Plastic Hunters

This week, Lauren C. Teffeau takes us fishing, and brings home a spectacular tale. ~ Julian and Fran, August 11, 2024.

This month’s stories are by authors A.R. Capetta, Lauren C. Teffeau, Leslie What, and David Bowles. The first story of the month is free to read, but it’s our paying subscribers who allow us to keep publishing great stories week after week.

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Plastic Hunters

by Lauren C. Teffeau

In the thin moonlight, we checked over our nets. Found them full to bursting. Gathered our harvest: Polyethylene. Polypropylene and polyvinyl and polystyrene. Polycarbonate and polyurethane. If it was a polymer drifting along in the ocean current, it was ours. We packed all that brittle, sun-bleached plastic into cargo containers and counted our fortunes.

A much-needed haul of a much-maligned material.

Malcolm’s grin flashed at me in the dim light, well pleased. “I know you weren’t thrilled with the conditions, Dylan, but you can’t argue with results.”

No, I couldn’t. The plastic plume had been right where he’d predicted, even if it was awfully close to an active weather system churning through the Pacific, putting the trip well beyond my usual risk tolerance. But if we gathered half as much as we did tonight over the following days, we’d be set for the year so long as we didn’t have to cut and run if one of our overzealous competitors caught wind of our plans and decided to horn in on our take.

I glanced at the clouds scudding across the nearly full moon. “The weather needs to stay on our side.”

Malcolm’s grin became a grimace before I lost sight of him in the dark. “We should have a few more days.”

But we both knew the forecast couldn’t help us with a surprise squall thrown off the storm system we’d been tailing to locate the plume. We’d been lucky to find it so early into our trip. Hopefully that luck would hold a bit longer.

We secured our haul, heedless of the barnacles, water skates, and small crabs living in the drifting plastic eddies. Malcolm passed around a flask of rum as we worked. He knew better than to offer me any. Our roles had been set from the beginning. Me, the money and upper management. Him, the public face, the personality keeping our clients and crew happy. He worked hard to keep me happy behind the scenes too, but we both knew I wouldn’t be able to relax until we put back into port again.

Belowdecks, I ensured the filtration unit still chugged away steadily. Popping off the nearest tank lid, I ran my hand through the multicolored mixture of seawater and plastic broken down into bitty particles with the consistency of horchata. We’d need to separate out the different materials once we got back, but our clients made the hassle worthwhile.

The intercom crackled over the pump-swish-gurgle of the filtration equipment. “José spotted something to the northeast,” Malcolm’s voice rang out, sounding tinny against the metal walls. “I’ve authorized a course change.”

What could possibly draw us away from our hunting grounds? I returned to the upper deck. Our lookout, José, called out distances for Abdul in the wheelhouse.

Malcolm pointed to something large and ghostly white off the port side coating the water for thousands of square feet. “No idea what it is, but . . .”

“Might as well check it out, right?”

That’s how it’s always been with Malcolm. All in, what’s a little more? Leaving me with the responsibility of reeling him back whenever he went too far. But I didn’t see the harm in this. The film-like material heaved and swelled with the rolling sea, softly glowing in the moonlight. Debris from plane crashes and shipwrecks sometimes showed up in our forays, but it never looked like this.