Mary Winston Nicklin

The sun beat down on Ghent. It was the hottest day I could remember ever spending in Belgium, and it was a relief to be on the water. I paddled the canoe through the confluence of the Lys and Scheldt rivers. The voices of sunbathers carried from the quay, where moored houseboats bobbed beneath gabled houses and planters popping with pink flowers. But I didn’t dwell on Ghent’s undeniable charm. Instead, I watched the water … until I saw it up ahead, partially submerged: a plastic bottle, riding the currents on its way to the North Sea. I extended my trash-grabber and snatched it.

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