It’s April 2021, and I’m living in Cabarete, a coastal town that feels like a hidden gem.

My days are filled with the quiet rhythm of remote work, and my evenings are spent paddling through the mangroves—a peaceful labyrinth of roots and calm waters that feels like a world apart. This place has become my sanctuary, a refuge where I can disconnect and reconnect with myself.

One morning, I notice a plume of smoke rising above the horizon. It’s not the first time I’ve seen it, but today, I feel compelled to find out more. The mangroves are too precious to ignore—vital not only to the ecosystem but to the beauty and balance of life here.

What I uncover shocks me. Through research and conversations with locals, I learn that the fires have been happening for decades—since 1987. It’s an old practice rooted in survival, where sections of mangroves are burned to flush out crabs hiding in the roots. For many families, these crabs are a crucial source of income and food.

Digging deeper, I discover that the burning has origins in sugarcane farming, where fire was traditionally used to clear fields before harvest. Over time, this method extended to the mangroves, becoming a desperate measure for communities struggling to make ends meet.

I’m heartbroken.

The mangroves are more than just trees; they’re a critical buffer against storms, a haven for wildlife, and a lifeline for the environment. Watching them burn feels like watching a piece of Cabarete’s soul disappear. Yet, I can’t ignore the human story behind the flames. These are acts of survival, not destruction for its own sake.

I start talking to more people in the community, trying to understand their challenges and their needs. The conversations are eye-opening. Hunger, limited job opportunities, and a lack of alternatives have forced these practices to persist.

But I also see hope.

With the community’s input, I begin brainstorming ways to address the issue sustainably. One idea stands out: a seed-to-impact program. The concept is simple but powerful—community members grow mangrove seedlings, replant them in damaged areas, and are compensated for their efforts. This program could provide immediate income while fostering a long-term sense of stewardship for the mangroves.

We could explore eco-tourism initiatives and sustainable crab harvesting techniques, aiming to replace the destructive burning with practices that benefit both the people and the environment.

Change won’t happen overnight, and I know the journey will be difficult. Breaking old habits, especially those tied to survival, is never easy. But there’s a quiet determination growing here—a collective understanding that the mangroves are worth protecting and that the future can be different.

As I paddle through the mangroves today, I see not just the scars of fire but the potential for renewal. The smoke on the horizon no longer feels like an inevitability. Instead, it’s a reminder that with care, collaboration, and action, we can turn destruction into regeneration and create a better future for this place we all call home.