This is a humorous post I placed on my Facebook page in December of 2025: I never imagined that at 67 years old, I’d discover a brand-new career path: garbage collector. Not the official kind with the neon vest and the impressive truck—no, I mean the unofficial beach-dwelling, plastic-snatching, “ma’am-why-are-you-wading-into-the-waves-like-that?” kind. Every time I go to the beach, I swear I’m just there for the sunrise, the calm, the color… and yet somehow I leave with a collection of plastic cups, soda cans, abandoned toys, rogue bottle caps, and the occasional plastic bag doing its best impression of a jellyfish. I don’t know who appointed me to this role, but apparently the universe said, “Ocean, this beach is your territory—handle it.” So now I stroll along the shoreline like a one-woman cleanup crew, muttering to myself as I pluck trash from the sand. Somewhere between the first tin can and the last piece of neon green shovel, I accepted my fate. I am Ocean, the self-proclaimed Garbage Collector—saving the planet one rogue plastic cup at a time.
It’s gotten so serious that if I walk the beach without collecting garbage, I actually feel like I’m skipping work. I’m surprised I haven’t started clocking in with a little punch card at the parking lot. And honestly, at this point, the sea creatures should send me a thank-you card. Or at least a seashell with “You Tried” carved into it. Still, every time I bend down to collect a random piece of plastic someone lovingly abandoned, I remind myself: this is my destiny. Not glamorous, not paid, not even requested—but destiny nonetheless. Perhaps I'll make art out of it..time will tell!
So yes, I continue my beach route, the Reluctant Janitor of all the beaches I walk on, picking up after strangers like the responsible citizen I never planned to become. And who knows? Maybe one day I’ll even get promoted. I’m thinking “Director of Coastal Debris Affairs.” That has a nice ring to it.