Collateral Damage
THERE ARE TWO spots in Monterey where I stop to watch the harbor seals. The first is the small, sheltered beach just west of Hopkins Marine Station, where the graceful, torpedo-like mammals wriggle ashore to become graceless and speedless in exchange for the sun’s rays and long naps.
The second locale is between Fisherman’s Shoreline Park and the old wharf. The larger rocks jutting out of the water are host to a social club of gulls, cormorants, and pelicans. Harbor seals nearly always troll the waters, following passers-by with their dark, curious, doe-like eyes. When the tide is low, enterprising seals flop themselves onto smaller rocks and strike a precarious, and what looks to be very uncomfortable, pose. These last look like dark little sausages levitating on the water, and they never fail to delight the people walking or biking along the coastal trail.
Passing by on my bike one morning, I stopped to appreciate this odd-fellow society. A sleek, black cormorant was taking low laps around the entirety of the cove, stopping to rest after each round on his perch on the wharf. A hapless gull was shuffling progressively higher on his personal rock island as the rising tide diminished his real estate. And a slate gray harbor seal was lolling around lazily in the shallows at the southern end of the cove.
I watched the gull’s slow retreat for several minutes before returning my attention to the seal. He had not moved much and seemed to be high in the water. Typically, seals move around a lot and only stick their eyes and snouts above the surface.
I knew he was alive—there were sputtering, frothy exhales and his flippers were moving—but something was amiss. I came closer and saw it: a huge, pink gash spanning nearly the length of his abdomen. White-gray intestines were protruding from the wound. A sharp wave of nausea hit me, and then a rising sorrow and sense of helplessness. I got back on my bike and scanned all of the educational placards along the trail in search of a phone number to call. No luck. I found a pickup truck with a State Parks decal. No ranger in sight. Finally, I knocked lightly on the kiosk window of a nearby parking attendant.
"Is there a phone number to report injured wildlife?"
"We already called it in."
"The seal?"
"The seal."
"Thank you."
I DO NOT know what sort of boat ripped open that seal. It might have been a fishing boat, a yacht, a research vessel, or a sightseeing ship. It might have been the boat from which the sand dabs I had eaten for lunch were caught. Obviously, there had been no intent to harm the seal; the people on the boat were even likely to have been personally dedicated to protecting marine life. The seal’s almost certain death falls under the catchall euphemism “collateral damage.”
Now, simply to be alive is to take the lives of other beings; even the most committed Jain monk never achieves perfect nonharming. The degree to which we have accepted the idea of collateral damage in modern society, however, is troubling. In the way we grow food, the way we move from point A to point B, the ways we distract and entertain ourselves, and the ways we wage wars, we leave a swath of collateral damage in our wake. Wanton destruction has become so institutionalized and ingrained in our way of life that we have had to build up a tolerance for, avoidance of, and numbness in the face of suffering that threatens and diminishes our full humanity.
Just as most of us never see the innocents killed or maimed by cluster bombs or drone strikes, we are similarly blind to dolphins killed by fishing nets, mountain lions starved through habitat loss, whole ecosystems destroyed through our pursuit of coal or timber, and human communities devastated by unjust economic policies. We may know that these things are happening, but they are distant and remote. If they were not, we would have a much more difficult time accepting them and the collateral damage they leave behind.
We are both the victims and perpetrators of inherently destructive ways of life. In exchange for the promises of comfort and convenience, or perhaps merely the chance to live in this world without a continual sense of outrage and horror, we have become complacent and desensitized, building walls to delineate the extent of our compassion.
Zen monk Thich Nhat Hanh once stated that the most important task for humans today is “to hear the sound of the earth crying.” I think he meant by this that we need to let ourselves experience as directly as possible the extent of the collateral damage we inflict daily upon one another and our fellow species. Recognizing the pain and injustice created by the systems upon which our lives are built, we may find ourselves compelled to change those systems. As long as we feel entitled or resigned to the salve of indifference and ignorance, then that change will never come about.
I RETURNED TO the trail and watched the harbor seal silently endure his pain, exhaling now in short sputters. Walkers were starting to slow as they passed by and take a closer look. Their faces would at some point abruptly register what they were observing and grow solemn and serious. Some stopped to watch in silence, others moved quickly on. I felt hot tears welling up and kept my gaze on the seal. All I can do you for you, dear seal, is to not turn away.
