When smoke blanketed the Central Coast in gray filth, particulates scattered the sun’s light and oranged the marine layer like a siren, heightening our senses and racing our minds. Raining ash sprinkled on surfacing bells of jellies in Elkhorn Slough like pepper on an egg. Many of us retreated further into our messy nests, if we were so fortunate to still have our nest intact. I felt the last shreds of whatever-it-is-that’s-left-at-this-point, flickering.
A daily practice of gratitude is a life raft during COVID-19, a means to combat the temptation of torpedoing down a rabbit hole of gloom. And so, every day I dream about Elkhorn Slough. I picture her seagrass meadows cradling the rotund, speckled bodies of harbor seals engrossed in backflip competitions and chasing schools of fish into the shallow, raised step of the pickleweed forest. I imagine doughy, fluorescent-green sea hares slime-ing along blades of grass like tightrope artists, a tangle of spiraled egg clusters trailing in their wake. Our places are what make us and shape us; before you had lungs you had gills, and fish are literally your ancestors.
In the not too distant past, DDT from conventional farms flowed readily into slough waters. It’s rich and pungent muddy bottom was once scoured bare by powerful tides before protective eelgrass transplantation secured entire ecosystems back to place and back to life, reviving what now serves as a nursery for the offspring of a plethora of species, as well as a carbon sink.
The Elkhorn Slough Foundation, which works to conserve and restore the Elkhorn Slough and its watershed, has collected properties surrounding the slough, and, over the years, returned them to a version of their former selves. Staff and volunteers remove toxins like agricultural plastic and illegally dumped waste, plant native species, and landscape towards a gentler flow of rainwater to slow erosion.
Volunteering alongside foundation staff, I’ve uncoiled bundles of agricultural plastic drip tape caked deep in ancient sand dunes, filled dumpsters with busted PVC irrigation piping, and bagged up floating leaves of tilled-and-torn plastic film mulch that once Saran-wrapped neighboring strawberry fields. Agricultural plastic, referred to as plasticulture, includes a wide variety of applications for use from irrigation, to pest management, to climate control for growing crops.
Plastic drip tape, used for irrigation, is dotted with holes that allow water to seep into fields, often conserving water as opposed to blasting it from a sprinkler head. Plastic film mulch sheets heat under the beating sun, baking soil to eliminate weeds and pathogens, while at the same time releasing plasticizers and other chemicals into the dirt. When rain falls on plastic-coated agricultural land, it may runoff rapidly rather than absorbing into the sediment, which is particularly problematic in overdrafted basins such as the Pajaro Valley. Contrary to popular belief, plasticulture is used in both conventional and organic farming operations. In summation, agricultural plastics are not all bad, but they’re certainly not all good, a poster child for the complexities of modern-day sustainability.
Ellen Farmer, a local author and regenerative agriculture advocate, reminds me that, “There’s a great irony that organic farming standards allow fossil fuel-derived plastic mulch that often degrades in the field, increasing the amount of micro-plastic waste ingested by wildlife and potentially humans.” She continues, “alternatively, those same standards do not allow the use of biodegradable mulch because the chemistry involves genetically modified organisms such as GMO corn.”
Farmer befriended Pam Krone, who serves as the agricultural water quality coordinator for the California Marine Sanctuary Foundation. In recent years, Krone has worked to document the application, degradation, disposal, and overall environmental impact of agricultural plastics throughout Monterey Bay’s connected watersheds, as well as the viability of alternatives to plastic use in the field, and the engagement of stakeholders toward long-term solutions. “Agricultural plastics are present in open fields where they are exposed to the effects of sun, water, and wind, making them especially vulnerable to transport into the non-agricultural environment, including the ocean. Additionally, chemicals such as pesticides adhere to plastic, thus, escaping agricultural plastic can convey pesticides to the ocean,” says Krone. “I hope to find ways for agriculture to continue benefiting from the conservation and agronomic value of plastic, while responsibly caring for its disposal at the end of life through recycling or replacement alternatives.”
Krone and Farmer’s collaboration birthed a larger conversation picked up by the popular organization, Open Farm Tours. Penny Ellis, the founder of Open Farm Tours, seeks to cultivate a dialogue that connects people not just in fields but across fields. “Agriculture is one of the largest users of single-use plastic of any industry, and the increased gains in crop productivity that plastics bring about has also led to plastics ending up in landfills,” Ellis explains. “From day one, Open Farm Tours has been about building a sustainable regional food system, and we can continue working towards that even in a pandemic.”
From 2-3:30 p.m. on Oct. 3, Open Farm Tours, in partnership with the California Department of Food and Agriculture’s Healthy Soil program, is hosting a virtual event, “Plasticulture: A Deep Dive into the Use of Plastics in Agriculture.” Panelists include Krone, recycling and waste reduction representatives, Sambrailo Packaging, myself, and Javier Zamora, owner of JSM Organics in Aromas. To reserve your free ticket, visit openfarmtours.com.
The Air Quality Index dipped to less than 100 for the first time in weeks, the purpling evening sky a sight for sore, scratchy eyes. I walk down the road to Kirby Park, a gem of recreational space in the back of Elkhorn Slough. Dark green pieces of agricultural plastic film mulch flit across my path, collecting in small piles, a handful swirling in the breeze towards the water’s edge. I practice gratitude for the world yet to come, when those dark green bits will instead be leaf litter, disintegrating into the mud where the seagrass grows.
Rachel Kippen is an ocean educator and sustainability advocate in Santa Cruz County and can be reached at singleuseplanet@gmail.com.
