Despite its size and density, the patch is not visible from space because it consists primarily of suspended particulates in the upper water column. Since plastics eventually break down to smaller polymers, concentrations of submerged particles are not visible from space, nor do they appear as a continuous debris field. Instead, the patch is defined as an area in which the mass of plastic debris in the upper water column is significantly higher than average.
Most people are horrified to learn of the vortex’s existence, but at the same time, it’s kind of awesome to discover there’s a whole new continent on the planet you never knew about before. Life: it’s magnificent!
18
Now, I’m obviously a sensitive man who enjoys the fine things in life: food, wine and art—yay art! Art everywhere! Art for everyone, even for useless people! But this love of art notwithstanding, I do wish I were more of a poet. That way, I could properly describe the fiery sunset over the Pacific Trash Vortex—a vision that made my soul frolic like a wee lamb in a meadow. How’s that for poetry?
“More lamb, Mr. Gunt?”
“Great idea, Elspeth.”
Elspeth replenished my ceramic tray with sumptuous lamb curry, and I tucked right in as the trash vortex turned from amber to orange and then to crimson before vanishing from sight. The night sky that then descended had that bright blue light one only sees flying over oceans—daylight with a strong camera filter—and soon we heard a *ding!* and Elspeth told us to get ready for landing. Neal was blithering on about there being something eerily familiar about the shape of Wake Island—he just couldn’t figure out what it was. I assumed his street person’s psyche was reasserting itself after having spent a week away from gutter puke and angry confrontational yobs armed with shoplifted carpet knives.
The captain came over the PA to ask us to lower our blinds as we approached the island.
“Lower my blind? Whatever for? I’m not lowering my fucking blind.”
“Come on, Ray. They wouldn’t ask us to do it if it weren’t for a good reason. The air force runs this place.”
Neal obediently lowered his blind while Elspeth lowered the others. I, however, decided to make a stand. “I am going to do whatever I want with my blind. Look—I’m going to Morse code a message to the Wake Islanders.” I began to open and close my blind.
“You know Morse code?” Neal was amazed.
“I do,” I said. “My uncle was an amateur ham radio geek.” I continued to send my message to the world:
2
After we landed, we taxied to a disintegrating concrete building under a glorious full moon. We popped open the cabin door—ahhhh, the woosh of tropical air, so fresh and good for the soul. As Neal and I inhaled this salty Micronesian syrup, a military Jeep roared up to the plane and slammed on the brakes. Two MPs hopped out, bounded up the stairway and yanked me to the ground, where they slapped me in handcuffs. This was getting all too familiar.
Neal shouted, “You should have lowered your blind, Ray. You don’t want to mess with these folks.”
While I was being brutally thrown snout first into the Jeep’s back seat, its driver carried a plastic shopping bag over to Neal and Elspeth. He removed fragrant jasmine leis from it, draped them over their heads and said, “Welcome to Wake Island.”
Another Jeep pulled up. Although my head was upside down and a seatbelt buckle was digging into my right nostril, there was no ambiguity about the identity of this new arrival.
“Mr. Gunt,” said Mrs. Peggy Nielson of Kendallville, Indiana, who was now wearing a lieutenant’s uniform. “Maybe next time you’ll lower your blinds.”
2. t r y a n d m a k e m e l o w e r m y b l i n d s y o u f u c k i n g a m e r i c a n c u n t s
19
Okay. We’re all adults here, and we’ve all been in situations beyond our control. Hell, it’s what gives life its spice: you miss a bus, the hot water stops working, a 767 slams into your office tower. When things go sideways, I try to make lemonade out of lemons, as it were. So from my awkward face-into-the-upholstery enforced yoga position in the rear seat, I greeted Mrs. Nielson civilly as she stood outside the Jeep. “Oh. Hello, Peggy.”
“Hello, Raymond. Here I’m addressed as Lieutenant Healey, Jennifer Healey.”
“How surprising.”
“Was it really so hard for you to lower your blind before landing? Your behaviour could be construed as very compromising. We have high-res, high-speed digital film of you on the plane admitting that your uncle was a ham radio geek.”
“What the fuck?”
“Language, Mr. Gunt. We lip-read everything you said.”