The first thing I recall about pollution on the North Coast is not statistics, but a smell—a mixture of salt, decaying seaweed, and synthetic substances fermenting in the sun. It’s the kind of smell that clings to the deep recesses of your nostrils, like some unmetabolizable memory. Sometimes I think about the texture of it too—the way oil slicks shimmer with rainbow colors in tidal pools, deceptively beautiful, like a bruise. The way black tar sticks to the soles of your shoes, and you carry it home without meaning to, tracking it across clean floors.

In February 1977, a Kuwaiti oil tanker went down in the waters off northern Taiwan. I never witnessed that disaster firsthand, but its legacy persists. Those black things—heavy oil, lubricants, paint flaking from ship hulls—they’re like a curse that replays itself every few years. 2008, 2016, similar shipwrecks recurring again and again, different names, same script. Each time a hull splits, the leaked black liquid transforms the intertidal zone into an enormous specimen jar, fish and shrimp and crabs and shellfish encased layer by layer, like some absurd art installation.