Garbage for Good

The Amaru vans are parked on the beach, just above the high tide line that’s marked by dried kelp, seaweed, and all manner of plastic waste tangled in it. Beside the high-tide line is a palapa where we’ve hung our sandals to keep stray dogs from making off with them. We learned this the hard way, as a little terrier mutt snagged Fred’s sandal and almost escaped with it. Only an impressive sprint on Fred’s part saved him from single-sandaling it home.

The surf session behind us, Rob, Fred, and I peel off wet rash guards, drink iced tea from little juice boxes, and try to refuel. We’ve been in the water for hours and to a man we’re spent, sunburned, and ravenous. Next stop: Amaru for breakfast.

But not so fast.

Gerritt, who seems in no rush to get us back for eggs and bacon, has other plans. Emerging from the van, shirtless and barefoot, he’s carrying a long green nylon sack and a purposeful countenance.

Now we’re going to pick up some trash, he says, as if offering candy canes on Christmas morning. His suggestion is met with silence. The waves whoosh. The offshore breeze rustles the palapa's dried fronds.

Sensing potential conflict—hungry surfers meet do-gooder innkeeper—I pull out vlogger cam and start filming. Panning the group, there’s a quiet moment as Gerritt’s suggestion sinks in.

Later, in an interview back at Amaru, I characterize it this way:

So, after we’re all done surfing and gathering up back at the van to drive back, you say, Hey, great session, boys. Now let's pick up trash.

Gerritt laughs.

I've never seen someone say that to the guests.

Yeah, yeah. I try to always frame it as an invitation. You know, I never tell people, like, you're not getting back in unless you bring at least four pieces of trash back.

Back on the beach, Gerritt doesn’t wait for an answer. He steps gingerly through the dried kelp and bends over to pluck a plastic spoon, a water bottle, and a tampon holder from the seaweed. He tosses them in the sack. Arrayed around the vans are the guests of Amaru, people who can afford to pay good money to stay at Gerritt’s inn, and he’s just asked them to become garbage collectors.

The most likely grumblers are probably the old guys. But Rob and Fred, haven’t missed a beat and are bending to the task, lifting seaweed, shaking out plastic bits and bobs, gathering handfuls of trash in supportive silence. And suddenly, soundlessly, Gerritt has company: young Jessica from the other van already has a handful to toss in the sack. Though the group may be tired and hungry, there’s not even the slightest hint of grumbling about the unexpected activity. No one questions the idea or hesitates to help.

And not only is there no mutiny, but there also seems to be a chorus of support building behind the activity.

It’s cool that you do this, says Jessica, giving the shared feeling a voice as she dumps another haul in the bag.

Shrugging off the compliment, Gerritt says: Maybe we help by showing the other surf camps too. And maybe they go, Oh cool that they give back, we will too.

Lead by example, says Rob from somewhere behind me.

Gerritt looks up to see who has recognized his intent so perfectly. When he sees that it’s Rob, he answers with a wide grin.

I zoom in on Gerritt’s latest find: a used syringe. He holds it by the plunger, the inch-long needle catching the morning sun.

That’s not good, Jessica says. Oh, here’s another part of it.

She hands him a plastic tube.

Yeah, that’s exactly what I need to sheath this thing, he says, slipping the needle into the small tube and dropping it in the bag.

Fred steps up with two big handfuls of trash. Rob adds another one.

Yeah brother, says Gerritt, holding out the bag. Mālama ʻĀina.

I’m following Gerritt with the camera, but he lost me with that phrase. Then, as if reading my mind, he translates: love for the earth.

Stuff just washes up from the water? Asks Charles of the torso tattoos.

Yeah, people just dump stuff, and it ends up here on the beach.

This was a diaper, Gerritt says, delicately plucking at a rolled-up Huggie and depositing it in the sack.

Here’s a corn on the cob.

That one’s good, says Gerritt. That one can stay.

Oh, a shoe, says Jessica, picking up a battered, beige woman’s Capri sandal.

Whoah, a lost sole! Says Gerritt, to an appreciative group guffaw.

I once worked as a bartender at The Lodge at Vail, a tony slopeside inn in Colorado that was run by an Orient-Express-trained Austrian named Hans. In Hans’s hotel, guest service was defined by a rigid adherence to boot-licking subservience. I tried to picture him corralling the patrons of Mickey’s Piano Bar to pick up trash beneath the Vista Bahn chairlift. Knowing that Gerritt had grown up in the ski town of Sun Valley, I mentioned the hypothetical to him later. It gets the same sort of indulgent chuckle as his lost-sole line.

If people don't want to clean up the beach, that's totally fine, he says. But I find that most guests really like it. It's something they maybe aren't expecting to do, but it's an extra degree of connection not only to the space but to others. It’s like, Hey, these visitors are not just here to take from our community, but also to give back.

Rob’s handful of trash fills the last of Gerritt’s bag.

Thank you, guys, says Gerritt. It doesn’t take long and it makes a difference.

It’s only fair, says Jessica.

And also the ocean will reward you with great waves and empty lines ups. It’s like, Thanks for taking care of me. I have a set wave just for you.

A rogue barrel, adds Charles.

Thinking that’s probably the kind of thank you I can do without, I notice a certain shared satisfaction as we climb back into the van. We’ve all had our individual adventures with the waves, and then got to feel like a very small part of something larger, and something good.