The World Is Running Out of Sand
It’s one of our most widely used natural resources, but it’s scarcer than you think.
New Yorker | 29 May 2017 Issue
The final event of last
year’s beach-volleyball world tour was held in Toronto, in September,
in a parking lot at the edge of Lake Ontario. There’s a broad public
beach nearby, but few actual beaches meet the Fédération Internationale
de Volleyball’s strict standards for sand, so the tournament’s sponsor
had erected a temporary stadium and imported thirteen hundred and sixty
tons from a quarry two and a half hours to the north. The shipment
arrived in thirty-five tractor-trailer loads.
I
visited the site shortly before the tournament, and spoke with Todd
Knapton, who was supervising the installation. He’s the vice-president
of the company that supplied the sand, Hutcheson Sand & Mixes, in
Huntsville, Ontario. He’s in his fifties, and he was wearing a white
hard hat, a neon-yellow-green T-shirt, dark-gray shorts, and slip-on
steel-toed boots. We walked through a gate and across an expanse of
asphalt to a pair of warmup courts, which from a distance looked like
enormous baking pans filled with butterscotch-brownie batter. “You want
to see the players buried up to their ankles,” he said, and stuck in a
foot, to demonstrate. “Rain or shine, hot or cold, it should be like a
kid trying to ride a bicycle through marbles.”
Ordinary
beach sand tends to be too firm for volleyball: when players dive into
it, they break fingers, tear hamstrings, and suffer other impact
injuries. Knapton helped devise the sport’s sand specifications, after
Canadian players complained about the courts at the 1996 Olympic Games,
in Atlanta. “It was trial and error at first,” he said. “But we came up
with an improved recipe, and we now have a material that’s uniform from
country to country to country, on five continents.” The specifications
govern the shape, size, and hardness of the sand grains, and they
disallow silt, clay, dirt, and other fine particles, which not only
stick to perspiring players but also fill voids between larger grains,
making the playing surface firmer. The result is sand that drains so
well that building castles with it would be impossible. “We had two
rainstorms last night, but these courts are ready to play on,” he said.
“You could take a fire hose to this sand and you’d never flood it.”
Beach-volleyball
promoters all over the world have to submit one-kilogram samples to
Knapton for approval, and his office now contains hundreds of specimens.
(He also vets beach-soccer sand for fifa.) Hutcheson doesn’t ship its
own sand to events overseas, but Knapton and his colleagues often create
courts in other countries, after sourcing sand where they can. He took
off his hard hat and showed me the underside of the brim, on which he
had recorded, in black Sharpie, the names and dates of big events
they’ve handled, among them the Olympic Games in Sydney, Athens,
Beijing, and London. (The sand for London came from Redhill, in Surrey;
the sand for Athens came from Belgium.) The company’s biggest recent
challenge was the first European Games, which were held in Baku,
Azerbaijan, in 2015. Baku has beaches—it’s on a peninsula on the western
shore of the Caspian Sea—but the sand is barely suitable for
sunbathing, much less for volleyball. Knapton’s crew searched the region
and found a large deposit with the ideal mixture of particle sizes, in a
family-owned mine in the Nur Mountains, in southern Turkey, eight
hundred miles to the west.
The
mine is within shelling distance of the Syrian border. Knapton had
planned to transport the sand across central Syria, through Iraq, around
Armenia, and into Azerbaijan from the northwest, in two convoys of more
than two hundred and fifty trucks each. But geopolitics intervened.
“You can cross those borders only at certain hours of the day, and ISIS
was making the guys antsy,” he said. “In the end, we said, ‘Well, we
could have handled one war.’” Instead, Knapton and his crew
bagged the sand in one-and-a-half-ton fabric totes, trucked it west to
Iskenderun, and craned it onto ships. “We did five vessels, five
separate trips,” Knapton said. “The route went across the Mediterranean,
up the Aegean, through the Bosporus, across the Black Sea, and into
Sochi.” From there, they took the sand by rail through Russia and
Georgia, around Armenia, and across Azerbaijan.
“The Syrian exodus was on at that time, and we saw people walking for
their lives,” he said. “But these were the first-ever European Games, so
everything had to be right.”
Sand
covers so much of the earth’s surface that shipping it across
borders—even uncontested ones—seems extreme. But sand isn’t just sand,
it turns out. In the industrial world, it’s “aggregate,” a category that
includes gravel, crushed stone, and various recycled materials. Natural
aggregate is the world’s second most heavily exploited natural
resource, after water, and for many uses the right kind is scarce or
inaccessible. In 2014, the United Nations Environment Programme
published a report titled “Sand, Rarer Than One Thinks,”
which concluded that the mining of sand and gravel “greatly exceeds
natural renewal rates” and that “the amount being mined is increasing
exponentially, mainly as a result of rapid economic growth in Asia.”
Pascal
Peduzzi, a Swiss scientist and the director of one of the U.N.’s
environmental groups, told the BBC last May that China’s swift
development had consumed more sand in the previous four years than the
United States used in the past century. In India, commercially useful
sand is now so scarce that markets for it are dominated by “sand
mafias”—criminal enterprises that sell material taken illegally from
rivers and other sources, sometimes killing to safeguard their deposits.
In the United States, the fastest-growing uses include the
fortification of shorelines eroded by rising sea levels and more and
more powerful ocean storms—efforts that, like many attempts to address
environmental challenges, create environmental challenges of their own.
Geologists
define sand not by composition but by size, as grains between 0.0625
and two millimetres across. Just below sand on the size scale is silt;
just above it is gravel. Most sand consists chiefly of quartz, the
commonest form of silica, but there are other kinds. Sand on ocean
beaches usually includes a high proportion of shell pieces and,
increasingly, bits of decomposing plastic trash; Hawaii’s famous black
sand is weathered fragments of volcanic glass; the sand in the dunes at
White Sands National Monument, in New Mexico, is mainly gypsum. Sand is
almost always formed through the gradual disintegration of bigger rocks,
by the action of ice, water, wind, and time, but, as the geologist
Michael Welland writes, in his book “Sand: The Never-Ending Story,”
many of those bigger rocks were themselves formed from accumulations of
the eroded bits of other rocks, and “perhaps half of all sand grains
have been through six cycles in the mill, liberated, buried, exposed, and liberated again.”
Sand
is also classified by shape, in configurations that range from oblong
and sharply angular to nearly spherical and smooth. Desert sand is
almost always highly rounded, because strong winds knock the grains
together so forcefully that protrusions and sharp edges break off. River
sand is more angular. William H. Langer, a research geologist who
retired from the U.S. Geological Survey a few years ago and now works as
a private consultant, told me, “In a stream, there’s a tiny film of
water around each grain, so when the grains bang together there’s enough
energy to break them apart but not enough to let them rub against each
other.” The shape of sand deposited by glaciers and ice sheets depends
partly on how far the sand was moved and what it was moved over. Most of
the sand in the Hutcheson quarry is “sub-angular”: the grains have
fractured faces, but the sharp edges have been partly abraded away. Sand
that’s very slightly more smooth-edged is “sub-rounded.”
Aggregate
is the main constituent of concrete (eighty per cent) and asphalt
(ninety-four per cent), and it’s also the primary base material that
concrete and asphalt are placed on during the building of roads,
buildings, parking lots, runways, and many other structures. A report
published in 2004 by the American Geological Institute said that a
typical American house requires more than a hundred tons of sand,
gravel, and crushed stone for the foundation, basement, garage, and
driveway, and more than two hundred tons if you include its share of the
street that runs in front of it. A mile-long section of a single lane
of an American interstate highway requires thirty-eight thousand tons.
The most dramatic global increase in aggregate consumption is occurring
in parts of the world where people who build roads are trying to keep
pace with people who buy cars. Chinese officials have said that by 2030
they hope to have completed a hundred and sixty-five thousand miles of
roads—a national network nearly three and a half times as long as the
American interstate system.
Windowpanes, wineglasses, and
cell-phone screens are made from melted sand. Sand is used for
filtration in water-treatment facilities, septic systems, and swimming
pools. Oil and gas drillers inject large quantities of hard, round sand
into fracked rock formations in order to hold the cracks open, like
shoving a foot in the door. Railroad locomotives drop angular sand onto
the rails in front of their wheels as they brake, to improve traction.
Australia and India are major exporters of garnet sand, which is crushed
to make an abrasive material used in sandblasting and by water-jet
cutters. Foundries use sand to form the molds for iron bolts, manhole
covers, engine blocks, and other cast-metal objects. I once visited a
foundry in Arizona whose products included parts for airplanes, cruise
missiles, and artificial hip joints, and I watched a worker pouring
molten stainless steel into a mold that had been made by repeatedly
dipping a wax pattern into a ceramic slurry and then into sand. The work
area was so hot that I nervously checked my arm, because I thought my
shirt was on fire. Factories that produce plate glass—by pouring thin
layers of molten silica onto baths of molten tin—can be hotter.
In
some applications, natural aggregate can be replaced by or supplemented
with recycled materials, but the possibilities are limited. And efforts
to reduce consumption are complicated by the fact that many
environmentally desirable products and activities depend as heavily on
aggregate as environmentally undesirable ones do: solar panels are made
from silica and silicon; wind turbines are manufactured with foundry
sand; autonomous electric vehicles need roads and highways, too.
Last
summer, at a quarry in western Connecticut, I put my hand into a big
pile of sand that was the pinkish-gray color of calamine lotion. In a
couple of months, the pile was going to be trucked to New York City,
eighty miles south, and spread on top of Wollman Rink for the annual
Rolex Central Park Horse Show. (Afterward, the sand would be trucked
back to the quarry, to be stored until the following fall.) Bill
Stanley, a vice-president of the construction company that owns the
quarry, told me, “We make a customized, proprietary blend of
horse-footing sand, and we’re sending it all over New York State and out
to the Rocky Mountains. People want it in Europe, too.” The color comes
from a dye; fibres and other additives are mixed in as well, to create a
material that is sufficiently yielding to protect the feet and legs of
very large animals but firm enough to support running and jumping. (It’s
too stiff for volleyball.)
There’s
no single standard for equestrian sand; different producers have
different recipes. The pile I stuck my hand into is known as a
manufactured sand, because it was produced by crushing stone—in this
case, dolomitic marble. The marble in the quarry is part of the
Stockbridge Formation, which runs from eastern New York to Vermont. “You
can’t really use it as building marble, because it’s too jointed,”
Stanley said. “But it makes exceptionally high-quality sand. It’s all
calcium carbonate and magnesium carbonate, and Portland cement
chemically bonds with it. We sell it mostly for landscaping and for
architectural concrete.” He drove me up a narrow access road to a spot
overlooking the main pit. “We developed this quarry for sand,” he said.
“Sand is something you’ve got to keep your eye on, to be sure you have a
good, reliable source for the long term.” For many years, Stanley’s
company bought large quantities of high-quality aggregate from a
dredging operation off the southern end of Staten Island, not far from
an entrance to New York Harbor, but that operation was shut down in
2015, amid concerns that the dredges were doing environmental damage to
the seafloor.
One engineer I spoke
to told me that transporting sand and stone for ordinary construction
becomes uneconomical after about sixty miles, and that builders usually
make do with whatever is available within that radius, even if it means
settling for materials that aren’t ideal. In some places, though, there
are no usable alternatives. Florida lies on top of a vast limestone
formation, but most of the stone is too soft to be used in construction.
“The whole Gulf Coast is starved for aggregate,” William Langer, the
research geologist, told me. “So they import limestone from Mexico, from
a quarry in the Yucatán, and haul it by freighter across the
Caribbean.” Even that stone is wrong for some uses. “You can build most
of a road with limestone from Mexico,” he continued, “but it doesn’t
have much skid resistance. So to get that they have to use granitic
rock, which they ship down the East Coast from quarries in Nova Scotia
or haul by train from places like inland Georgia.” When Denver
International Airport was being built, in the nineteen-nineties, local
quarries were unable to supply crushed stone as rapidly as it was
needed, so vast quantities were brought from a quarry in Wyoming whose
principal product was stone ballast for railroad tracks. The crushed
stone was delivered by a freight train that ran in a continuous loop
between the quarry and the work site.
Deposits
of sand, gravel, and stone can be found all over the United States, but
many of them are untouchable, because they’re covered by houses,
shopping malls, or protected land. Regulatory approval for new quarries
is more and more difficult to obtain: people don’t want to live near
big, noisy holes, even if their lives are effectively fabricated from
the products of those holes. The scarcity of alternatives makes existing
quarries increasingly valuable. The Connecticut quarry I visited is one
of a number owned by Stanley’s company, and like many in the United
States it’s in operation today only because it predates current mining
regulations.
Stanley showed me an
old tunnel, barely visible in the underbrush, through which miners in
the nineteenth century hauled stone from the quarry’s original pit, on
the other side of a tree-covered rise. (In those days, the principal
product was lime, which was used to make mortar in the era before
Portland cement.) The old pit was abandoned many years ago, and is now
almost completely overgrown. “It looks like Jurassic Park,” Stanley
said. The company is planning to resume excavation near that area,
though, as other sources become depleted. Before the work can begin, a
large colony of bats—which took over the tunnel when miners stopped
using it—will have to be relocated to a cavelike bat hibernaculum, which
the company will build on another part of the property, with guidance
from the state’s Department of Energy and Environmental Protection.
Ten
years ago, I spent a week in Dubai, which at the time was one of the
fastest-growing cities in the world. Construction cranes and imported
laborers were everywhere. The work went on all night, and the city’s
extraordinary traffic congestion was continually being made worse by
road-widening projects intended to relieve it. Exhaust from cars and
trucks, in combination with wind-borne dust from the Arabian Desert and
humid air from the Persian Gulf, formed a thick, phlegm-colored haze
that made breathing unpleasant—an effect exacerbated by the ferocious
heat. (Dubai gets so hot during the summer that many swimming pools are
cooled, rather than heated.)
One
day, I played golf with an Australian who worked for a major real-estate
developer. The course, like Dubai itself, had been built on empty
desert, and I commented that creating fairways and greens in such a
forbidding environment must be difficult. “No,” the Australian said.
“Deserts are easy, because you can shape the sand into anything you
like.” The difficult parts, paradoxically, are the areas that are
supposed to be sand: deserts make lousy sand traps. The wind-blown
grains are so rounded that golf balls sink into them, so the sand in the
bunkers on Dubai’s many golf courses is imported. Jumeirah Golf
Estates—on the outskirts of the city, next to the desert—has two
courses, Fire and Earth, both designed by Greg Norman. The sand in the
bunkers on the Earth course is white (the most prized color for golf
sand) and was bought from a producer in North Carolina. The sand on the
Fire course is reddish brown—more like the desert across the road.
Norman’s company bought it from Hutcheson, which mined it at its quarry
in Ontario, sifted it to make it firmer than volleyball sand, kiln-dried
it, dyed it, and loaded it onto a ship.
Unfortunately
for Dubai’s builders and real-estate developers, desert sand is also
unsuitable for construction and, indeed, for almost any human use. The
grains don’t have enough fractured faces for concrete and asphalt, and
they’re too small and round for water-filtration systems. The
high-compression concrete used in Dubai’s Burj Khalifa, the world’s
tallest structure, was made with sand imported from Australia. William
Langer told me that other desert countries face similar shortages.
“Mauritania is trying to catch up with the world,” he said. “They’ve got
sand all over the place, but it isn’t good even for highway
construction.” Stone is so scarce in Bangladesh that contractors
commonly resort to making concrete with crushed brick.
When
I was in Dubai, rich people from across the world were paying such
absurdly high prices for its real estate that the government decided to
create more of it. From a window in a restaurant on an upper floor of my
hotel, seven hundred feet above the Persian Gulf, I looked down on two
vast offshore land-creation developments: Palm Jumeirah and the World.
Both are artificial archipelagos. From above, Palm Jumeirah resembles a
palm tree with spreading branches, or maybe a trilobite fossil. The
World consists of three hundred small islands arranged in clusters that
(vaguely) suggest a Mercator projection of Earth. Creating so much
artificial land required enormous shipments of quarried stone, from
across the Emirates, as well as hundreds of millions of tons of sand,
which foreign contractors dredged from the floor of the Gulf and heaped
into piles. According to a U.N. report, the dredging “exhausted all of
the marine sand resources in Dubai,” and also did extensive
environmental damage. Seafloor dredging creates the undersea equivalent
of choking sandstorms, killing organisms, destroying coral reefs and
other habitats, and altering patterns of water circulation. In 2011, a
British scientist who had studied the Dubai projects told Nature, “All
the ecological trajectories are downhill.”
Dubai’s archipelago developments were
profoundly affected by the global recession. Palm Jumeirah survived, and
today its curving branches—roughly a hundred yards wide and edged by
narrow artificial beaches—are covered with double rows of
multimillion-dollar villas, as well as hotels, clubs, and shopping
malls. But the World remains undeveloped and has essentially been
abandoned, as have two other sites that were intended to be bigger
versions of Palm Jumeirah. It seems unlikely that anything significant
will ever be built on them, although if construction picks up elsewhere
they could conceivably serve as (phenomenally expensive) aggregate
mines, since marine sand can usually be used to make concrete, as long
as it’s been rinsed sufficiently to remove all the salt and other
undesirable materials.
Hurricane
Sandy, the most destructive ocean storm ever to strike the Northeast,
made landfall on October 29, 2012, near Brigantine, New Jersey, a town
on a barrier island just north of Atlantic City. The resulting water
surge flooded streets, subway tunnels, and buildings in New York and its
suburbs; the storm knocked out power, and did more than sixty-five
billion dollars’ worth of damage in a dozen states. (Among other
alarming effects, it created twenty-foot waves in the middle of Lake
Michigan, six hundred miles to the west.) The devastation in places like
Brigantine—and in the Rockaways, in New York—was especially severe. I
visited Brigantine two years after Sandy struck, and saw damaged houses
that had been raised onto elevated concrete-block foundations in the
hope of protecting them from future storm surges. Houses were still
awaiting their turn with booked-up contractors; one looked like a doll
house, because an exterior wall was missing, revealing the rooms inside.
The
barrier island on which Brigantine sits is part of a semi-continuous
chain of skinny, shifting accumulations of sand that lie a short
distance offshore along much of the Gulf Coast and most of the way up
the Eastern Seaboard. Robert S. Young, a geology professor at Western
Carolina University, in North Carolina, told me recently, “When people
first settled this country, nobody built on the barrier islands. They
were too stormy, and they weren’t good places to live.” Today, however,
many barrier islands are densely covered with houses—the biggest and the
most expensive of which often have the greatest exposure to ocean
storms, since they’re the ones with the best water views. The rapid
growth in construction has been driven by lax land-use ordinances,
below-market flood-insurance rates, the indomitability of the human
spirit, and, mainly, the willingness of Congress to cover much of the
cost when the inevitable occurs. “The Feds have poured in money over and
over,” Young continued. “Folks will say to me, ‘Gosh, Robert, people
must be crazy to rebuild their roads and homes again and again, after
all the storms,’ and my answer is ‘No, they’re making a perfectly
rational economic decision. We’re the crazy ones, because we’re paying
for it.’”
Congress
responded to Sandy by passing the Disaster Relief Appropriations Act of
2013, also known as the Hurricane Sandy Supplemental bill. It allocated
a little more than forty-nine billion dollars for a long list of relief
efforts, including more than five billion for the Army Corps of
Engineers. Much of the Corps’s money has been spent on dredging sand
from the seafloor and piling it up on shorelines between oceanfront real
estate and the water. “The federal government had been involved in
similar projects over the past couple of decades,” Young said. “But the
projects had become so expensive that money wasn’t really available
anymore. Then, suddenly, after Sandy, they all became practical.” An
executive of Great Lakes Dredge & Dock—the country’s largest
dredging company, and the contractor on many Corps projects—told me that
ships belonging to his company began restoring a storm-damaged beach
seventy miles up the coast from Brigantine a week after Sandy. “That was
actually a preëxisting contract,” he said. “But we really haven’t left
New Jersey since then.”
This past
October, I watched a Great Lakes crew working on Long Beach Island, a
densely developed barrier island up the Jersey coast from Brigantine.
The island is a little more than twenty miles long, and for most of that
length it’s no wider than two or three residential blocks. The crew I
watched was working on a beach in Harvey Cedars, a town near the
island’s northern end. Two red-hulled dredging ships were anchored
offshore—one in federal waters, three miles out, the other much closer.
The far ship vacuumed sand from the ocean floor, fifty feet down, and
when its hold was full it switched places with the near ship, which had
pumped its own load into a submerged steel pipe that ran all the way to
the beach. As the far ship filled, its hull slowly sank from view; as
the near ship emptied, its hull slowly rose.
A
dozen porpoises swam past, between the near ship and the shore. On the
beach, a dark torrent of sand and seawater gushed from the open end of
the pipe and through a cagelike screen—whose functions included
filtering out unexploded surplus munitions, which the American military
dumped in the ocean following the end of the Second World War. Dozens of
wading gulls picked edible items from the slurry, and workers with
bulldozers and bucket loaders shaped the pumped sand into an extension
of the dune I was standing on. That dune, which rose more than twenty
feet above the water, looked more like a levee than any natural
beachscape. It was roughly trapezoidal in cross-section—a long, unbroken
loaf of sand running most of the length of the island, with sprigs of
beach grass growing in evenly spaced rows on top of the completed
sections, like hair-transplant plugs. When the project began, some
homeowners complained that the dune would block their view of the
water—as was certainly the case in my ground-floor room at the Drifting
Sands Oceanfront Motel, in Ship Bottom.
A
woman watching the Great Lakes crew from the same spot told me that she
owned one of the houses now protected by the dune. Her house was very
large, and, like virtually all the houses closest to the ocean, it stood
on what looked like a grove of buried telephone poles: a foundation
made of wooden piles, whose purpose is to allow storm surges to pass
under the habitable spaces. She said that the heavy machinery on the
beach was making her whole house shake. That’s because vibrations were
breaking the adhesion between the piles and the sand—an effect called
liquefaction. Still, she said, the shaking didn’t bother her very much:
“The spin cycle on my washing machine makes my house shake, too.”
Robert
Young told me, “Storms are not a problem for barrier islands in their
natural state. Think of the undeveloped portions of Fire Island. No one
talks about beach erosion there, because in storms the beach doesn’t
disappear—it just rolls landward. A storm will take sand from the front
and blow it on top and across, and the island will grow on the back
side. Barrier islands are dynamic systems, and they actually need
storms, because plants and animals indigenous to the islands are adapted
to them.”
The problems start when
people begin to think of mutable landforms as permanent property.
Building houses and creating artificial dunes to protect them are
mutually reinforcing interventions, because the houses turn the dunes
into necessities and the dunes make the houses seem rational. As in
Dubai, the seafloor suffers. Offshore sand dredging has been described
as “submerged, open-pit strip mining.” It directly kills organisms that
live or feed on the seafloor, including sea turtles, and it stirs up
clouds of fine particles, which can suffocate fish by clogging their
gills. Young told me that most of the specific effects are still
unmeasured and unknown, because the places from which sand is taken are
hard to monitor. “They’re underwater and they’re three miles offshore,”
Young said. “You can’t just send graduate students out there once a week
to see how things are going.” Still, it was easy to tell that the
dredges were having an impact: all those feasting gulls hadn’t gathered
to eat sand. The Bureau of Ocean Energy Management, which is part of the
Department of the Interior, funded surveys after Hurricane Sandy to
collect core samples from the outer continental shelf. But the program’s
purpose is to identify potential resources for beach nourishment, not
to assess biological depredation.
I
went back to the dune that evening. The Great Lakes crew was still
there, a little farther up the shore, working under lights. The
company’s dredges operate around the clock, seven days a week, all year
long; they are expensive to run and leaving them idle is uneconomical.
And the job is open-ended, since the artificial dune isn’t meant to be
permanent: its purpose is to neutralize big waves by allowing them to
consume it. The Corps expects to rebuild the entire system, from end to
end, on a four-to-six-year cycle. The dredges I was watching were
scheduled to move south, to Delaware, as soon as they’d finished on Long
Beach Island, and then to begin working their way up the coast again.
And then again, and then again after that—until either the money has run
out or the ocean has risen too high to be held back by sand. ♦
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