A Night of Beauty and Sadness in Florida
In high school, a five-day trip to the Florida Keys was the highlight of my year, a getaway planned by our AP Environmental Science class to explore marine ecosystems up close. I had spent the week prior buzzing with anticipation, carefully packing my duffel bag full of swimsuits, breathable tees, and my favorite hiking sandals. Trading the brisk Virginia air for tropical breezes sounded like a dream, and I couldn’t wait to see what adventures awaited. By the time our plane touched down in Miami, I was ready to dive into the experience.
The journey to MarineLab, a research facility nestled along the waters of Key Largo, felt like a prelude to the adventure. Our bus navigated winding roads lined with towering palms, while snippets of ocean peeked through breaks in the foliage. When we arrived, the excitement was palpable as we unloaded our gear and settled into the dorm-style accommodations that would be home for the week. The facility sat right on the edge of the sparkling water, a perfect vantage point to study the marine habitats we’d spent months learning about in class. Over the next few days, we snorkeled through seagrass beds, explored tangled mangrove forests, and marveled at the vibrant coral reefs—all while jotting notes and collecting samples like budding marine biologists.
On our third night, as the Florida sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of orange and pink, my friends and I hatched a plan to sneak out after curfew. It wasn’t that we wanted to break rules; we simply couldn’t resist the allure of the moonlit lab grounds and the secrets they might hold. Bundled in hoodies and clutching our iPhone flashlights, we tiptoed out of our rooms just as the campus fell silent. The air was crisp, unusual for the tropics, and the sky glittered with a thousand stars—a velvet blanket stretching over the inky water.
Drawn by whispers from a neighboring lagoon, we followed a narrow trail lined by mangroves until we reached its shore. What we saw when we arrived was pure magic: the water was alive with bioluminescence. Every ripple glowed as if tiny stars had fallen into the lagoon and begun to shimmer beneath the surface. We waved our hands through the water and watched as the glow intensified, trailing our movements like liquid light. It felt surreal, a scene out of a science fiction movie, but it was real—an ecosystem working in perfect harmony to create something breathtaking. Then, the magic turned bittersweet. Just as we marveled at the glowing water, a larger light emerged from the depths. Slowly, the unmistakable silhouette of a sea turtle came into view, its shell reflecting the bioluminescence like a radiant beacon. We gasped in unison, transfixed by its graceful movements. But as I watched, I felt a pang of sadness. The day before, our class had spent hours collecting microplastics from the neighboring waters—tiny fragments of pollution that seemed harmless at first glance but carried devastating consequences.
As beautiful as this turtle was, I couldn’t stop thinking about what it might have ingested. Microplastics, tiny fragments of plastic measuring less than five millimeters, are an invisible menace in our oceans. They originate from the degradation of larger plastic debris and everyday products like synthetic clothing fibers and microbeads in cosmetics. These particles persist in the environment for decades, accumulating in water bodies and marine ecosystems. For marine animals, microplastics are often indistinguishable from food, leading to internal blockages, malnutrition, and exposure to harmful toxins. The very lagoon that enchanted us with its glowing beauty might also be silently harming the creatures we so admired, a grim reminder of how human carelessness can infiltrate even the most serene corners of nature.
Equally troubling is the impact of climate change, a global crisis reshaping ecosystems and threatening the survival of countless species. Driven by human activities such as burning fossil fuels and deforestation, climate change leads to rising temperatures, melting ice caps, and unpredictable weather patterns. For marine life, the consequences are particularly severe—coral reefs, often referred to as the “rainforests of the sea,” are bleaching and dying due to warming oceans, while sea levels rise, threatening coastal habitats. Furthermore, changes in ocean temperatures disrupt migration patterns and breeding cycles for marine species, jeopardizing their ability to adapt and thrive. Climate change isn’t just an environmental issue—it’s a cascading crisis that affects biodiversity, food security, and the livelihoods of communities worldwide.
That night, as we crept back to our rooms, my heart felt heavy. The glowing turtle had left me in awe, but it also left me with a deep sense of responsibility. If nothing changed—if we continue polluting our waters, ignoring the signs of climate change, and placing convenience over conservation—how much longer would we be able to witness moments like this? Since that trip, I’ve carried the weight of that night with me. It’s shaped my passion for advocating against microplastics and fighting for stronger climate policies. I’ve joined cleanup efforts, spoken out about conservation, and educated myself about how human actions ripple through ecosystems. The glowing lagoon and its luminous turtle taught me something profound: protecting nature isn’t just about preserving beauty—it’s about safeguarding the lives and futures of the creatures who share this planet with us. Moments like that one in the Florida Keys are worth fighting for, not just because of their wonder but because they remind us of our connection to the natural world. It’s a connection we can’t afford to lose.
RCC Presidential Fellow – Sabrina Kianni – Duke University
Sabrina Kianni of Duke University writes regularly for RCC publications, focusing on environmental health and justice issues, and expanding on her passion for environmental advocacy.
