The Edges

The sea drags in and out of Nass Bay relentlessly. Andrew stands at the helm of the boat eyeing the young Chinese sailors who are scattered across the deck. Some are resting with their knees to their heads outside of the cabin, but Andrew remembers that they came to the Valley on boats, and that they would leave the Valley on boats, and that they would have to learn, sooner or later, how to be steady on boats. He would not be watching them any longer.

Boxiang stands beside Andrew holding a lit pipe of tobacco. The smoke slowly drifts past Andrew’s face. He takes in deep breaths as the fumes slowly crawls out the window. Boxiang removes his hat and sets it down on the fabric seat to his left; he hands Andrew the pipe and looks out towards the mountains on the portside of the boat as Andrew pinches the pipe between his teeth.

“These kids—they are maybe ten or eleven—they came here in the arms of their mothers,” Boxiang says looking out to a boy unraveling a buoy bound in rope.

“They’re older than I was when my father brought me out onto the river here,” Andrew replies.

“I forget sometimes how long you’ve been on this water.”

Andrew smiles. He looks ahead to Kincolith, a small village with houses, a church, and canoes lining the beach. The weather was clear, though looking backwards Boxiang watched clouds rolling into the bay. The coast was chaotic and changed quickly. One of the only constants was the deep, dark blue of the inlet, shattered by the white foam of the ship’s engine and the gentle cradling of the waves at high tide. Andrew know the currents here. Moving towards Kincolith was an uphill battle. The currents of both the Arm to the north and the river to the east spilled silt and power into the inlet, which responded with an almost-permanent stream of smaller, two-to-three- foot waves that pushed boats moving up the inlet. Andrew’s father used to tell him stories of the Haida who came to the Bay to take fish. He always imagined that the Haida, in their canoes, received help from the water, which pushed them towards the bay. The Nisga’a, a warrior people, always had to fight against the waves before the Haida.

“I do feel bad for them,” Boxiang points at the young sailors, “They’ve just arrived here and now they have to look for jobs again.”

“It’s been like this since I was little. We used to do business with the traders who had little cabins along the water. Money comes, and money goes,” Andrew replies. “I think, now, we’re going to get away from it a little.”

Boxiang smiles, “You’re worried, aren’t you?”

“No,” Andrew blew smoke at the cabin’s window, “Another giant building’s just gonna end up in the water.”

“A waste,” Boxiang replies. “May I take some more tobacco?”

Andrew returns the pipe to him. “It would be a great thing, one day, to see China.”

Boxiang laughs, “You would do well. They may ask you to captain the ship.”

As the village came clearer into view the water calms. Some of the men on the deck stand up to take in the air—the smell of freshly cut cedar from the mill upstream combined with the saltwater.

“So, what will your people do now that the plant is done?”

“Some will go to the other canneries. Some will be with you in Rupert, work at the North Pacific— that plant is the only one that will stay open forever, I think.”

“And what will you do?”

Andrew takes a deep breath in. “Mill Bay is a few miles downriver from a place called Lax Da’oots’ip. I think I will bring my family there.”

“And Betty is okay with this?”

“She was born there.”

“I thought you were both from the village Ankida’a.”

“Our families are.”

The two men can see children waving from the west side of Kincolith, a group of women walk together along the promenade. They wave to the ship as it passes by. Andrew removes his hat and lifts it into the air. The cannery comes into view as Andrew turns to the east and up the river, and the water becomes lighter and shallow. Andrew begins to focus more on the river, watching carefully for fallen branches, or the sandbars that emerge at the river’s sides. The cannery itself stands over the water on large pilings of cedar which stand strong with thick metal wiring binding them together in their battle against time. On the dock, people move back and forth carrying crates and sacks of their own belongings. Most of the company’s boats sit against the dock idle. Andrew sees the supervisor standing with one leg atop the raised edge of the dock. Boxiang shouts at the younger workers in Chinese, and they leap from their rest and begin cleaning the deck. One of them lets their hat fall into the water and Andrew shakes his head.

As the boat approaches the dock, Boxiang leaves the cabin and carefully steps, one foot in front of the other, along the side of the boat to the bow, where he grabs the rope from one of the boys and reaches out to the dock as Andrew cranks the throttle to a gentle reverse, then to neutral, then, once Boxiang lifts his hand into the air, he turns a key and the boat goes silent. The supervisor walks across the dock and looks down at Andrew, who walks out of the cabin and removes his hat. The younger workers begin climbing up a ladder onto the dock, and Boxiang nods to Andrew before following them. The supervisor pays no attention to the workers filing past him, but squints as he hears one of them vomit onto the boardwalk.

“How’s she doing Andy,” the supervisor asks.

Andrew looks upwards at the white man with his wide-brimmed hat and a cigarette pursed between his lips. He is wearing a blue wool coat which shields him from the wind. “We caught about—I’d say—four hundred. The net is going to need to be fixed before it’s sold off—a few big holes in it.”

The supervisor nods and looks out towards the water. “I understand how Indians lasted so long without us after working with you.”

Andy lowers his head and steps to the bow.

Climbing the ladder he meets the supervisor’s eyes.

The man pulls a lighter from his pocket and lights his cigarette. “You’ve been a fine sailor. I’m gonna give you and your wife a five-dollar bonus with your pay. Keep it under the table, and you don’t tell the other Indians I’ve given it to you.”

Andrew nods and looks out towards the cabins where the family stayed. “How long can my family stay in the bunks?”

“As long as you need, but I would limit your stay to a few weeks,” the supervisor responds. “I’m going to give you my personal address in Rupert. I plan on bringing most of the gillnetters with me to the port there. If you want to buy one off of me, I’ll give you a good deal. Do you understand?”

“Yes, thank you,” Andrew replies.

The man hands Andrew five one-dollar notes rolled together, “You’ve done good for us Andy.”

“Can you get the others to offload everything?” Andrew asks him.

“Go check in on your boy,” the supervisor responds.

The man walks away and begins shouting at the crowd of sailors chatting with one another at the dock. Andrew turns towards the cabins and the dock creaks beneath his steps. He looks himself up and down and sees his boots coming apart at the soles.

The wind picks up and the cedar trees on the shoreline shake and fill the air with whispers. The wind always reminds Andrew of his mother. She would sing to the river when the gusts picked up and the leaves from the mountains rushed into the water.

Coming to the cabins he can hear Elizabeth reading to the children. He steps carefully as to not interrupt her. The door to the bunks is left wide open and the window shutters are held against the wall by small hooks installed by Elizabeth. Andrew gets closer and can hear her voice streaming out of the open spaces, “She is reading Gospel,” he tells himself.

Andrew stands in the doorway, and Betty looks at him. There are about a dozen children, most of them young Nisga’a, sitting in front of her as she bookmarks and closes the page of her small blue bible. The children turn to Andrew as he enters. He grins at them and lifts Johnny off the floor into his arms. “Go back to your parents,” he commands.

The children all file out onto the boardwalk and break into a sprint towards the other cabins. Betty stands to meet Andrew’s eyes. “Did you ask the k’amskiiwa if we can stay for a while?” she asks.

“He said we’re good. He gave us five dollars—you can decide what we need from Rupert, and I’ll find someone who’s going.”

Betty nods, “We’ll buy Johnny a good coat.”

Johnny buries his head into his father’s shoulder and smells tobacco and salt. Andrew hands Elizabeth the banknotes and lifts Johnny above his head, “What did you and mama do today?” he asks the child.

“She took me on the dock, and I got to play when she was cleaning,” Johnny answers, “did you get lots of salmon today?”

Andrew smiles, “Yes, so much that we are going to take it all, go back up the river, and never see a k’amskiiwa again. And when we are there, I am going to teach you how to catch fish how your Ye’e taught me to catch fish.”

Johnny smiles, “Do they have big fish up the river?” “The biggest, but we tricked everyone else into thinking they were in the ocean.”

“When we go to Lax Da’oots’ip, can we build our own cannery?”

Andrew laughs, “Maybe, your mama will show you how to make fish the Nisga’a way.”

Betty turns from the bed, where she is counting banknotes, “Kyuuks is better than canned fish,” she tells Johnny.

“Can we look at the river?” Johnny asks Andrew.

Andrew nods and lowers the boy to the ground. Johnny runs out the door, and Andrew follows behind quickly adjusting his boots. A smile fills Andrew’s face as he sees Johnny lean on the loose wooden guardrail. He sees the breeze run through his son’s hair and tries to remember what the wind must have felt like when he was young and did not know it. Andrew walks towards the water and his eyes slowly move across the shades of blue and brown that run along the river, the details that warn and welcome.

“What do you think of the river, Johnny?” Andrew asks.

“It looks big right now,” the child responds.

“So is Lisims at high tide or low tide?”

“High tide.”

“Good thinking.”

The mountains lined with cedar trees in the distance reflect the small rays of sunlight that peek through the clouds. Andrew sees it reflected in Johnny.

“There hasn’t been sun on the river for a long time,” the boy says.

“When we go upriver there will be many sunny days,” Andrew responds.

Betty joins the two of them on the boardwalk and looks at Johnny. “Did you know you were born above the river?” she says.

The boy turns to her, “Really?”

“Your dad took a job here two years before you were born, and when it was time for you to join us, I was lying in bed in that little house over there.” Betty points to a small wooden shack further down the boardwalk. “There was an old Chinese lady with me who was helping me bring you into the world. She told me that you were going to be born a strong child because the weather that day was terrible. You could feel the entire cannery being pushed back and forth in the wind and the waves, like it was all a big, big boat and no one, not even your dad, could steer it.”

“And the rain wouldn’t stop, there was no sun that day,” Andrew adds.

“And when I first held you, I held you tightly, and you did not cry. You were being soothed by the river—and I could feel your little heart beating and your little chest going up and down as you took each breath—and I cried and cried and cried because you were so still and so happy.”

Andrew smiled and lifted Johnny onto his shoulders. “Do you know what Mama said to me when she was holding you?”

“What?” Johnny replies.

“She said, the river is going to take care of him for the rest of his life,”

“Because it cradled him before I had the chance,” says Betty.

Johnny smiles and looks out over the river as his mom tussles his hair. There is a boat coming towards the cannery in the distance. The clouds part, and a large beam of light appears in the mist and the clouds and shines on the river turning it to a blueish green. Andrew and Betty walk back towards the bunks. Johnny watches the water moving through the light.

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Photo graciously provided by Mayukh Karmakar from Unsplash.