Osprey catching fish

THE CRY OF THE OSPREY
IS TO WAKE US UP

Never, since its start in 1970, has
Earth Day been more urgent.
Now it's past...

Earth Days have not helped the planet heal, because this “holiday” is for us, for humankind–an oxymoron if ever there was one.
The uncomfortable truth is that the planet will do just fine without us. Nature will not be destroyed, but it will change, whether we are part of it or not. Which is of course unacceptable to us and devastatingly depressing for a young generation.
It’s all about us, isn’t it? We want nature to go back to the way it was, when we humans interacted with the environment and lived happy, contented lives, as we helped ourselves to its bounty, destroying its forests, its oceans, its air, and its species–except our own.
Perhaps I exaggerate to make a point. Because, maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but I see actions being taken that MIGHT START to make a difference. So, what are we to do? There’s a long list of good things that can and are being done and getting started, and none of it matters. It’s spit in the ocean, as a boss of mine was fond of saying.

Because it doesn’t scale.
And it won’t until our species stops deflecting its humanity–as in the way we deflect the gun control issue. I won’t list those actions; you can google Earth Day, you can hashtag climatechange, you tell me, what going on? Writing The Drowning Bay I spent thousands of hours thinking about how to tell a story that makes this point, and at the end of the day (especially on Earth Day) it comes down to telling a personal story, because, while we can theorize about the planet and our demise, we’ll only do something about it when we feel we belong in this lost ecosystem that threatens the love we have for each other.

“An inspiring plea to take climate change seriously.
We definitely learn a lot while enjoying the story. If we can’t reach people with reason, maybe a good novel will do the job.” Amazon 5 Star review

The Drowning Bay cover

Here's an excerpt that captures her, as she weighs the moment of decision:

She followed Route 114, which would connect her to the South Ferry, and then on to East Hampton to make her delivery of local leaf greens—so prized by the gourmands of the East End.

After Cristina lost her farm to housing developers the restaurants would need to source their greens elsewhere. But eventually, as the farms were gobbled up, the summer tourists would stop coming out to enjoy their precious farm-to-table produce and to pick pumpkins in the fall. They would long for the sight of the farms and shorelines and instead see McMansions, big box stores, and strip malls. They would reminisce about the bay scallops they’d once enjoyed, now gone because of global warming. This restaurant would buy greens from California, which was dying of thirst while quenching square miles of almond orchards, or from Chile, air freighting its carbon footprint into the bank of climate change. Because the local supply of greens had dried up, the restaurant’s well-off clientele would be bilked out of quality food.

This was the commitment she was making, to support the alternative to the profit-fueled industrial diet—the old-world economic appetite for consumer packaged goods—with all its preservatives. Poison food. Sipho and Sam would, of course, understand what she was doing. Both were already deeply committed to changing their world. Gida had made the sacrifice too. She’d broken free of the vortex that was converting the ecosystem into a septic system.

Was that why Raf and Cristina had not shown a manic obsession to find her? They both knew Gida had made a commitment to a greater good—one they, and the comfortably numb, could not make. She had set the example and Allison could no longer wait it out to see what happened. It was already happening—Sipho and the boy needed her help.

Allison’s commitment to a new world order would have to wait a little longer. She saw it all so clearly now.

She pulled onto the shoulder of the road and turned off the headlights. This was her opportunity to clear out the miasma that had glommed onto her since her release. Her small act of defiance could make a difference between heaven and hell. Or it could be a stultifying nothingburger. This anxious paradise had failed her in its promising ravishment. It wasn’t the zephyr of contentment she thought it might be. And it never would be—unless she tried.

She made a U-turn.

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