A Bunker, a Latte, and the End of the World: A Coastal Love Story
There’s a 70-year-old Cold War bunker dangling off a crumbling cliff like a drunk at last call. It used to be a safe distance from the ocean—back when people still thought Elvis was alive and the planet was fine. Now? The coastline’s decided it’s over this relationship and is ghosting the land at about 2 meters per year.
Coastal erosion, baby. It’s not a mystery. It’s not a metaphor. It’s the planet slowly reclaiming beachfront property we never should’ve built on in the first place.
But wait. Before you clutch your biodegradable pearls, let’s clear something up:
Erosion is not making the sea rise.
The sea is doing that all by itself—thanks to some lovely science we’ve been ignoring like a gym membership after January 2nd. We’re not watching the coast disappear. We’re watching our assumptions get repossessed.
Here’s the grim party invite:
Water gets warmer? It expands. Yes, the ocean gets bloated when it’s hot. Relatable.
Land ice melts? That water joins the party.
Add rising sea levels? Boom. Erosion gets worse. Storms reach farther. Coasts crumble like your New Year’s resolutions.
“But what if the land is sinking?”
Gorgeous question. That’s called subsidence, and it means you might be flooding even faster not because the sea’s rising faster, but because your land is collapsing under the weight of your denial. Or your condo. Either way.
So, to recap:
Sometimes the water goes up.
Sometimes the land goes down.
Either way, your beachfront timeshare is about to become a snorkeling attraction.
But let’s pivot to my favorite part: us. Humans. Glorious agents of catastrophe in designer shoes.
We built our empires on sand—literally. Then we got mad when the sand moved. We paved paradise, put up a parking lot, and now we’re mad the lot is flooded.
We scream, “Save the planet!” while waiting in a 20-car line at Starbucks in 3-ton SUVs that get 12 miles per emotional breakdown. Sipping whipped cream air pollution through a paper straw like that’s the solution. Paper straws: the performative bandaid for a decapitation.
Let’s be honest.
We don’t want to save the planet.
We want to save our stuff.
We want to save the illusion of safety and comfort while the foundations crack and the sea creeps up like a passive-aggressive roommate who’s done with your nonsense.
And most people? They’ll read this and say:
“Wow, I’m glad it’s not me they’re talking about.”
Newsflash: It is you. It’s all of us. Yes, even you with your reusable shopping bags and smug sense of superiority. (Which I respect, but let’s not pretend it cancels out your weekly Amazon haul.)
The Earth doesn’t care about your intentions. It doesn’t read your Instagram captions about hiking. It reacts to what you do, not what you meant to do after brunch. Nature doesn’t negotiate. It collects.
But hey, it’s not all doom. Here’s a radical idea:
What’s one thing—just one—you could change that helps your health and the environment?
I’m not asking you to bike to Mars or start a compost-only commune. I’m asking you to pick one thing. One habit. One action.
Because the bunker’s already falling. The ocean’s already rising. The latte’s already in your cup.
But maybe, just maybe, you can be the person who noticed—and did something before the wrecking ball hit your own glass house.
