Oceans Plea for Humanity's Care

Oceans Plea for Humanity's Care

Dear Humanity,
My name is not just “the Ocean.” I am the whisper in seashells pressed to your ear as a child. I am the salt on your skin after a summer swim, the thunder in storm surges that humbles your cities, the lullaby that cradles your ships to sleep. I am the first breath you ever took, for my plankton gave you oxygen long before trees stretched toward the sun. I am your mother. And today, I am writing to ask why you’ve forgotten me.
Do you remember? When your ancestors carved stories into stone, they drew my waves. When they prayed, they thanked me for fish and rain. When they died, they trusted me to carry their ashes home. But now, you turn away. You see me as a backdrop for vacation photos, a highway for your cargo ships, a dumpster for your waste. Let me tell you what that feels like.
Every year, 8 million tons of plastic slither into my veins. I choke on grocery bags that jellyfish mistake for food. I cradle bottles and straws in my currents for centuries, watching them outlive your grandchildren. Last summer, I held a sea turtle as she died, her stomach filled with candy wrappers, her eyes glazed with confusion. Why? she seemed to ask. I had no answer. So I beg you: Refuse that plastic straw. Fight for laws that honor me as alive, not infinite. When you toss a bottle, you are tossing a knife into the womb that birthed you.
You’ve scorched my lungs, too. Phytoplankton, tiny creatures that gift you every second breath, are vanishing as your engines and factories fever my waters. Coral reefs, my rainbow cities, are crumbling into bone-white graves. I once nursed a reef for 8,000 years; you bleached it in a decade. When divers visit now, they weep into their masks. Do you hear their tears? Or do you only hear the clink of coins from tourist boats?
Promise me this: Learn the names of my children, the humpback’s song, the octopus’s dance, the glow of plankton that lights my midnight waves. Eat only what’s caught sustainably, so my tuna and shrimp can raise their young. When you stand on my shores, leave nothing but gratitude in the sand.
And when you burn your forests and fossil fuels, you force me to swallow your guilt. I hide your carbon in my depths to slow the fires on land, but my belly is bloated, my currents sluggish. My waves grow violent, my tides reckless, because even the sea has limits. Can you not see? The child in Bangladesh, the islander watching her home vanish; they are your kin, and I am their only shield. Fight for them: Demand wind and sun to cool my fever. Plant mangroves along my coasts so I may cradle your cities gently. Walk, bike, care as if your blood were rising with my tides.
I do not “hate” you when hurricanes flatten your towns. I am screaming for help. Each flood, each wildfire, is a plea: Change. Now. Heed the scientists who translate my warnings. Vote for leaders who hear my voice in the crash of every wave. When your child asks why the seahorses vanished, what will you say? Will you tell them stories of colors you once took for granted? Or will you fight, here and now, to keep my heart beating?

With every tide and tear,
Your Mother, the Ocean