why i love the water

One of my happiest memories was when I visited my grandparents after my first semester of college, during the first year of the pandemic. My grandpa had spoken of an island called 長州 (Cheung chau, to put in footnote), where his only remaining friend (who had recently passed, shortly after getting vaccinated) held his wedding many years ago. Uncle Gold and Auntie Plum had their reception on six fishing boats, parked next to each other and tied together by rope. 

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Guests ate all the shrimp that they wanted, you reminisced. One day I’ll take you there. A promise that I knew you would not follow up on unless I insisted. 

So I told you that we should go the day after tomorrow. It would be sunny, and you had enough time to figure out how we were going to get there. You resisted, saying that it was too soon, too tiring. But your stubborn personality was no match for my demands, as I was all too aware of my status as your favorite granddaughter. There was simply no saying no. 

You figured out how to get to 長州 by asking a stranger at your regular teahouse, or perhaps it was not a stranger. It could have been one of your friends for whom you didn’t know their name, but saw their face frequently enough to give them a silent wave or a grunt of acknowledgement. Your complaints that you would be too tired seemed to be suddenly washed down by a childlike excitement, one that you tried to repress knowing very well that enthusiasm wasn’t listed in your profile of known characteristics, not unless it was for Liverpool FC or horsebetting. No, you only had a few different modes, and most of them included various degrees of disagreement and grumpiness. Which when directed towards me, I knew meant nothing other than love. 

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My grandpa is an eighty-something-year-old man who has a short temper, one nearly deaf ear, and resultingly a very loud voice. He is also a man of incredible patience, as he used to let me sit next to him for hours counting the old-person-spots on his face while almost poking his eyes out. I took all the rubber bands in the house and tied his hair up into little spikes, his head resembling a porcupine while reading the newspaper. He would close his eyes for a little while. We sat there as the red sun set behind a sheet of haze in the hours of the afternoon when we waited for my grandma to be home for dinner. A peaceful boredom. 

My grandpa is not one to bring umbrellas even when the forecast warns of thunderstorms. He will jog home from the bus stop with only the newspaper to cover his head, waving at my brother and I to keep running on without him, and just wait for him back home. He looks for crabs in the sand; there is a smile that you will only get from him at the beach. 

My grandpa loves the water and of course, so do I. He used to take me to the public swimming pools, where I would ignore his attempts to teach me how to swim freestyle. I was more interested in doing mermaid flips instead, so he resigned his efforts and waited for me defeatedly on a plastic chair until I tired myself out. When I finally decided I was done, he held my hand and we got on the bus to go home together. 

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Your acquaintance at the teahouse had told you that to get to 長州, we should take the MRT to Tsim Sha Tsui. There would be signs pointing us to the pier. We would then wait at Pier 5 for the ferry that would take us there in 九個字， 45 minutes. It started to pour. I did a quick Google search to make sure that we were at the right pier. 

On the ferry there, the boat was completely enclosed. You spotted two empty seats and pointed at the window for me. I pressed my forehead onto the glass, watching the sea oscillate, the raindrops crash violently into my view, only shopping shortly before hitting my face and rolling down, rolling down. I watched the grey skies nervously, until boredom or sleepiness took over, and I fell asleep with my head resting on your shoulder. It used to be at the right height for me to fall asleep, but these years – these years, it was a little lower than comfortable. When we got there, the rain stopped. 

By the time we were on the ferry back, I had already understood that this would be one of the days that I would later recall like I am now as one of the happiest of my life. We took a different boat on the way back, an older one. It was completely open, with a few rows of wooden seats, and a railing that wrapped around for passengers to lean on as they stuck their heads out to observe the sea passing by. 

I stood there and motioned over to you to come. You sat so firmly on the wooden chairs, and the chairs were nailed so defiantly onto the boat’s deck. Time slowed. You shook your head with a dismissive hand wave that I knew, recently, all too well. It meant too old, legs tired. There is a question that I always think about and avoid answering: how much longer do I have with you? If I were to go back, maybe I should have listened when you tried to teach me how to swim freestyle. I did not know then that that window of opportunity would eventually close. I did not want to believe that a day like this would come, a day when you, who loved the water so very much, would rather sit than stand to see the ocean waves. 

On this day someone above granted me the gift of indecision in your eyes, wanting a closer look at blue water and to feel the warm sun and wind. I’m agnostic, but I thank whatever god decided mercifully that our clock hadn’t run out quite yet, that still we had more time left in this life for looking at water together. For sending my you hobbling over to the empty space next to me, giving me the chance to hold onto your arm all the way until the boat docked. 

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You love the water and of course, so do I. I call you on my birthday in January, and make my parents drive to the beach so I can run into the cold ocean in the colder rain.