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Ranchers reported abandoned oil wells spewing wastewater. A new study blames fracking.

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Wednesday, August 7, 2024

Sign up for The Brief, The Texas Tribune’s daily newsletter that keeps readers up to speed on the most essential Texas news. Fracking wastewater, injected underground for permanent disposal, traveled 12 miles through geological faults before bursting to the surface through a previously plugged West Texas oil well in 2022, according to a new study from Southern Methodist University. It’s the first study to draw specific links between wastewater injection and recent blowouts in the Permian Basin, the nation’s top producing oil field, where old oil wells have lately begun to spray salty water. It raises concerns about the possibility of widespread groundwater contamination in West Texas and increases the urgency for oil producers to find alternative outlets for the millions of gallons of toxic wastewater that come from Permian Basin oil wells every day. “We established a significant link between wastewater injection and oil well blowouts in the Permian Basin,” wrote the authors of the study, funded in part by NASA and published last month in the journal Geophysical Research Letters. The finding suggests "a potential for more blowouts in the near future,” it said. For years, the Texas agency that regulates the oil and gas extraction industry has refrained from putting forth an explanation for the blowout phenomenon, even as a chorus of local landowners alleged that wastewater injections were driving the flows of gassy brine onto the surface of their properties since about 2022. Injection disposal is currently the primary outlet for the tremendous amount of oilfield wastewater, also known as produced water, that flows from fracked oil wells in West Texas. Thousands of injection wells dot the Permian Basin, each reviewed and permitted by Texas’ oilfield regulator, the Texas Railroad Commission. Oil producers are exploring alternatives — a small portion of produced water is reused in fracking, and Texas is in the process of permitting facilities that will treat produced water and release it into rivers and streams. Still, underground injection remains the cheapest and most popular method by far. A scientific connection has solidified between the practice of injection disposal and the increasing strength and frequency of earthquakes nearby. In the Permian Basin, a steady crescendo of tremors peaked last November with magnitude 5.4 earthquake, the state’s strongest in 30 years, triggering heightened restrictions on injections in the area. The link between injections and surface blowouts, however, has remained unconfirmed, despite widespread suspicions. The latest study marks a big step forward in scientific documentation. “It just validates what we’ve been saying,” Sarah Stogner, an oil and gas attorney who ran an unsuccessful campaign for a seat on the Railroad Commission in 2022, said about the latest study. For the last three years, Stogner has represented the Antina Cattle Ranch, where dozens of abandoned oil wells have been spraying back to life. Stogner persistently alleged that nearby wastewater injection was responsible. But she couldn’t prove it. Now a scientific consensus is beginning to fall in behind her. “Our work independently comes to this same conclusion in different areas [of the Permian Basin],” said Katie Smye, a geologist with the Center for Injection and Seismicity Research at the University of Texas at Austin, citing several upcoming papers she and her colleagues will release at major geoscience conferences in the coming year. “There is a link between injection and surface flows in some cases.” In a study published December 2023, Smye and others reported “linear surface deformation features” in parts of the Permian Basin — the ground was swelling along channels that suggested pressure moving through underground faults. Some of those were ancient geological faults, Smye said; others appeared to be created by recent human activity. Many of them were growing, heaving and bulging, the research showed. When that channel of underground pressure hits an old oil well that is broken or improperly plugged, it can shoot to the surface. “This is reaching a critical point in the Permian Basin,” Smye said. “The scale of injection needs is increasing.” About 15 million barrels, or 630 million gallons, of produced water are injected for disposal in the Permian Basin every day, Smye said. A Railroad Commission spokesperson, Patty Ramon, said in a statement the agency is “talking to operators in the Crane County area regarding geology and other data they maintain, reviewing satellite imagery, and analyzing RRC records such as well plugging information. “We will be continuing this type of analysis in our commitment to ensuring environmental protection,” Ramon said. Blowout in 2022 sparks study The SMU study examined a January 2022 blowout in Crane County that gushed almost 15 million gallons of brine before it was capped, according to the paper. That would fill about 23 Olympic-sized swimming pools. The study traced the cause of the blowout to a cluster of nine injection wells about 12 miles to the northeast. Researchers pulled publicly available data on injection volumes at those wells and found they lined up closely to surface swelling that preceded the blowout. Seven of the wells belong to Goodnight Midstream and two belong to Blackbeard Operating, according to Railroad Commission records. A spokesperson for Blackbeard said the company “is committed to ensuring prudent operations” and “will continue to operate its assets in accordance with all applicable laws and in coordination with all applicable regulatory agencies.” Goodnight did not respond to a query. According to the paper, injection at those nine wells began in 2018 at a rate of about 362,000 gallons per day and doubled to 720,000 gallons per day in late 2019. In late 2020 it doubled again to 1.5 million gallons — two Olympic-sized swimming pools crammed underground everyday — which is when the ground near the blowout site began to inflate. The study found that the volume injected matched the volume of the surface bulge 12 miles away. “These observations suggest that this group of injection wells to the NW of the study area, injecting into the San Andres and Glorieta formations, is responsible for the surface deformation in the region,” the study said. Those wells reached a depth between 4,300 and 3,300 feet. But the SMU study found that the source of the bulge in the earth was much shallower, between 2,300 and 1,600 feet underground. “This suggests the leakage of wastewater from the San Andres or Glorieta formations to the shallow formations,” the study said. The bottom of the Rustler Aquifer, the lowest usable source of groundwater in the Permian, sits between 800 and 1,000 feet underground. The SMU study did not examine the possibility of groundwater contamination. “Our findings highlight the need for stricter regulations on wastewater injection practices and proper management of abandoned wells,” the study said. Todd Staples, president of the Texas Oil and Gas Association, said the Railroad Commission “is taking appropriate action by thoroughly gathering and reviewing data to address the issues experienced in Crane County.” He said the industry cooperates with the Railroad Commission by providing data to help analyze geological formations. “In addition, the industry and academia continue to explore alternatives to wastewater injection through market-based water reuse and recycling as well as innovative pilot programs,” Staples said. Ranchers report damaged land West Texas ranchers who own land where contaminated water is seeping from underground are beginning to worry it will soon become uninhabitable. Last February, saltwater flooded parts of Bill Wight’s ranch, about 50 miles southwest of Odessa. The lifelong rancher purchased the land in 2012, hoping to pass it on to his kids. He told The Texas Tribune he wasn’t sure how much of the ranch would survive the leaking wells. When it was clear the flow of water threatened the property last December, he asked the Railroad Commission to seal the well the water had leaked from. It took the commission months and millions of dollars to plug the well. His brother, Schuyler Wight, faces a similar predicament at his ranch roughly 60 miles to the west in Pecos County. He has asked the Railroad Commission for years to investigate the multiple abandoned leaking wells on his property. The liquid has eroded the equipment on the surface and killed the plants. After the water dried up, the ground was crusted white from salt. “It’s what we’ve known all along,” Schuyler Wight said. “What we’re doing is not sustainable.” Ashley Watt, owner of a ranch 50 miles east of Schuyler Wight’s ranch in Crane County, told the Texas Railroad Commission during a 2022 meeting that she believed excessive injection by nearby oil producers was causing the fluids to spray from abandoned oil wells on her property. A Railroad Commission staff member said the agency asked operators to check for a source of the leak. The operators told the commission they did not find any. The Railroad Commission during the meeting also said they did not find a well in the agency’s database, and that the nearest injection wells were less than two miles away. The agency instructed staff to prevent truckers from accessing those injection sites, telling operators to find others “until further notice.” The wells continue to leak. Laura Briggs, who also owns a ranch in Pecos County less than half a mile east of Schuyler Wight’s place, said she has seen five old wells start leaking water since 2015. The Railroad Commission plugged two of them, she said, but one began to leak through the seal again. Briggs has repeatedly given testimony and submitted documentation to the Railroad Commission asking for help. Based on her experience, she believes the subterranean problems in West Texas are much more than what the Railroad Commission can handle. “If I could do one thing differently, we would have gotten a mobile home so it was easier to get the hell out of here,” Briggs said. “If this [ranch] goes leaking, we just have to leave and nobody will buy the property, no insurance will cover it, you’re just done.” Despite those problems, the Railroad Commission approved 400 new disposal wells in the Permian Basin alone in 2021, according to agency documents, and 480 in 2022. Threats to groundwater The use of injection wells for disposal has expanded immensely with the practice of fracking, according to Dominic DiGiulio, a geoscientist who worked for 30 years at the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency. But DiGiulio said these wells are still regulated under rules from the 1970s and ’80s. Increasingly, he said, those rules appear insufficient. “West Texas isn’t the only place where this is happening,” DiGiulio said. “Overpressurization of aquifers due to disposal of produced water is a problem.” In 2022, DiGiulio conducted a review of Ohio’s wastewater injection program for the group Physicians, Scientists, and Engineers for Healthy Energy and found the same two problems there: Injected fluids were leaking from some formations meant to contain them, and excessive injections were causing other formations to become overpressurized. There was one big difference with Texas. In November 2021, DiGiulio’s study said, Ohio had just 228 injection wells for wastewater disposal. Texas, meanwhile, had 13,585 in 2022, according to Railroad Commission documents. The primary threat posed by produced water migrating from injection wells is groundwater contamination. If deep formations fail to contain the toxic waste injected into them, that waste could end up in shallow freshwater aquifers. It could happen two ways, DiGiulio said. If the wastewater enters the inside of an old oil well through corroded holes in the casing, it can travel up the steel pipe to the surface, spilling and seeping into the ground. If the wastewater moves up the outside of an old oil well, through the cement that surrounds the steel pipe, it could already be flowing into the aquifer. That would be bad news for West Texas, which depends almost entirely on groundwater for drinking and crop irrigation. “Once groundwater contamination happens, it’s too expensive to remediate,” DiGiulio said. “So when it occurs, that’s basically it. You’ve ruined that resource.” Disclosure: Southern Methodist University and the University of Texas at Austin have been financial supporters of The Texas Tribune, a nonprofit, nonpartisan news organization that is funded in part by donations from members, foundations and corporate sponsors. Financial supporters play no role in the Tribune's journalism. Find a complete list of them here. The full program is now LIVE for the 2024 Texas Tribune Festival, happening Sept. 5–7 in downtown Austin. Explore the program featuring more than 100 unforgettable conversations on topics covering education, the economy, Texas and national politics, criminal justice, the border, the 2024 elections and so much more. See the full program.

An SMU study is the first scientific proof of a phenomenon local landowners have long warned was occurring.

Sign up for The Brief, The Texas Tribune’s daily newsletter that keeps readers up to speed on the most essential Texas news.


Fracking wastewater, injected underground for permanent disposal, traveled 12 miles through geological faults before bursting to the surface through a previously plugged West Texas oil well in 2022, according to a new study from Southern Methodist University.

It’s the first study to draw specific links between wastewater injection and recent blowouts in the Permian Basin, the nation’s top producing oil field, where old oil wells have lately begun to spray salty water.

It raises concerns about the possibility of widespread groundwater contamination in West Texas and increases the urgency for oil producers to find alternative outlets for the millions of gallons of toxic wastewater that come from Permian Basin oil wells every day.

“We established a significant link between wastewater injection and oil well blowouts in the Permian Basin,” wrote the authors of the study, funded in part by NASA and published last month in the journal Geophysical Research Letters. The finding suggests "a potential for more blowouts in the near future,” it said.

For years, the Texas agency that regulates the oil and gas extraction industry has refrained from putting forth an explanation for the blowout phenomenon, even as a chorus of local landowners alleged that wastewater injections were driving the flows of gassy brine onto the surface of their properties since about 2022.

Injection disposal is currently the primary outlet for the tremendous amount of oilfield wastewater, also known as produced water, that flows from fracked oil wells in West Texas. Thousands of injection wells dot the Permian Basin, each reviewed and permitted by Texas’ oilfield regulator, the Texas Railroad Commission.

Oil producers are exploring alternatives — a small portion of produced water is reused in fracking, and Texas is in the process of permitting facilities that will treat produced water and release it into rivers and streams. Still, underground injection remains the cheapest and most popular method by far.

A scientific connection has solidified between the practice of injection disposal and the increasing strength and frequency of earthquakes nearby. In the Permian Basin, a steady crescendo of tremors peaked last November with magnitude 5.4 earthquake, the state’s strongest in 30 years, triggering heightened restrictions on injections in the area.

The link between injections and surface blowouts, however, has remained unconfirmed, despite widespread suspicions. The latest study marks a big step forward in scientific documentation.

“It just validates what we’ve been saying,” Sarah Stogner, an oil and gas attorney who ran an unsuccessful campaign for a seat on the Railroad Commission in 2022, said about the latest study.

For the last three years, Stogner has represented the Antina Cattle Ranch, where dozens of abandoned oil wells have been spraying back to life. Stogner persistently alleged that nearby wastewater injection was responsible. But she couldn’t prove it.

Now a scientific consensus is beginning to fall in behind her.

“Our work independently comes to this same conclusion in different areas [of the Permian Basin],” said Katie Smye, a geologist with the Center for Injection and Seismicity Research at the University of Texas at Austin, citing several upcoming papers she and her colleagues will release at major geoscience conferences in the coming year. “There is a link between injection and surface flows in some cases.”

In a study published December 2023, Smye and others reported “linear surface deformation features” in parts of the Permian Basin — the ground was swelling along channels that suggested pressure moving through underground faults. Some of those were ancient geological faults, Smye said; others appeared to be created by recent human activity. Many of them were growing, heaving and bulging, the research showed.

When that channel of underground pressure hits an old oil well that is broken or improperly plugged, it can shoot to the surface.

“This is reaching a critical point in the Permian Basin,” Smye said. “The scale of injection needs is increasing.”

About 15 million barrels, or 630 million gallons, of produced water are injected for disposal in the Permian Basin every day, Smye said.

A Railroad Commission spokesperson, Patty Ramon, said in a statement the agency is “talking to operators in the Crane County area regarding geology and other data they maintain, reviewing satellite imagery, and analyzing RRC records such as well plugging information.

“We will be continuing this type of analysis in our commitment to ensuring environmental protection,” Ramon said.

Blowout in 2022 sparks study

The SMU study examined a January 2022 blowout in Crane County that gushed almost 15 million gallons of brine before it was capped, according to the paper. That would fill about 23 Olympic-sized swimming pools.

The study traced the cause of the blowout to a cluster of nine injection wells about 12 miles to the northeast. Researchers pulled publicly available data on injection volumes at those wells and found they lined up closely to surface swelling that preceded the blowout. Seven of the wells belong to Goodnight Midstream and two belong to Blackbeard Operating, according to Railroad Commission records.

A spokesperson for Blackbeard said the company “is committed to ensuring prudent operations” and “will continue to operate its assets in accordance with all applicable laws and in coordination with all applicable regulatory agencies.”

Goodnight did not respond to a query.

According to the paper, injection at those nine wells began in 2018 at a rate of about 362,000 gallons per day and doubled to 720,000 gallons per day in late 2019. In late 2020 it doubled again to 1.5 million gallons — two Olympic-sized swimming pools crammed underground everyday — which is when the ground near the blowout site began to inflate.

The study found that the volume injected matched the volume of the surface bulge 12 miles away.

“These observations suggest that this group of injection wells to the NW of the study area, injecting into the San Andres and Glorieta formations, is responsible for the surface deformation in the region,” the study said.

Those wells reached a depth between 4,300 and 3,300 feet. But the SMU study found that the source of the bulge in the earth was much shallower, between 2,300 and 1,600 feet underground.

“This suggests the leakage of wastewater from the San Andres or Glorieta formations to the shallow formations,” the study said.

The bottom of the Rustler Aquifer, the lowest usable source of groundwater in the Permian, sits between 800 and 1,000 feet underground. The SMU study did not examine the possibility of groundwater contamination.

“Our findings highlight the need for stricter regulations on wastewater injection practices and proper management of abandoned wells,” the study said.

Todd Staples, president of the Texas Oil and Gas Association, said the Railroad Commission “is taking appropriate action by thoroughly gathering and reviewing data to address the issues experienced in Crane County.”

He said the industry cooperates with the Railroad Commission by providing data to help analyze geological formations. “In addition, the industry and academia continue to explore alternatives to wastewater injection through market-based water reuse and recycling as well as innovative pilot programs,” Staples said.

Ranchers report damaged land

West Texas ranchers who own land where contaminated water is seeping from underground are beginning to worry it will soon become uninhabitable.

Last February, saltwater flooded parts of Bill Wight’s ranch, about 50 miles southwest of Odessa. The lifelong rancher purchased the land in 2012, hoping to pass it on to his kids. He told The Texas Tribune he wasn’t sure how much of the ranch would survive the leaking wells.

When it was clear the flow of water threatened the property last December, he asked the Railroad Commission to seal the well the water had leaked from. It took the commission months and millions of dollars to plug the well.

His brother, Schuyler Wight, faces a similar predicament at his ranch roughly 60 miles to the west in Pecos County. He has asked the Railroad Commission for years to investigate the multiple abandoned leaking wells on his property. The liquid has eroded the equipment on the surface and killed the plants. After the water dried up, the ground was crusted white from salt.

“It’s what we’ve known all along,” Schuyler Wight said. “What we’re doing is not sustainable.”

Ashley Watt, owner of a ranch 50 miles east of Schuyler Wight’s ranch in Crane County, told the Texas Railroad Commission during a 2022 meeting that she believed excessive injection by nearby oil producers was causing the fluids to spray from abandoned oil wells on her property.

A Railroad Commission staff member said the agency asked operators to check for a source of the leak. The operators told the commission they did not find any. The Railroad Commission during the meeting also said they did not find a well in the agency’s database, and that the nearest injection wells were less than two miles away.

The agency instructed staff to prevent truckers from accessing those injection sites, telling operators to find others “until further notice.”

The wells continue to leak.

Laura Briggs, who also owns a ranch in Pecos County less than half a mile east of Schuyler Wight’s place, said she has seen five old wells start leaking water since 2015. The Railroad Commission plugged two of them, she said, but one began to leak through the seal again.

Briggs has repeatedly given testimony and submitted documentation to the Railroad Commission asking for help. Based on her experience, she believes the subterranean problems in West Texas are much more than what the Railroad Commission can handle.

“If I could do one thing differently, we would have gotten a mobile home so it was easier to get the hell out of here,” Briggs said. “If this [ranch] goes leaking, we just have to leave and nobody will buy the property, no insurance will cover it, you’re just done.”

Despite those problems, the Railroad Commission approved 400 new disposal wells in the Permian Basin alone in 2021, according to agency documents, and 480 in 2022.

Threats to groundwater

The use of injection wells for disposal has expanded immensely with the practice of fracking, according to Dominic DiGiulio, a geoscientist who worked for 30 years at the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency. But DiGiulio said these wells are still regulated under rules from the 1970s and ’80s. Increasingly, he said, those rules appear insufficient.

“West Texas isn’t the only place where this is happening,” DiGiulio said. “Overpressurization of aquifers due to disposal of produced water is a problem.”

In 2022, DiGiulio conducted a review of Ohio’s wastewater injection program for the group Physicians, Scientists, and Engineers for Healthy Energy and found the same two problems there: Injected fluids were leaking from some formations meant to contain them, and excessive injections were causing other formations to become overpressurized.

There was one big difference with Texas. In November 2021, DiGiulio’s study said, Ohio had just 228 injection wells for wastewater disposal. Texas, meanwhile, had 13,585 in 2022, according to Railroad Commission documents.

The primary threat posed by produced water migrating from injection wells is groundwater contamination. If deep formations fail to contain the toxic waste injected into them, that waste could end up in shallow freshwater aquifers.

It could happen two ways, DiGiulio said. If the wastewater enters the inside of an old oil well through corroded holes in the casing, it can travel up the steel pipe to the surface, spilling and seeping into the ground. If the wastewater moves up the outside of an old oil well, through the cement that surrounds the steel pipe, it could already be flowing into the aquifer.

That would be bad news for West Texas, which depends almost entirely on groundwater for drinking and crop irrigation.

“Once groundwater contamination happens, it’s too expensive to remediate,” DiGiulio said. “So when it occurs, that’s basically it. You’ve ruined that resource.”

Disclosure: Southern Methodist University and the University of Texas at Austin have been financial supporters of The Texas Tribune, a nonprofit, nonpartisan news organization that is funded in part by donations from members, foundations and corporate sponsors. Financial supporters play no role in the Tribune's journalism. Find a complete list of them here.


The full program is now LIVE for the 2024 Texas Tribune Festival, happening Sept. 5–7 in downtown Austin. Explore the program featuring more than 100 unforgettable conversations on topics covering education, the economy, Texas and national politics, criminal justice, the border, the 2024 elections and so much more. See the full program.

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‘We’ve got to find answers’: Corby families affected by cancer searching for truth about toxic waste sites

Alison Gaffney believes her son’s rare leukaemia was caused by dumped toxic waste from the town’s steelworksAlison Gaffney and Andy Hinde received the devastating news that their 17-month-old son, Fraser, had a rare type of leukaemia in 2018.Two years of gruelling treatment followed, including chemotherapy, radiotherapy and immunotherapy, before a stem cell transplant. Fraser, then aged three, made a “miraculous recovery” from the surgery, before doctors declared the cancer in remission. Continue reading...

Alison Gaffney and Andy Hinde received the devastating news that their 17-month-old son, Fraser, had a rare type of leukaemia in 2018.Two years of gruelling treatment followed, including chemotherapy, radiotherapy and immunotherapy, before a stem cell transplant. Fraser, then aged three, made a “miraculous recovery” from the surgery, before doctors declared the cancer in remission.It was at this point, as Fraser started to recover and grow stronger, that Gaffney, 36, began to look for answers. She could not stop thinking about comments made by hospital staff at the time of her son’s diagnosis. “It keeps us up at night wondering how Fraser got his cancer,” a consultant had told her.Fraser started to recover after two years of gruelling treatment and a stem cell transplant. At this point, Gaffney began looking for answers. Photograph: Fabio de Paola/The GuardianThe botched disposal of millions of tonnes of contaminated waste after the closure of Europe’s largest steelworks in Corby, Northamptonshire, in 1979 had “always been a known thing”, said Gaffney. A 2009 civil case linked the council’s negligent clean-up of the site to a string of birth defects in local children in the 1980s and 1990s. It was later dramatised in the 2025 Netflix series Toxic Town.Increasingly, Gaffney started to link the case to her own. “[Fraser’s cancer is] not genetic,” she said. “So what are the reasons? … It’s got to be down to the town. All these kids [with] cancer.“Everybody in this town knows somebody who’s got a child [with] cancer. That’s not normal.”Gaffney and Hinde started to connect with other families in Corby with similar stories to theirs – including some of Gaffney’s former classmates at Brooke Weston Academy – and the group began compiling detailed records on those affected. They now lead a campaign representing about 130 families with cases of childhood cancer dating back to 1988.The group has been calling on the local authority to investigate any links between cases of childhood cancer in Corby and the decommissioning of the plant. At the end of this month, public health officials are set to publish their analysis of whether the town has had a disproportionate number of cases of childhood cancer for its population of 70,000.“All we want is to try and protect future people so they do not have to endure the pain that we’ve been through,” said Gaffney.Fraser, his brother, Archer, and their parents. Gaffney and Hinde started connecting with other families in Corby with similar stories to theirs and the group began compiling detailed records on those affected. Photograph: Fabio de Paola/The GuardianThe judgment in the 2009 civil claim accepted that, between 1983 and 1997, millions of tonnes of contaminated materials from the steel plant were transported “almost invariably” from the south of Corby to Deene Quarry in the north – with “large quantities” of toxic waste carried and dropped on public roads and “substantial quantities” of dust created by the reclamation.However, it also cited reports from the Environment Agency in 1997 that found stockpiles of contaminated material that had been left at Deene Quarry were later removed in “large quantities”.Gaffney believes waste was not only dumped at the Deene Quarry site but in other parts of the town. On Thursday, she welcomed a “major step forward” after North Northamptonshire council said it would test land that could be contaminated and investigate where toxic waste was dumped.Gaffney said council staff admitted in the meeting that they did not know where the sites of contaminated waste could be. “They said: ‘We don’t know where these sites are. We have no documentation, we have nothing on it.’”In a statement to the Guardian, North Northamptonshire council said the information they had seen from that time “says that the waste was disposed of in Deene Quarry, a former landfill site on the outskirts of Corby”, but added: “People have recently raised concerns on potential areas of contaminated land where they believe waste could also have been historically disposed of.“We are thoroughly reviewing historic records to see if there is any information which suggests that disposal could have taken place elsewhere. This work will take time.”A play area in a housing development that was built after the steelworks closed down. Gaffney believes toxic waste from the steelworks was dumped at sites other than Deene Quarry. Photograph: Fabio de Paola/The GuardianGaffney said the transparent nature of the meeting with the council shocked them. “Local authorities don’t normally hold their hands up and take this on but we’re really proud of them for doing so and saying they want to protect their people, like we do.”The council’s announcement was also welcomed by Tonia Shalgosky, a pastoral lead at a primary school, whose nine-year-old daughter, Bella, was diagnosed with blood cancer in June this year.“I had to shave my nine-year-old daughter’s head because her hair was falling out from the drugs she had to take to kill her cancer. So actually it’s in our interest, it’s in Bella’s interest [for the council] to share that information,” she said.“There are so many people in the town that have been diagnosed with childhood cancer and I just feel it’s too much to ignore – it needs looking at it. This can’t be normal.”Meg Lyons, 31, who works in sales and now lives in London, said families deserved “complete and utter truth and transparency” from the council.Lyons’s 11-year-old sister, Eve, died on 24 June 2017 after being diagnosed with a rare bone cancer at the age of nine. Eve, who fundraised for Stand Up To Cancer, was “one of the most lovable, funniest and kindest” people, Lyons said.Her mother remembers the impact of the closure of the steel plant on the town, Lyons said. “She said you couldn’t put your hand in front of your face because [of] the red ash.”Meg Lyons’s sister, Eve, died in June 2017 after being diagnosed with a rare bone cancer at the age of nine. Photograph: Sean Smith/The Guardian“This has been going on since I’ve probably been about three years old. It’s an excessive amount of time and it is negligence toward the people of Corby.”Lyons’s cousin, Maggie Mahon, was one of several families involved in the 2009 claim against the then Corby council after her baby was born with clubfoot. Her husband, Derek, was one of the lorry drivers involved in removing waste from the steelworks. Their story was depicted in the Toxic Town series, and showed Maggie beating the dust from her husband’s jeans.Gaffney said the campaign group has been approached by whistleblowers who were involved in the dumping of waste in the town.One of those involved in the waste removal was Gaffney’s father. “He drove the lorry and dumped [the waste in a] pond,” she said. “At the time, everyone had lost their jobs so everyone took on any job that you could.”“He wasn’t even licensed to drive a lorry. He said: ‘Me and the other guys weren’t licensed but they had us drive these big lorries through the town, just dumping it,’” she said.Gaffney says the campaign group has been approached by whistleblowers who were involved in the dumping of waste in the town. Photograph: Fabio de Paola/The GuardianThe lawyer involved in the 2009 civil claim, Des Collins, is now representing Gaffney and other cancer families. He said only a statutory public inquiry would ensure the full truth is uncovered.“Environmental testing, in order to rule out causation, is a highly complex process requiring stringent parameters and oversight to allow for reliance on its findings,” he said.“No matter how genuine the council’s new approach, I am compelled to point out that, in my experience, only a statutory public inquiry has the capability both to reassure the public that the full truth has been uncovered and to set out the lessons to be learned.”In a statement the leader of the council, Martin Griffiths, said the meeting with Gaffney and Hinde “marked the start of the parties’ commitment to work together in an open, positive and constructive way for the benefit of Corby residents”.The council said it was committed to full transparency and would set up a working group, which will include Gaffney, to examine public health and contamination issues in Corby.Gaffney is hopeful testing on land in Corby will begin once the group has been established. “Now, every family that comes through, I’m listening to their stories and it’s so hard. If anything, it just gives us that further fight,” she said.“Each time it just chips away and then makes your fight stronger, because you’re thinking: ‘We’ve got to find answers for these children.’”

Nazi bombs, torpedo heads and mines: how marine life thrives on dumped weapons

Scientists discover thousands of sea creatures have made their homes amid the detritus of abandoned second world war munitions off the coast of GermanyIn the brackish waters off the German coast lies a wasteland of Nazi bombs, torpedo heads and mines. Thrown off barges at the end of the second world war and forgotten about, thousands of munitions have become matted together over the years. They form a rusting carpet on the shallow, muddy seafloor of the Bay of Lübeck in the western tip of the Baltic Sea.Over the decades, the Nazi arsenal was ignored and forgotten about. A growing number of tourists flocked to the sandy beaches and calm waters for jetskiing, kite surfing and amusement parks. Beneath the surface, the weapons decayed. Continue reading...

In the brackish waters off the German coast lies a wasteland of Nazi bombs, torpedo heads and mines. Thrown off barges at the end of the second world war and forgotten about, thousands of munitions have become matted together over the years. They form a rusting carpet on the shallow, muddy seafloor of the Bay of Lübeck in the western tip of the Baltic Sea.Over the decades, the Nazi arsenal was ignored and forgotten about. A growing number of tourists flocked to the sandy beaches and calm waters for jetskiing, kite surfing and amusement parks. Beneath the surface, the weapons decayed.A shore crab in a video taken by a submersible. Photograph: DeepSea Monitoring/GeomarWhen the first scientists went looking to see what they were doing to the ecosystem, “some of us expected to see a desert, with nothing living there because it was all poisoned”, says Andrey Vedenin, from the Senckenberg Research Institute in Frankfurt am Main, who led a team of scientists to catalogue for the first time what life is able to survive on underwater weaponry.What they found astonished them. Vedenin remembers his colleagues shouting with surprise when the submersible first sent the images back. “It was a great moment,” he says.Thousands of sea creatures had made their homes amid the munitions, creating a regenerated ecosystem more populous than the sea floor around it.This underwater metropolis was testament to the tenacity of life. “It is actually astonishing how much life we find in places that are supposed to be toxic and dangerous,” he says.More than 40 starfish had piled on to one exposed chunk of TNT. They were living on metal shells, fuse pockets and transport cases just centimetres from its explosive filling. Fish, crabs, sea anemones and mussels were all found on the old munitions. “You could compare it with a coral reef in terms of the amount of fauna that was there,” says Vedenin.The munitions host a regenerated ecosystem of fish, crabs, sea anemones and mussels. ‘A lot of species that are otherwise rare or declining, such as the Baltic cod, are thriving,’ says Andrey VedeninAn average of more than 40,000 animals were living on every square metre of the munitions, scientists wrote in their paper on the discovery, published in the journal Communications Earth & Environment in September. The surrounding area was much less diverse, with only 8,000 individuals on every square metre.It is ironic that “things that are meant to kill everything are attracting so much life,” says Vedenin. “You can see how nature adapts after a catastrophic event such as the second world war and how, in some way, life finds its way back to the most dangerous places.”What the researchers found in the Bay of Lübeck reveals a surprising truth about how underwater life can repurpose human debris.Typically “urban sprawl” is considered bad for nature, but underwater, the script can be flipped. This is because every day, an average of 1m dumper trucks of rock, gravel, clay and silt are removed from the marine environment. These hard surfaces provide homes for corals, sponges, barnacles and mussels, as well as nursing grounds for fish.Before the war, this area of the Baltic Sea was full of boulders and rocky outcrops, but virtually all of them were removed for construction, to build homes and roads.Things that are meant to kill everything are attracting so much life … You can see how nature adaptsArtificial structures such as shipwrecks, offshore windfarms, oil rigs and pipelines can provide substitutes, replacing some of the lost habitat. This study shows that munitions could be similarly beneficial – the bloom of life on those in the Bay of Lübeck is likely to be repeated elsewhere.Between 1946 and 1948, 1.6m tonnes of arms were dumped off the German coast. Thousands of people loaded them in barges; some were dropped in designated sites, others just thrown overboard en route. This is the first time researchers have documented how marine life has responded.The seabed of the North and Baltic Seas off Germany are littered with munitions from the first and second world wars, such as shells once fired from German warships. Photograph: SeaTerraBut the phenomenon is not restricted to weapons. In the US, decommissioned oil and gas structures have turned into coral reefs; the Rigs-to-Reefs programme encourages authorities to leave the clean and stable structures underwater for the environmental benefits. Sunken ships from the first world war have become habitats for wildlife along the Potomac River in Maryland.These places become even more important for wildlife as the oceans are increasingly denuded by fishing, bottom trawling and anchoring. Sunken ships and weapons dump sites “essentially act as protected areas – they are not national parks, but almost any kind of human activity is prohibited”, says Vedenin. “Therefore a lot of species that are otherwise rare or declining, such as the Baltic cod, are thriving.”Anywhere where military conflict has occurred in the past 100 years, surrounding seas are usually strewn with munitions, says Vedenin. Millions of tonnes of explosive material lie in our oceans.The locations of these munitions are poorly documented, partly because of national borders, classified military information and the fact that records are buried in historic archives. They pose an explosion and security risk, as well as risk from the ongoing release of toxic chemicals.In the 1990s, academics started warning about the “danger from the deep”, and the need to remove potentially explosive material. Pressure to remove the weaponry also came from a growing demand to use the seabed for something else, such as dredging or offshore infrastructure such as windfarms, cables, and oil and gas pipelines.A black goby (Gobius niger), which feeds on the small crustaceans, fish, molluscs and worms living on the munitions in the Baltic Sea. Photograph: DeepSea Monitoring/ GeomarAs Germany and other countries embark on removing these relics, scientists hope to protect the ecosystems that have formed around them. In the Bay of Lübeck munitions are already being removed.“We should replace these metal carcasses left from munitions with some safer, some non-dangerous objects, like maybe concrete structures,” says Vedenin.He now hopes that what happens in Lübeck sets a precedent for replacing material after munitions removal elsewhere – because even the most destructive weaponry can become scaffolding for new life.Tank tracks that have become home to coral off Asan beach, Guam, came from US equipment lost during the invasion of the Pacific island in 1944. Photograph: National Park Service via GuamFind more age of extinction coverage here, and follow the biodiversity reporters Phoebe Weston and Patrick Greenfield in the Guardian app for more nature coverage

Nuclear-Waste Arks Are a Bold Experiment in Protecting Future Generations

Designing nuclear-waste repositories is part engineering, part anthropology—and part mythmaking

This article is part of a package in collaboration with Forbes on time capsules, preserving information and communicating with the future. Read more from the report.IGNACE, Ontario, C.E. 51,500—Feloo, a hunter, chews a strip of roasted caribou flank, washing it down with water from a nearby lake. Her boots press into thin soil that, each summer, thaws into a sodden marsh above frozen ground. Caribou herds drift across the tundra, nibbling lichen and calving on the open flats. Hooves sink into moss beds; antlers scrape dwarf shrubs. Overhead, migratory birds wheel and squawk before winging south. Two lakes remain liquid year-round, held open by hidden taliks—oases of water in a frozen land. Beneath it all lies the Canadian Shield: a billion-year-old granite craton, a basement of rock, scarred by ice, that has endured glaciation after glaciation. In 10 or 15 millennia, Feloo’s world will vanish beneath three kilometers of advancing ice.Feloo is unaware that 500 meters below her feet rests an ancestral deposit of copper, steel, clay and radioactive debris. Long ago, this land was called Canada. Here a group known as the Nuclear Waste Management Organization (NWMO) built a deep geological repository to contain spent nuclear fuel—the byproducts of reactors that once powered Ontario, Quebec and New Brunswick. The vault was engineered to isolate long-lived radionuclides such as uranium 235, which has a half-life that exceeds 700 million years—sealing them away from war, disaster, neglect, sabotage and curiosity for as long as human foresight could reach.On supporting science journalismIf you're enjoying this article, consider supporting our award-winning journalism by subscribing. By purchasing a subscription you are helping to ensure the future of impactful stories about the discoveries and ideas shaping our world today.NWMO issued reports with titles such as Postclosure Safety Assessment of a Used Fuel Repository in Crystalline Rock. These studies modeled future boreal forests and tundra ecosystems, simulating the waxing and waning of vast glacial ice sheets across successive ice ages. They envisioned the lifeways of self-sufficient hunters, fishers and farmers who might one day inhabit the region—and even the remote possibility of a far-future drill crew inadvertently breaching the buried canisters.Feloo was born into a world that has remembered none of this. Records of the repository were lost in the global drone wars of C.E. 2323. All that endured were the stories of Mishipeshu, the horned water panther said to dwell beneath the lakes—and to punish those who dig too deep. Some of Feloo’s companions dismiss the legend; others whisper that the earth below still burns with poison. Yet every step she takes is haunted by choices made tens of millennia before—when Canada undertook the Promethean task of safeguarding a future it could scarcely imagine.In 2024 NWMO announced that Canada’s deep geological repository for spent nuclear fuel would be built in the granite formations of northwestern Ontario, near the Township of Ignace and the Wabigoon Lake Ojibway Nation. The decision capped off a 14-year siting effort that solicited volunteer host communities and guaranteed them the right to withdraw at any stage of the process. NWMO is now preparing for a comprehensive regulatory review, which will include a licensing process conducted by the Canadian Nuclear Safety Commission. This means the development of impact assessments that will be specific to the Ignace site. NWMO has also pledged an Indigenous-led regulatory process alongside federal oversight, with the Wabigoon Lake Ojibway Nation conducting its own assessments to ensure the project reflects Anishinaabe principles of ecological stewardship. If approvals proceed, construction could begin in the 2030s, and the repository could go into operation in the 2040s.A deep-time repository, like a deep-space probe, must endure without maintenance or intervention, independently carrying human intent into the far future.A deep geological repository can be seen as a reverse ark: a vessel designed not to carry valuables forward in time but to seal dangerous legacies away from historical memory. Or it can be understood as a reverse mine: an effort returning hazardous remnants to the Earth rather than extracting resources from it. Either way it is more than just a feat of engineering. Repository projects weave together scientific reasoning, intergenerational ethics and community preferences in decisions that are meant to endure longer than empires. As messages to future versions of ourselves, they compel their designers to ask: What symbols, stories or institutions might bridge epochs? And what does it mean that we are trying to protect future humans who may exist only in our imaginations?I am a cultural anthropologist. From 2012 to 2014 I spent 32 months living in Finland, conducting fieldwork among the safety assessment teams for Onkalo—an underground complex that is likely to become the world’s first operational deep geological repository for spent nuclear fuel. The teams’ work involved modeling far-future glaciations, earthquakes, floods, erosion, permafrost and even hypothetical human and animal populations tens of millennia ahead. That research became the basis for Deep Time Reckoning, a book exploring how nuclear-waste experts’ long-range planning practices can be retooled as blueprints for safeguarding future worlds in other domains, from climate adaptation to biodiversity preservation.During the Biden administration, I joined the U.S. Department of Energy’s Office of Spent Fuel and High-Level Waste Disposition, where I helped advance participatory siting processes modeled on approaches that had proven successful in Finland and Canada. I served as federal manager of the DOE’s Consent-Based Siting Consortia—a nationwide coalition of 12 project teams from universities, nonprofits and the private sector that were tasked with fostering community engagement with nuclear waste management. Through it all, I came to see repository programs as civilizational experiments in long-term responsibility: collective efforts to extend the time horizons of governance and care so that shared futures may be protected far beyond the scale of any single lifetime or institution.An enduring question for all repository programs is whether—and, if so, how—to mark their sites and archive knowledge about them. There is no guarantee that the languages we speak today will remain intelligible even a few thousand years from now. Beowulf, written in an earlier form of English a millennium or so ago, already reads like a foreign tongue. The meanings of symbols drift just as unpredictably. A skull and crossbones, for instance, may denote poison, death, rebirth—or pirates—depending on culture and context. What, then, might a nuclear waste repository signify to people tens of millennia from now? How long can a warning sign, monument, or archive preserve the meanings we attach to it today? Or should we abandon the illusion of communicating with future humans like Feloo altogether—and instead build repositories that are meant to be forgotten?Nuclear organizations rely on familiar techniques to preserve institutional memory: documentation mandates, digital databases, mentoring pipelines, program redundancy, succession planning. Such mechanisms can sustain continuity for decades, even centuries—but their limits become clear when stretched across millennia. Archives can burn. Technologies can decay into obsolescence. Institutions can falter under political or economic upheaval. And today a new litany of planetary risks crowds the horizon: thermonuclear war, weaponized synthetic biology, climate-driven migrations, institutional collapse, even runaway artificial superintelligence.As NWMO prepares for construction in Ignace in the 2030s, the question of long-term communication must increasingly shift from theory to practice. Canada has participated in the Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development’s Nuclear Energy Agency’s Preservation of Records, Knowledge and Memory initiative, which has explored strategies ranging from warning markers to staged transfers of responsibility across generations. In a 2017 safety report, NWMO wisely conceded a limit: “repository records and markers (and passive societal memory) are assumed sufficient to ensure that inadvertent intrusion would not occur for at least 300 ... years.” Beyond that horizon, the premise changes. No monument, land-use restriction, monitoring system or archive can be trusted to endure indefinitely.Different countries have embraced different philosophies of how to safeguard nuclear waste repositories across centuries and millennia—and how and whether to try to send messages to those who, like Feloo, may one day live above them.The U.S. is home to the Waste Isolation Pilot Plant (WIPP), a deep geological repository carved into ancient salt beds in New Mexico. WIPP stores transuranic waste from the nation’s nuclear weapons programs. In the 1980s and 1990s, task forces convened scientists, artists, science-fiction writers and semioticians to design warning systems that were intended to deter drill crews or archaeologists living thousands of years in the future. Their proposals were dramatic: vast fields of concrete thorns bristling from the desert floor; monolithic slabs etched with multilingual warnings (“this place is not a place of honor ... nothing valued is here”); and signage depicting the anguished face of Edvard Munch’s The Scream. Some envisioned a quasi-religious “atomic priesthood” to preserve the warning through ritual. Others suggested bioengineered “ray cats” whose fur would fluoresce near radiation—accompanied by myths, songs and proverbs to ensure that unborn generations would know to flee.Finland’s Onkalo repository embodies a somewhat different a philosophy. Anticipating the future loss of institutional control and memory of the repository, Onkalo was designed to remain secure for millennia in the absence of monumental communication systems. As in Canada, the lack of exploitable resources in the granite bedrock is meant to deter future prospectors. Once its tunnels are packed with copper canisters and bentonite clay, Onkalo will be backfilled and sealed for perpetuity on a small, unassuming islet in the Baltic Sea sometime in the 2120s. The danger is to be buried so completely that there will be nothing left to remember: no attention-grabbing monoliths to tempt curiosity, no symbols to be misread. When I conducted anthropological fieldwork in Finland, some scientists likened the project to launching a probe into interstellar space: years of meticulous planning and testing culminating in a single, irrevocable release. After that, no repair or recall is possible. A deep-time repository, like a deep-space probe, must endure without maintenance or intervention, independently carrying human intent into the far future.Even the mightiest empires have cycled through collapse and renewal, through forgetting and rediscovery.France has charted a third path with its Cigéo repository, planned in the Callovo-Oxfordian clay of its northeastern departments of Meuse and Haute-Marne. A 2016 law requires Cigéo to remain reversible for at least a century after operations begin. In practice, reversibility means retrievability: the inbuilt capacity to recover waste packages from the underground deposition cells. Advocates see this as a balance between long-term containment and intergenerational agency: the idea that future citizens should retain the right to revisit, or even overturn, choices made today. This logic resonates with those who view spent nuclear fuel as a future resource more than a liability. Jenifer Schafer, an associate director for technology at the DOE’s Advanced Research Projects Agency–Energy, has argued that “nuclear treasure” may be a more fitting term than “nuclear waste,” as the fissile materials inside it could someday power future innovations in nuclear reactor design. From this perspective, burying spent nuclear fuel too conclusively risks foreclosing possibilities that future generations might prefer to keep open.Taken together, these examples reveal how differently societies imagine their obligations to the far future. The American strategy reflected a lingering cold-war-era faith—tinged with hubris—in design ingenuity to frighten descendants away. The Finnish plan entrusted geology with the work of erasure, even if humans’ memory were to lapse as the landscape quietly reclaimed the site. The French framework preserved the right of future citizens to reject the decisions of today. Canada still has regulatory milestones and First Nations approvals to meet before NWMO can break ground at Ignace. In the decades ahead, however, it, too, will have to specify how it will stage its approach to intergenerational communication.What is certain, though, is that NWMO’s deep geological disposal efforts will unfold not only as a technical project but also as a cultural statement—a statement about care across generations, the limits of understanding across difference and the moral responsibilities of present-day Canadians to those not yet born. Like all repository efforts, NWMO’s work in Ignace will serve as a mirror: a message not only to the future but also to the present, reflecting what we choose to remember, what we choose to forget and how we hope to be remembered ourselves.As NWMO refines its approach to remembering, forgetting and communicating with societies of the future, it would do well to look beyond the nuclear industry for inspiration.Japan’s Kongō Gumi construction firm, founded in C.E. 578, operated independently for more than 1,400 years before it became part of the Takamatsu Construction Group in 2006. Adapting across vast social and political transformations, the Catholic Church, France’s Hôtel-Dieu hospital (C.E. 651) and Morocco’s University of al-Qarawiyyin (C.E. 859) have each endured for more than a millennium. Bali’s subak irrigation system, established in the ninth century, continues to flourish through a network of water temples that unite ecological engineering with Hindu philosophy and ritual. In New Mexico, three-century-old acequia canals still function under community governance, with elected mayordomos overseeing water sharing through collective labor. In Australia, the Brewarrina fish traps have been maintained across countless generations of Aboriginal peoples. What principles of intergenerational adaptation, renewal or continuity might NWMO glean from such long-lived systems?The Memory of Mankind (MoM) project in Austria could also be instructive. MoM’s mission is to preserve a snapshot of human civilization for the distant future, a cultural time capsule designed to outlast war, decay and digital obsolescence. Deep inside the Hallstatt salt mine, MoM stores ceramic tablets engraved with texts and images engineered to resist heat, radiation, chemicals and water. Its archive includes everything from scholarly works to recipes and personal stories. Led by ceramist Martin Kunze, MoM represents a philosophy of strategic redundancy. To guard against loss, Kunze distributes miniature tablets worldwide, each etched with maps pointing back to the Hallstatt archive—a physical embodiment of a principle articulated by the digital-preservation project LOCKSS: “Lots of Copies Keep Stuff Safe.” What might it mean for Canada to apply that same principle to the challenge of nuclear memory?Indigenous cultures offer another paradigm of long-term message endurance: storytelling as recordkeeping. Aboriginal Australian oral histories recount volcanic eruptions in western Victoria that align with geological evidence dating back nearly 37,000 years. Narratives describing islands drowned by rising seas have likewise been corroborated by climate science. Such traditions demonstrate that oral knowledge of environmental change can persist across timescales that far exceed those of our most advanced digital media, which often decay or become unreadable within decades. What might NWMO learn from cultural systems of memory grounded in ceremony, cosmology and story transmission?If built properly, NWMO’s deep geological repository will outlast governments, economies and the very languages that name it. It will join a global lineage of reverse arks: monuments to societies that dared to think beyond themselves. If the facility is someday uncovered by a far-future archaeologist, its depth, placement and engineered barriers could reveal what our civilization judged to be dangerous, how we calculated risk and how we imagined future humans would think, live and interpret signs. Yet scientific literacy cannot be assumed across deep time. Even the mightiest empires have cycled through collapse and renewal, through forgetting and rediscovery. To posterity, a nuclear waste repository might be read as a sacred monument, an extraterrestrial stronghold, a strange geological formation, a chamber of forgotten gods—or something beyond our present-day imagination altogether.In the end, Canada’s proposed Ignace repository will be an artifact of our own self-understanding: stone and metal fashioned into a signal meant to traverse vast orders of time. Its interpretation will belong solely to the future—to whatever beings, human or otherwise, may one day unearth what we once chose to hide.

‘We feel we’re fighting a losing battle’: the race to remove millions of plastic beads from Camber Sands

A huge cleanup effort has seen volunteers working to remove beads by hand and machine. They can only wait and see the extent of damage to wildlife and dune habitatJust past a scrum of dog walkers, about 40 people are urgently combing through the sand on hands and knees. Their task is to try to remove millions of peppercorn-sized black plastic biobeads from where they have settled in the sand. Beyond them, a seal carcass grins menacingly, teeth protruding from its rotting skull.Last week, an environmental disaster took place on Camber Sands beach, on what could turn out to be an unprecedented scale. Eastbourne Wastewater Treatment Works, owned by Southern Water, experienced a mechanical failure and spewed out millions of biobeads on to the Sussex coastline. Southern Water has since taken responsibility for the spill. Ironically, biobeads are used to clean wastewater – bacteria attach to their rough, crinkly surface and clean the water of contaminants.Camber Sands is one of England’s most popular beaches, with rare dune habitat Continue reading...

Just past a scrum of dog walkers, about 40 people are urgently combing through the sand on hands and knees. Their task is to try to remove millions of peppercorn-sized black plastic biobeads from where they have settled in the sand. Beyond them, a seal carcass grins menacingly, teeth protruding from its rotting skull.Last week, an environmental disaster took place on Camber Sands beach, on what could turn out to be an unprecedented scale. Eastbourne Wastewater Treatment Works, owned by Southern Water, experienced a mechanical failure and spewed out millions of biobeads on to the Sussex coastline. Southern Water has since taken responsibility for the spill. Ironically, biobeads are used to clean wastewater – bacteria attach to their rough, crinkly surface and clean the water of contaminants.In the days since, volunteers have flocked to the beach. On a chilly November morning, beneath a blue sky, they painstakingly pick out the minuscule beads by hand. It is mind-numbingly tedious work.Others – much to the envy of the hand-pickers – have sieves. One volunteer has fashioned a sieve from a mesh onion sack found nearby.“We’re scooping up the sand, then pouring the sand over a bucket into a sieve, and then pouring the water on top, so that we just get the beads,” says Hastings resident Roisin O’Gorman.Andy Dinsdale, the founder of Strandliners, an environmental organisation that runs beach cleanups, says: “They’ve got to get down on their hands and knees, almost into the strandline [the line of seaweed and other debris that lines the high water mark on beaches], to look for very small 5mm black pellets. We can only do our best.”Kneeling on the sand, on your knees, just picking them out, one by one, is futileHe is noticeably exhausted from his days-long effort coordinating the cleanup. He has missed his son’s birthday celebrations, he says, to be here.Despite their valiant efforts, many volunteers feel helpless. Walking tramples the plastic further into the sand and overfilled bin bags of waste can split, putting workers back to square one. “Kneeling on the sand, on your knees, just picking them out, one by one, is futile,” says Nick, a volunteer from Tunbridge Wells, in frustration.To make more of a dent, experts have brought in a special machine. “Do you remember Teletubbies?” says Dinsdale. He points about a mile down the beach, towards what looks like a giant vacuum cleaner – remarkably reminiscent of the character Noo-Noo from the children’s television series – sucking up a carpet of black beads.This microplastic removal machine is the invention of Joshua Beech, an environmental scientist and founder of the cleanup organisation Nurdle. “It works by vacuuming up material, separating it by density, and then sieving and separating in the back [of the machine] so it comes out as nearly pure plastic in the collection trays,” he says.Beech and his colleague Roy Beal have spent five backbreaking days vacuuming the beach from sunrise to sunset. Beech hoists the heavy nozzle on to his shoulders while Beal holds it underarm. “He has a rugby player’s shoulders,” says Beal. “I have kayaker’s shoulders.”They hope that removing as many biobeads as possible can prevent more damage.Tamara Galloway, professor of ecotoxicology at the University of Exeter, says microplastics “overlap with the prey item size of many marine organisms and can enter the food web, with the potential to transfer contaminants into cells and tissues”.They can also break down and leach harmful compounds that affect animals’ hormones and cause reproductive problems. Local people are already concerned by an unusual number of stranded animals – three seals and a porpoise – that recently washed up on the beach. At this stage, the UK Cetacean Strandings Investigation Programme (CSIP), which investigates strandings, doesn’t think these deaths are linked to the spill.Rye Harbour nature reserve, adjacent to Camber Sands, is Sussex Wildlife Trust’s largest reserve. This special area is “a matrix of wetland habitat”, influenced by and linked to the sea, says site manager Paul Tinsley-Marshall. “The vegetated shingle is a globally threatened habitat.” It is home to more than 4,355 species, including common, sandwich and little terns, oystercatchers, plovers and avocets. Biobead pollution has now been confirmed at Rye Harbour, and the reserve’s team is currently assessing the damage and carefully planning their cleanup of this sensitive habitat.According to Strandliners, there have been two previous large-scale biobead incidents reported to the Environment Agency, in 2010 and 2017.“This is the worst microplastic spill we’ve seen this year,” says Beech. Worse even than the spill of nurdles (pre-production plastic pellets) in March, when two ships collided in the North Sea. The plastic beads washed up on Norfolk beaches and the surrounding coastline.The harm caused by the biobeads at Camber may depend on their composition. Beads like these used to be recycled from potentially toxic e-waste until regulatory legislation in 2006. No one knows when these beads were made, Dinsdale says.With the sun due to set at 4.20pm, time on the beach is limited. “We’re fighting against the sunlight,” says volunteer Cate Lamb who has travelled from London with her partner, Khalid Flynn, and eight-year-old Maya Flynn. “We feel like we’re fighting a losing battle, a little, because of the scale of the challenge.”At that moment, her bucket splits.Rother district council says attempts to remove all the pellets have “proven impossible” and that they “expect further large amounts to be deposited in the coming weeks and months”.Beech and the Nurdle team hope to return after the next spring tide brings in more, but this is dependent on them being able to cover the costs of a second clean.The money they make selling recycled sheeting made from the beach plastics to fund future cleanups isn’t enough. “We can’t afford to come back,” says Beech. “But the environment needs us back.”Southern Water has apologised for the spill but Helena Dollimore, the MP for Hastings and Rye, wants it to go further by funding the cleanup and any future nature restoration. She is also calling for an independent investigation. “Southern Water cannot be trusted to mark their own homework,” she says.

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