“The world’s way is to drift the way the tide runs;
Who can stay the same and not change with all the rest?”
(Qu Yuan; “Li Sao”)
It is my hand that aches most during paddling. Others imagine it would be my bicep or forearm, but it is the small muscles I notice most: the thenar and hypothenar, the opponens pollicis, the fleshy mounds at the base of the thumb and the palm. The discomfort reminds me to relax, to roll my shoulders fluidly. And indeed, in practice, I release my thumb to the side in an effort to stay loose. I am like a hitchhiker on the river.
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A clove hitch? Bowline? Gordian knot?
Start at the beginning.
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“It’s easy to spot a newbie,” they said. “Newbies use the word ‘row’. Row is backwards, we paddle forward.”
The first time I stepped into a dragon boat, I was alert to the details. Not only did I want to get the words right, but I also wanted to understand the essence. I noted the rock of the eddy beneath the hull. I stared at the wood splinters on the seat ahead of me, threatening to catch padded shorts. I watched experienced women expertly curl their bare feet to the panel beneath the bench in front of them. Ten benches, two paddlers to a bench. Plus a steersperson and a drummer and you have a 22 person team on race day.
“Lock it in. The rest will follow.”
I had been sent to the back of the clubhouse to retrieve a paddle. Black and lightweight, it didn’t feel like the more familiar canoe paddle. Scratches ran along the blade from years of amateur use.
“Hold the paddle upright. Choose one with a height that fits snugly into your armpit.”
On the other side of the shed hung the lifejackets. They sat in a semi-respectful state of organization according to size – survival according to weight. Some were wet and dripping river water to the plywood floor. I was a confident swimmer, but there was a brief moment of fear… do dragons betray a team? I stood solo in the shed, early evening sunrays spreading across the puddle. I inhaled the damp canvas and warm, wet lumber. The scent would become the opening act.
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Once I was only a nerve, then a series of muscles.
Then water tied me to the East, poets, pink, and serpents.
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The Miluo River is a river of history. It is a river that travels through the Hunan province of China. It begins at the confluence of the Mi and Luo Rivers. Today, despite rising pollution, the river is surprisingly clear. Local farmers are careful with fertilizers and paper mills have closed. Small villages tumble towards the water’s edge. The river meanders, heavy and slow, through low lying farms. It is here, in 278 BC, that a poet wrapped rocks in his robes and walked into the current. The poet’s name was Qu Yuan.
Before Qu Yuan breathed words onto the countryside, he was an advisor to a King. One day Qu Yuan made the suggestion that they ally themselves with another state. Together, they would be strong against those who wanted to invade. The King perceived the idea as disloyalty. Why would Qu Yuan want to cooperate with another state? The King was scared, so he exiled Qu Yuan to the wilderness.
Qu Yuan would not be silenced. Taking ink to paper, he wandered the country writing and speaking poetry.
When Qu Yuan learned the King had been captured by invaders, he was overcome with grief and sadness. He filled his pockets with stones and waded into the Miluo, taking his own life.
Many had been touched by Qu Yuan’s words and patriotism; he was much adored by the people. When citizens learned Qu Yuan had thrown himself into the river, they paddled their longboats to his body before it was eaten by fish. They managed to retrieve Qu Yuan’s body, but his spirit remained in the river. Qu Yuan was immortalized as a water god, taking the form of a dragon.
This was the beginning of a paddling tradition rooted in poetry, wisdom, principle, and strength. This was the beginning of dragon boat racing.
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Trace ripples, chase ripples.
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“Paddles up,” shouts my coach.
The call for attention. We back the dragon out of the docking area and head upstream toward Edmonton’s downtown.
It is a warm evening in late April and my team enthusiastically catches the water with their paddles. It’s been a year since I started paddling, six months since I’ve been on the water. Through the winter, my team has been training inside the clubhouse on ergometers (ergs), devices designed to simulate paddling. But there is little joy pulling a stick connected to a rope calibrated for resistance and weight. Euphoria is found in the river, inhaling the low lying valley air and feeling the surge of the boat.
We are paddling in that space between winter and summer when longer days inspire us to turn inside out. No matter the temperature, something drives us to expose ourselves. Trees hold a green tinge for those who look carefully. The world is ripe.
I have put on muscle weight and my upper body acts differently from previous versions of myself. Deltoids, triceps, trapezius, latissimus dorsi. Beneath my t-shirt, I can feel my abs contracting.
“Reach out, set-up, pull, kick off the back, head up, breathe.”
My arms are free from a lifejacket; I now use a lightweight, inflatable belt. I have also purchased my own paddle – a pale purple Trivium with an ergonomic grip. The package arrived in the mail weighing nearly nothing.
I watch the seasons change from this angle. First ducks, then geese, children paddling, trees heavy with green. Smooth water, challenging water from the wake of a speedboat. Then heavy rains that bring enormous trees downstream, making practice feel like a game of avoidance. Seeds wrapped in cotton fluff drift like snow to the surface. And caterpillars hang from their threads in the millions, lightly sticking to shoulders. Then once again, chilled breezes, darkened evenings, a frame of gold, frigid fingers.
It’s time to bring in the boats. And the river freezes with slabs of ice as big as houses. We return to the dark with the ergs. And we commit to shovelling snow from the boats stored on locked racks outside. It is a sport of cycles – birth, growth, retreat and regeneration. With each cycle, we transform again and again. Steady metamorphosis.
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I lay in her stretch, swath, summary.
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Qu Yuan lived on. For centuries, he swam in the rivers of the east. Then horizons became cluttered with people. The oceans warmed and the northwest called.
It is 1986 and the City of Vancouver is hosting the World Expo. As a friendly gesture, Hong Kong ships nine teak dragon boats and Taiwan sends six camphorwood ones. Fuzzy photos show paddlers experimenting with the 15 heavy boats. Without life jackets and technique, teams of inexperienced men race dragon boats up Vancouver’s False Creek for the first time.
It is the only time in Canada such an event would be comprised of only men. Today, dragon boating leans towards women. There is no ‘men’s event’ at festivals, only women’s, mixed, and open races.
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Pluck syllables
From believers of the deep.
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I am standing at the Penticton festival site in the early morning. In front of me, strong, sinewy brown arms rotate synchronously on a beach. Silver hair reflects early sun rays. The women face one another, creating a fierce circle.
“Who are we?” hollers the leader.
“Survivors!” they shout in unison.
The team reaches for pink life jackets and paddles before heading to the marshalling area. They are about to compete in the quintessential event of Canadian dragon boat festivals: the breast cancer survivor competition.
In Mandarin, the word, ‘colour’ translates to ‘yánsè’ (顏色). The second character indicates ’emotion’. For anglophones, we use colour to describe what we see visually. For Chinese, colour conveys emotional meaning. Pink at a dragon boat festival sings of heartbreak and courage, fading and emerging.
Pink is not my story. But stories never exist in isolation. Competing in any sport is tying oneself to others. We learn the narrative then, miraculously, find ourselves part of it.
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I have been bound, shifted, colour corrected.
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Once upon a time, women with breast cancer were told to take it easy. They were told to not move their upper bodies too strenuously. But there was a doctor who saw his patients as women, not a disease. Dr. Don McKenzie was the physician for Canada’s national canoe team. He set out to prove breast cancer patients could use their upper body. Why not coach these women to race a dragon boat?
In the spring of 1996, ten years after dragons had found Canada, 24 women showed up at the False Creek paddling club in Vancouver. These women formed the world’s first dragon boat team with a history of breast cancer. They called themselves, ‘Abreast in a boat’. Dr. McKenzie was anxious, the women were not; they had nothing to lose.
Paddling proved to be safe for breast cancer patients. And the women discovered comradery and strength in the water. What had been designed as a six-month study blossomed into a specialized category within the dragon boat world.
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I am the water.
And the water tells my story.
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It is 2017. I am at the Vancouver Dragon Boat Festival and competing on two teams: competitive women and competitive mixed. Over 200 teams are participating from all over the world. I hear various languages diffused in electrified air. False Creek is alive.
At the start line, there is a focused silence. The boat gently lifts and falls with the tide as we wait for the start. I glimpse at the hardened, bronzed bodies around me. We are easing into the movement of the ocean, joining the water in unison. We listen carefully for our coach’s commands.
“Paddles up!”
We move into starting position in a single beat. Still. Ready. We take a breath. The sound of the starting horn. Sharp.
An explosive burst and we take off in flight. Air or water, we are flying.
“Ready! Set! Reach!”
Stay controlled. Power, not rate.
“Power ten in three, two, one…”
A surge. Our boat noses ahead. The 500-meter race is less than two minutes long, but every second feels momentous. The finish line is close.
“Finish – NOW!”
Final drops of energy are used to push through the final ten strokes. I count them in my head. Every nerve is activated, every muscle is engaged. Absolute focus.
Our eyes have been in the boat. Only our coach and drummer have seen the race. We lift our heads to learn the outcome. We’ve won our heat.
There is a murmur from the back of the boat. Dr. McKenzie has been spotted. Mr. Canadian Dragon Boat, himself. I turn my neck to try and see him. It’s then that I notice the slightly decrepent outrigger racing canoes beached on barnacled rocks. Was this where the original Canadian dragon boats were also stowed?
I’m surrounded. No, I’m it. Right here, right now. I didn’t find a story, I am the story.
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What lies beneath breathes life.
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Dragons of the east are sea-dwelling serpents. They live below the surface in strength and wisdom. We sense the dragons when we feel the water when we hear and match its rhythms.
I am still a nerve. But I am also muscle and memory and story. I twitch when I’m near the water. I know the reassurance of synchronous rhythms. I know the pleasure of breathing with the water. I know pink poetry.
I know dragon chasing.
- END –
Notes:
*Today, the International Breast Cancer Paddlers’ Commission (IBCPC) is an international organisation based in Canada. It hosts world championships for ~45 breast cancer survivor teams from ~12 countries.
*The original Canadian dragon boats from Expo ’86 were used until 2008 when they were left to rot beneath a bridge in Vancouver. In 2015, they were purchased by paddling enthusiasts, Ted Crouch and Edward Campbell. The boats have all been restored.