rain, fishing grounds, and plastic

Last night I dreamed there was snow all the way down to the water line. . .no, it does not feel like summer here. It is foggy and comfortably cool, and the fish really like it. That's a good thing for the fishery, and good for myself who about died in the dryness of the Fairbanks subarctic desert. Still, one sunny day wouldn't bother me too much.
As a result, my spare time away from the dock has been busy baking bread, brewing beer, swimming lap after lap in the local swimming pool, riding my bike in the rain and canning salmon. If anyone would like me to can for them, send me a check for jars and shipping and I'll gladly do the work. I've already canned all I need for myself, but still have the itch to butcher salmon and fill jars. . .must be the winter squirrel in me. I don't know.
I've been reading about the Eastern Garbage Patch that floats in the center of the Pacific currents. I'm horrified to learn floating plastics cover an area about 1 1/2 times the size of the U.S. and over 100 ft deep. The plastics are absorbing poisons like PCBs and DDT, and affecting marine life, including the seafood we eat. All this, and we've only really been using plastics for the last 60 years! Plastics are such a convenient poison. . .they take the shape of everything from medical stents, Lisa's beautiful Necky kayak, and the letter keys on my laptop. Now I hear my Nalgene is a stealthy plastic monster out to infect me with a million tumors, and messing up my estrogen. I can start wrapping my sandwich in waxed paper and drink out of a stainless bottle, but what about the plastic soup in the middle of the Pacific that is so big nothing can be done about it? And how much poisoning of our planet can we really do before we past the point of ignorance being any kind of excuse? I don't know, maybe we already have.
Like a large chunk of my childhood, I'm living in a place where we deal with our own trash. We sort the burnables from the non-burnables and watch the column of black smoke come out of the incinerator on the hill every Tuesday. I'm surprised and a little ashamed to admit that it's a challenge for me to keep it down to one 13 gallon trash bag a week. It makes me a little sick inside. In the wonderful Buddhist and Christian practice of mindfulness, I am trying to become more aware of not just what I throw away, but also the things I choose to own. I think we've lost sight of this, and a lot of suffering is coming from it. All I can do is start with myself, so wish me luck!