undercurrent. Rita Wong

breakfast to wretched carcinogen if nothing ever spills, leaks or collides (implausible & impossible) the burn itself still bankrupts children’s lives forecloses futures earth monkey, girl spirit, one of millions whose parents migrated to turtle island on this journey to the west modestly does what the coast calls us to do to protect future monkeys even a future for corporations depends on guardians protecting the coastal home that we are part of home in the big sense ancient as basic stone

       In spring 2014, canoeing in the gentle River of Golden Dreams near Whistler, BC, I fell in when we snagged on a branch and suddenly tipped over. The shock of cold water awoke me into vigilance. Wearing a lifejacket did not eliminate the fear I felt as the river enveloped me completely, reminded me of its power.

       Ironically, I cannot swim, though I have taken lessons over the years, and continue to try learning in an on-again, off-again way, as skin and health permit. Having addressed barriers to swimming in the city one by one – finding an ozone-purified pool instead of a chlorinated one, getting prescription goggles, practising kicks, etc. I have improved but still find myself woefully clumsy and tense in the water, as it conducts so much sound and stimulus, thicker than air. How can someone write a book with and for water, and not swim? Very humbly and respectfully, I would say. It’s not so much that I fear the water, as I fear my own inability to manoeuvre in it, based in part on my reluctance to relax, the resistance to submit to the water’s own dynamics for more than a few breaths. This is partly what I mean when I say that I am still learning water’s syntax. I mean that in a much larger way too, though. One water body flows together with other water bodies, a whole greater than its parts: “What you cannot do alone, you will do together.”

       Thanks to the river’s prompting, I will return to the swim lessons when the time and conditions are right. In the meantime, even for those of us who don’t swim, water rules! Our cities and lifestyles are built upon it, whether we know it or not. Try going a day, or three, without water. Water gives us life. What do we give back to water?

       In summer 2014, I was honoured to read one of Chief Dan George’s poems at the Salish Seas Festival, hosted by the Tsleil-Waututh Sacred Trust. In “Words to a Grandchild,” he writes, “Each day brings an hour of magic. Listen to it!”

       That day, I felt the hour of magic while joining the canoe ceremony held by the Tsleil-Waututh in Burrard Inlet. As poets, we were invited along, and I was excited to participate. I was also terrified because I can’t swim. What if I tipped the canoe by accident? What if I didn’t pull my weight? As I entered the canoe, I said my name out loud in Cantonese and English, then put my fears aside and focused on paddling, trying to keep time with the dozen or so paddlers on the large ceremonial canoe. The fear was still there, lodged in my body, but I did not give it strength. Instead I paddled hard with my right side, prayed for the water and tried to follow instructions as best I could. The ceremony was mind-blowing, body-tiring, heart-opening and spirit-lifting.

       There is still a long way to go in my journey with water, which is also a journey of becoming worthy to live as a guest on these sacred lands of the Coast Salish peoples, but that day taught me the power of what can be accomplished together. Not much in my Albertan education prepared me for that moment of sheer love for the land, waters and life, but luckily, something deeper within, both younger and older at once, recognized the gift of that moment. Immense gratitude to the Tsleil-Waututh Sacred Trust for their generous and courageous leadership.

       Gratitude also to Makhabn, known as the Bow River, whose waters kept me alive the first twenty years of my life, & who taught me the power of water from an early age, as it steadily flowed through the City of Calgary where I grew up. That river is what prepared me to love this inlet, other rivers, the ocean.