By Brittany Bentley
In the low tide I trek across the mudflats of Coochiemudlo, a small island off the coast of Brisbane, treading on millions of tiny balls of sand left behind by sand bubbler crabs. The intertidal land is so soft and sodden with salt water that I sink calf deep, the earth gripping me with each step. It’s as if the coastal wetlands want to swallow me whole. The sea quickly fills the holes behind our group of Sea Shepherd volunteers, leaving only the shallow indentations of fourteen sets of bare feet.
The terrain quickly changes into thick mangroves, and my small group ends up lost amongst the sepia and murky green of the mud and roots. Someone picks up a discarded milk carton and adds it to our collection of marine debris. Volunteering at beach cleans always evokes a strange mix of feelings: excitement at the sheer volume of rubbish we’re collecting, and a subsequent quiet despair. The knowledge that everything you pick up will just amass again in a few weeks is a heavy burden.
We’re lost amongst the Avicennia Marina. The low twisting trunks make some paths completely inaccessible and the pneumatophores gasp for breath out of the soil. There is something ancient about the smell of mangroves; a briny damp as the earth slowly rots and decays in the shallow water heated by the Queensland sun. Thousands of cicadas shriek like static. The stifling summer air presses down, surrounding us, and our pace slows in this ancient maze. My heart thumps forcefully. There is a bird trapped within the cage of my ribs. My arachnophobia awakens a primal hypervigilance, and some Mission Impossible worthy reflexes save a volunteer from walking into a golden orb. The silk webs are spun into each corner of the canopy, the silvery tripwires growing denser the further we venture, until it becomes hopeless, and we are forced to turn back. My mind wanders as we retrace our steps—this would be a good place to hide a body. Left to decay within the labyrinth of warped branches, the flesh would slowly be consumed by the worms and crustaceans, eventually joining the tidal detritus. The bones would be indistinguishable from the white mangrove roots growing out of the wet pale sand.
A prickling sensation on the back of my neck makes me realise I forgot to apply sunscreen. Something glints on the surface of the sea as we sail toward the next island. A branch bobbing gently on the waves, wrapped in seaweed and white plastic balloon string. One of the crew proudly holds it up like a sculpture for me to photograph with my iPhone.
We’re warned not to go too far inland on Teerk Roo Ra. The interior of the island is home to a crumbling abandoned lazaret and is inaccessible to the public. Sufferers of Hansen’s Disease (leprosy) were sent here to isolate from 1907 to 1959. There are over two hundred people buried in unmarked graves.
The March flies are the size of small birds and attack me ferociously, their needle-like mouthparts piercing through my black Lululemon tights. We walk through the backshore, where the desolate beach starts to blend with the skeletal driftwood and the untamed eucalypt forest. Something about the stillness and silence feels off, as if the island is holding its breath. I eventually come across a trench, a scar in the berm, completely exposed to the elements: a mass grave of chip packets, plastic water bottles, and crumpled cans of XXXX Gold. For a moment, my group of vollies stare at the site with a mixture of outrage and confusion and then commence the slow exhumation of remains.
In the early afternoon of the second day, when the stifling February heat is at its peak and our energy is starting to wane, we stumble upon our first death. Endangered under the IUCN Red List, an adult green turtle lies entangled within a yellow crab pot. The colour of its shell has dulled from sun exposure. Lifeless eyes stare at the leaf-littered ground. Queensland law states that crab pots must have the owner’s surname and address clearly visible, but of course, there is no information attached. No accountability. This beautiful sea creature, a species that has roamed this earth for over 100 million years, drowned in a plastic and wire cage thrown to the sea by careless hands. Another volunteer starts to sob quietly as the guys work to disentangle the corpse. I’m too dehydrated to cry. Another crab pot is found that strangled a cormorant. These islands are graveyards of lepers, turtles, seabirds and trash.
We sail back to the mainland in a solemn stillness with nearly half a ton of marine debris. There are still hours of work ahead to separate recyclables from landfill. My body is burning from second degree sunburn, hundreds of March fly bites, the lactic acid screaming in my muscles. I could do this work until it’s time for my remains to join the dead, left forgotten on these polluted islands, and it still wouldn’t be enough.
