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morning sky with a mist of salutation.
Grandfather and I did not speak. He gestured with his eyes and
hands in the direction of what I needed to see. He pointed at cobalt blue
and scarlet starfish decorating the rocks in the water below, among palm-
sized red rock crabs scuttling through patches of seaweed that looked like
the lettuce in my grandmother’s garden. White-cap limpets, red-turban
snails, and gleaming blue-top snails clung to kelp and rocks. Among
them, giant plumose anemones, sea urchins in violet, crimson and blue,
and mysterious-looking neon nudibranchs lived like a kaleidoscope under
crystal-clear glass.
Grandfather touched my shoulder and pointed far off into the
distance, where Dall’s porpoises swam beside a touring boat while people
stood on the bow taking pictures. I reached for my cell phone and took
pictures of a flock of puffins sitting on rocks not far from our kayak. I
wanted to send the pictures to my parents in Prince George, on the
mainland. My mother’s favourite bird, besides the raven, was the puffin.
One day, while finishing my school report on Canadian history,
my mother walked into my room and said, “You will spend the springtime
and summer with your grandfather.” She spoke to me in her native Haida
tongue, “You need to remember your heritage.”
I grinned and teased my mother, “How can I cross the ocean by
myself? I’m not an Orca; I’m a Haida girl.”
Mother giggled and looked towards Father, who was studying for
Sunday’s sermon.