Waves toward the Pebbled shore: Stories some you may not have heard

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Halfway down, she heard a fist pound on the door and stopped in her tracks. Her eyes fell on the deadbolt.

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It looked so small, this bit of metal holding the entire door back. Was it a stranger? A man? And her mind swung to that day in the kitchen, when her mother and sisters had told her over coffee to stay away from men, to not be alone with them, and she had looked from the one to the other with wide-open eyes, wondering why. But they were silent birds with sharp beaks, and she felt herself dumb suddenly. Their knowledge sat like an amulet in their chests, and she waited, mute, scared, defective in her lack of knowing.

And her aunt had said things too, and Berina had lain in bed later on her side, thinking of the men she knew with their great big hands and expressive eyes, and she wondered what dark spirits lurked inside them. But she had never found out. She had never found out and now it was too late. Fear overtook her, and she thought if only she could go back in time to that kitchen day and ask. She pressed her side to the railing and gripped the wood with both hands for stability. Then, inhaling courage as if she were about to plunge underwater, she descended the steps, crossed the foyer, and stood on tiptoe to look through the peephole.

A man in sunglasses stood outside, his forehead stretched wide by the lens. His hands pressed against the door on either side of the peephole as if he were about to push against the house. Spooked, Berina stepped down. Then she rose to look again. With his whole body, the man sighed.

He took a step back, looked around.

He seemed distressed, exasperated, as if he needed to do something, as if he needed something to punch. He covered his face with both hands and then ran his hands up his hair and scratched the back of his head with his fingers like claws. Berina stared with eyes open wide. Her mother, in an anxious urge to make things flourish, had stood two potted trees by the entrance to the house. They now rose toward the sky like arthritic limbs.

The man, breathing hard, walked to one and unzipped his pants. He walked to the other tree, member in hand, dripped some urine on it, and shook himself dry. Berina, with everything inside, focused on trying to see the organ more clearly, but the lens made it small and blurred. She had never seen a penis before. Once, a few years back, she had been playing with her boy cousin on the living room rug. When he spilled juice over his shirt and pants, Berina rushed him to the bathroom and told him they would play mother and child.

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She turned her head to check and check that the adults were not returning from the garden outside. And she stripped the boy of his pants and washed his member with her hands under lukewarm water. She patted him dry with the hand towel. And he trusted her like a mom.

But this man was different. This man was all jaw muscles and fight.

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Goosebumps stood on her arms. He zipped himself up with an almost-hop and strode to his car.

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  • Was he leaving? Stepping back out, he walked to the door of the house with pen and pad in hand, scribbling something.


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    He dipped at the door to lay the note down and then spat upon the doorstep. Only then did he return to the car and back out. Minutes later, the engine hushed. Berina, left alone, was suddenly aware of the silence. It felt emptier, more all-encompassing, than the silence before the man showed up. And inside her chest a hardness lodged. It was as if her whole chest were a large hand gripping at something with fingers and knuckles, unable to relax.

    But her mind was oddly calm. To her left stood a coatrack and above it hung a clock.

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    • The objects were foreign and empty to her, as if she were seeing them for the first time. In this stillness, in this moment where nothing existed but this house and the silence outside it, she wondered what the man had written.

      William Steig’s Books Explored the Reality That Adults Don’t Want Children to Know About

      In all we collected over 50, golf balls from the ocean which is only fractional to the 2 - 5 million that our conservative calculations estimated. The process of writing research taught me an insane amount and publishing in the Marine Pollution Bulletin was very rewarding. I wrote the research paper because I knew that policy change was not going to occur without science backing it up.

      Once my paper became published I was able to pass it along to the Monterey Bay National Marine Sanctuary who transcribed the finding of it into a five year clean up protocol for the Pebble Beach Golf Course to follow.

      2 | When I say ‘the sea’, do you pack your swimming gear?

      I am now stoked to see what kind of impact this will have on our bay. Already the Pebble Beach Golf Links has began their clean up efforts and they will continue through The golf course will be conducting over underwater clean up efforts each year, as well as weekly beach clean ups. If the ecosystem does not show significant reduction in ball numbers by , it will continue until data proves a success. In addition, the Pebble Beach Golf Links has agreed to an education program to add stewardship messages in the Pro Shop and on golf cards, as well as caddie education to inform all golfers of course policy.

      Throughout this entire journey I have always had a vision to create an art piece to try and bring to life the plastic pollution I see beneath the ocean and when I met Ethan I knew it was a perfect fit. We are now so excited to be working in collaboration, and we are so excited for the voyage ahead of us. As we embark on this journey we are asking upon our community for the support needed to produce the most impactful piece of art possible. As our oceans continue to battle against the detrimental effects of plastic, it is important that we educate our communities of the ongoing issues it is facing.

      By creating this piece, we hope to not only educate but also inspire thousands of people to look out upon their community and find ways they can help create positive change. Our goal is to simply speak for our seas and to empower others to be the change in their community, and we hope to use this sculpture as a turning point for the health of our local and global oceans. Read Latest Update. Update 2. Posted by Alex Weber.

      A quick update from the team!! The Wave Construction: The trailer is currently at Central Coast Welding and Fabrication, and they are beginning to put together the foundation of the sculpture. Meanwhile, we have brought all the golf balls up to the studio from Carmel and sorted them into stages of color so they are ready to be attached to the wave!

      Media: Tomorrow we are working with NPR to put together a piece about the project to expand our outreach and get more people stoked to see the final product!

      Pebble Beach’s 18th Hole Is a Perfect Intersection of Golf and Nature - The New York Times

      Update 1. Hey friends! To me Alex , it is pretty unreal to be working with Kim and Jack Johnson. During my freshman year of high school I was assigned a fifteen page research paper about an individual who is changing the world, and I decided to write about Jack. I started by collecting microplastics off the beach as a common practice because I spent most of my time there anyways, but the work felt tedious and ineffective.

      A couple months laters I came across the golf balls, and immediately I knew this would be my one thing. Jack and Kim ultimately inspired me to reach were we are today, so to be partners now is incredible.

      Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting — over and over announcing your place in the family of things.

      I used to go there to say goodbye. I was young and did not know many people but I had hidden things inside that I never dared to show and in silence I tried to kill them, one way or the other, leaving sin on my body scrubbing tears off with salt and I built my rituals in farewells. Endings I still cling to. So I go to the ocean to say goodbye. I turned away from the ocean as not to fall for its plea for it used to seduce and consume me and there was this one night a few years back and I was not yet accustomed to farewells and just like now I stood waving long after the ship was gone.

      But I was younger then and easily fooled and the ocean was deep and dark and blue and I took my shoes off to let the water freeze my bones. I waded until I could no longer walk and it was too cold to swim but still I kept on walking at the bottom of the sea for I could not tell the difference between the ocean and the lack of someone I loved and I had not yet learned how the task of moving on is as necessary as survival.

      Nothing left to hold me back. The time of moon i quite glorious.