The coast is clear

[The following is one of my climate fiction short stories. I use this as part of my teaching in environmental sociology, together with other written and recorded stories, created by others, about climate changed futures.]

Maggie stood on the cliff, looking down at the slow, gentle roll of the waves. The sound of tidal energy turbines hummed beneath the surface, and a seagull perched on top of one. The sun rising behind her painted the sky above misty blue and peach, with only a few cloud tufts floating past. A deep breath filled her lungs with salty air. In the distance she saw another seagull soar on an upward wind spiral. Some days she couldn’t believe how lucky she was. This was one of those days.

Her hip groaned silently as she turned to go back to her parked bike. She had injured the hip long ago, and it had never been the same since. Even with countless doctor’s appointments, physiotherapy, massage, and yoga. Being in her seventies, however, she attempted to make peace with the discomfort. As she had learned, it was possible to live a good life in a multitude of ways, even with a bit of pain.

With the water behind her, the coastline to the left caught her eye. You could still see some of the foundations of the old houses that had been swallowed in storm surges. Where she lived, no one had died when the floods had started, it was mainly buildings and infrastructure that had been destroyed. She knew other places hadn’t been so lucky. The flood walls that had been built in panic had helped buy people time to relocate, but everything that was low enough had been so easily ripped to shreds.

Communities like hers had spent the past 40 years adapting to the new coastal normal, meaning higher sea levels and more intense storms, while cleaning up and salvaging remnants from before. She had been part of it, when she was still able to do tough physical work. She had picked debris, carried appliances, deconstructed half-demolished homes, even been part of chemical clean-ups in the wake of the storms. Now, most of the coast was cleared, so the younger people of her town had started taking boats and diving equipment out to salvage and clean the ocean floor. Good on them, Maggie thought with a smile.

She arrived at her bike, which her nephew, Linus, had put together for her in his teach-and-mech workshop. It was a shiny steel frame, which had been constructed from recycled car chassis in the local factory. Knowing that his aunt suffered from hip pain, Linus had equipped it with an old battery and a solar charger that she could unfold when the bike was parked. During storm season, she instead used some of her increased energy ration to charge it. Though it sometimes malfunctioned – technology always does in a decaying and chaotic world – she could usually fix it herself with a bit of tinkering, something she had learned from her nephew. She jumped on the bike and started pedalling into town, with the low hum of the small electric engine beneath her, feeling the wind in her hair. Lucky indeed.

As she rode into town, she passed small groups of people in the streets, most walking or wheeling, chatting easily as they prepared for their day. Having been old enough to remember life pre-flood, she was grateful for the calmer pace of life these days. There was less rush now, less sense of frantic busyness. Most of the long-distance communication networks had been wiped out, and though some advocated for restoring them to their former glory, Maggie was content without them. To her, they represented both the cause and consequence of the high-carbon, industrial society that had wrecked the planet.

Learning to live without the constant barrage of notifications, news, messages, emails, and phone calls hadn’t been easy. It was disorienting at first – a major shift in how people interacted with the world. Many struggled to cope, and for those with family and friends scattered across the globe, the heartbreak of disconnection was palpable. Maggie had lost touch with countless people, and though she often wondered about them, she could only hope they were living good lives, wherever they were. As they had all realised, no one could escape the planetary changes. Still, life somehow went on, as it always did, even in the shadow of loss and uncertainty.

Maggie shook her head to clear it of memories and sadness. She could not change the past, only use it as a guide while looking forward. She had decided that long ago, after attending the voluntary flood group therapy sessions a couple of decades back. Arriving at her destination – a scrappy-looking shack, from which a cacophony of sounds emanated – she stepped off her bike and unfolded the solar charger. “Damn the rust!” someone shouted from inside.

She snickered and stepped through what was supposed to be a doorway. “What’s going on in here?” she shouted over the clamouring of metals.

From behind what looked like a large water tank, a dirty face appeared, accompanied by a dishevelled head of dark curls. “Oh it’s you, auntie. Hi!” Linus got up from the floor, went over to Maggie, and gave her a hug.

“Ah, Linus, I’m going to be all dirty and oily now,” she complained, but with a smile.

Linus just smiled back, knowing his aunt well enough to know that she was very particular about her clothes being clean. “And you used to clean up oil sludge, what happened to you?” he joked, and continued: “This is a nice surprise, what are you doing here, Mags? Something wrong with your bike?”

“No, no, it runs perfectly. I actually did a bit of maintenance on it myself yesterday,” Maggie said proudly. “But no, I’m here because I spoke to your sister yesterday and she was worried about that you keep putting off storm-proofing your workshop. Storm season is soon upon us, you know.”

Linus gave an exasperated sigh. “I know, I know. It’s eating on me, but I constantly have new work coming in, and it’s not like anyone wants me to fix their garden chair, it’s important stuff, bikes, cooling boxes, a water tank for the algae farm, and yesterday old Corrie was carried in by their neighbour because their wheelchair had broken – I can’t say no to that!”

Maggie smiled again. “I know, Linus. You have a heart of gold, and the town is better off for it. But no one is going to be better off if your workshop gets swept away again! It’s a shack, I could probably fell it by just breathing on it.” When Linus started to protest, Maggie raised her hand. “I have an idea. This afternoon it’s the monthly meeting, and we could request – I could request, I know you don’t like speaking in front of people – a dugnathr. Because even though this is your workshop, and not the community’s, you do so much, and it’s actually important that it remains functional, even in the autumn and winter. How about that?”

Scratching the back of his head, Linus remained quiet, looking around the workshop. Maggie knew he didn’t like to ask for help, only to give help. “You know, help is an important part of life, and it’s always a two-way exchange. This is a gift, please accept it,” Maggie said, hoping it would convince him.

“Ah, always so philosophical, auntie. Yeah, fine, I’ll come with you to the meeting.”

The monthly meeting was always held in the old town house, built all the way back in the 1970s. It had survived the floods, and had since been reinforced, storm-proofed, remodelled to blend old and new practices and philosophies, and not to mention beautified and greened. Even a century later, no one appreciated the brutalist architecture of that era.

The monthly town meetings were not mandatory, and attendance fluctuated. Some never had an interest in decision-making and debate, and some had an intense passion, as it had always been. This meeting, however, was quite well-attended, Maggie noted approvingly.

The points on the agenda were dealt with in order: discussing a relocation of one of the wind turbines outside of town, which also meant requesting the regional engineer team; noting interest in housing a research group currently travelling through the region to measure pollution levels; voting on which artist to invite to decorate the new-old power station, to which the tidal turbines fed; updating on the progress of the Ocean Floor Clean-Up project; and so on. Finally, the AOB point came and Maggie shot up her hand. The meeting facilitator invited her up to the front. She walked slowly; her hip was antagonising her this afternoon. Linus remained in his seat, redness creeping over his face.

When Maggie arrived at the little podium, she took a deep breath and tensed her core muscles, to up the volume of her voice. “Good afternoon”, she said and signed simultaneously. “I am here today to ask for a dugnathr for my nephew’s workshop. As you all know, it was badly wrecked by the unexpected storm in May earlier this year, and only through sheer luck is it still standing, despite some heavy winds last week. Most people in here have probably been helped by Linus at some point in the past years, and I would now request your help to keep the workshop and all the good Linus does safe. What needs to be done is…” And so Maggie continued, drawing on her experience as a salvager working with wrecked buildings and constructions. Before she stepped off the podium, she added: “We will remain after the meeting to note volunteers. We hope to begin works next week, as storm season is soon here. I expect that we will need about ten volunteers who can spare around five hours each.”

Maggie walked back to her seat and listened to the final agenda points. Most of them were informational, about events or projects that were going on in the town and region. Another dugnathr request was made, to clear and sanitise a bushy area just north of town, who had once housed a printing company. The residents wanted to clear it for an underground vertical garden, but needed some heavy lifting done to ensure that any contaminated soil was removed. When the meeting was over, Maggie and Linus stayed behind. Sixteen people came up and signed their name on the volunteer list, thanking Linus for various works he had done for them, “saving our frozen peas and berries”, “fixing my shower”, “repairing grandparent Corrie’s wheelchair”, and so on. When they all had left, Maggie and Linus went outside and sat on the town house’s porch, watching the sky being painted blue and peach once more.

Linus sighed happily. “Perfect, now the workshop will be safe again.”

Maggie looked at him, and had to remind herself that he was still quite young. He had not been there when the floods had begun, and he had been young throughout the majority of the salvage years. “You know, before the flood, people would be quite unwilling to help. Not everywhere and not everyone, but if you would have asked this question 50 years ago, I doubt you would have had much success.”

Rolling a leaf he picked up from the ground between his fingers, Linus frowned. “You say that sometimes, Mags. Why was it like that?”

Maggie shrugged. “We were distracted. People were busy, with their rushed lives and everything constantly vying for their attention. Heck, I would’ve probably said no, you know, if I think about how my life was back then. Those of us old enough to have started an adult life at that time were shocked out of our distracted state, maybe. But once you remove distraction, people are forced to try to find some kind of purpose in life. Helping someone else rebuild a tech-and-mech workshop might seem like a small thing, but it might also be purposeful. With purpose, we can live a good life even with a bit of pain and discomfort, even with sorrow.”

Linus snorted. “Always so philosophical.” But as he looked at the tidal turbines swaying back and forth, glowing orange with the last rays of sun, he thought to himself that maybe his aunt had a point.