads he knew well. Storks of lined lettuces fluttered in the hot breeze. He passed a field of maize. The tall sun-bathed storks waved and swayed. He braked, stepped his right foot from the pedal, slanted the bike and pulled a rag from his left pocket. He adjusted the hat to wipe his brow and the trickling sweat from the back of his neck. It must be well past midday he guessed as he squinted at the sun and started pedalling again.

He felt glad of the breeze which brushed his face as it wafted in from the approaching sea, a blurred backdrop beneath the sky, a lighter shade of blue. The open road disappeared into a jungle of trees. The afternoon sunlight spread across the trunks of palms. Some crossed each other like rapiers. A sharp odour hung from shaded branches.

He pressed the grey stubble on his chin. He didn’t want to watch the neglected sight any longer. Although it hadn’t smothered the entire beach, the crammed plastic was an eyesore. It was past five when he took his bike and pedalled home.

The next morning, the sun had risen high when Andreas stood on the veranda of his slatted dwelling. The cicadas clicked and the dragonflies whined like electric currents around his land. He walked over to an adjoining shed, pulled open a creaking door and took out five white gauze sacks which he put in a pile. He picked up his mud-caked hoe and started to dig and scrape the soil hoping his crops would return a good yield.

It was past midday when he rested the hoe against the front of the shed and lifted the limp sacks. Tying the rolled-up material to the back of the bike’s saddle with some thin hemp he’d got from the shed was an easy job he thought as he looked at the tight bundle and pedalled to the cove.

Andreas leaned his bike against the tree he’d leant it before, untied the sacks, laid them on the sand and picked up one which hung open from his left hand and began picking up the large bottles. The sea breeze lessened the heat from the early afternoon sun as he took his time filling the sack which bulged. Not that it mattered but the deserted beach made the job easier.

As soon as the sack was filled, he went over and picked up another sack. He darted around clearing the beach of smaller bottles. The sack looked lumpy as he carried it to the edge of the beach where he’d rested the other sack. They weren’t heavy to move, just big and awkward. He heard the bottles clunk against each other.

He went back and began filling the two other sacks, one with the rest of the smaller and the other with the flattened bottles. They took up less space and put them beside the other two. He scanned the beach and the remaining plastic; leftovers here and there like neglected bits of fluff.

I’ll come back for these tomorrow, he thought as he lugged the bloated sacks to a hiding place, an abandoned shed he knew buried in the jungle of trees a hundred yards from the beach after he saw the evening sun cast burnished rays on the light yellow sand.

The following morning he walked a few furlongs to call on a neighbour.

“Please senhor, may I borrow your donkey?” Andreas asked.

“What’s it for?” The neighbour grunted.

“To shift some large sacks of plastic bottles and damaged containers that have been washed up on the shore. They need re-using, but nobody’s seen to them. The cove where they were looked quite an eyesore.”

The neighbour squinted at Andreas. “Why do you think it’s your responsibility? You didn’t leave them there.”

“Well, senhor, you come straight to the point, but isn’t looking after land or beaches
everyone’s responsibility?”

The neighbour thought for a few moments. “Well, as you put it like that. But it makes you wonder what other plastic horrors remain under the sea that is destroying marine life. When can I have her back?”

“The day after tomorrow or the day after that.”

“Hmm, fair do.” He rested his hoe on the soil and went over to untie the mule from a
nearby tree. “Mind you take good care of her. She’s part of my livelihood.”

“Of course, senhor, and I’m most grateful. I’ll have her back as soon as possible.”

The neighbour didn’t reply as Andreas mounted the donkey and trotted away.

The following morning, he set off early but the donkey brayed and snorted as he tried to ride it. He felt relieved when it only started moving after some coaxing. Once he tied the donkey to a nearby tree, he felt equally relieved to find the sacks were still inside the abandoned shed and picked up the unused one. He hurried to the cove and cleared the plastic dregs from the sand and felt glad to see it as it should be.

Andreas dragged out the sack with the largest bottles and used some extra rope to tie it onto the donkey’s back. It didn’t bat an eyelid as he steered it towards Rio.

“Can you find any use for these bottles?” he called at one business.

“No, not interested,” the proprietor answered.

He stopped by another and received the same reply.

He was beginning to wonder if his luck would run out until he found one business on the outskirts of the city.

“Would you be interested in two more sackfuls of empty bottles?” Andreas asked. “I can bring them tomorrow.”

“Yes,” the owner answered. “When can you deliver them?”

“How about tomorrow? By mid-afternoon.”

“Very well. I shall be waiting.”

The following afternoon at about three pm, Andreas arrived with the two sacks and left them at the entrance.

“How much do I owe you?” The owner asked.

“I wasn’t thinking of money, just preservation, a labour of love, to keep the beach
attractive.”

“Come now, you must have something for your efforts.”

Before Andreas could refuse, the owner pressed two hundred Brazilian Reals into his hand. He stared at the two bills after the businessman walked away. Only the flattened ones and the leftovers to move, he thought as they grabbed his attention.

He rode the donkey back to his dwelling.

The next morning he rode the mule to the abandoned shed, tied the remaining sacks on its back and coaxed it towards Rio.

Scouring the city’s streets, he found a small plastic recycling plant, He wasn’t given as much as the previous amount after he’d left the two sacks inside but felt satisfied as he went back to the cove to admire a job well done.

He untied the rolled-up sacks, left them in his shed and rode the donkey to his neighbour.

“Here she is, senhor. You’ll find her no worse for wear. She was very useful for which I thank you.”

The owner grunted and said nothing as he tied the animal to its usual place and went on
working.

Andreas walked back to his dwelling wondering, given the climate of greed, complacency, selfishness and throw-away consumerism in the world beyond, if the beach would get washed up with plastic bottles and damaged dregs again. He wondered when it might be.

He rested his hoe against the shed, sat on his veranda, looked towards the sinking sun, lit his pipe and thought.

I’d better get a donkey.

Originally from the northeast of England, David Butterworth has been teaching English in China for several years. He has three self-published books: a memoir Walking Coast to Coast and two historical novels: Protest at the Tower and The Buckle and the Blade. He likes taking long walks in his spare time.