Where Land Ends, Life Begins: Poem

by John MacKenzie, Riverview High School,
Riverview, New Brunswick

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My Dear Friend:
My name could be yours.
Yours could be the face reflecting
in the mirror.
But it isn’t, and it wasn’t.
Thank God.
I hope you never have to feel as I did.

It’s never the stories or the
numbers that should shock you;
it’s the feeling.
It’s the emotion, raw, and
chafing that should terrify.
Physical pain can fade, but my
memories can’t be forgotten, the
images in my head can’t be
unseen.
1791: not a date, but the number
of dead.

This shouldn’t scare you.
32 sunken ships should not give
you perspective.
My ship could be any of them; any could be yours.
I am the every man.
I am every man who has stood against any army, who
has felt the same fear, hatred, pain, and sympathy
course through their veins.
Each with their own individual thoughts and feelings.
I hope you never get the chance.

*

It was called “The Battle of the Atlantic,” and the sea
was not kind to us:
Razor-sharp winds that tore our flags apart, pack-ice
that seemed indestructible.
Strangely, the dark chill of night could bring
knowledge of the next day; the wind brought an
inkling of what was to come, and the cold had a way
of impressing upon a sailor’s skin how long till
confrontation.

The calm before the maelstrom was always intense.
The rain appeared to freeze, mid-air, and the slow turn
of a head was like the scraping of two hulls against
one another.
Life grinded to a halt, and then hurdled forward.
Like a ball thrown in the air by a child; it is tossed as
high as it will go, and when it reaches its zenith, it
hovers for a moment, hidden by the twinkling of the
sun, blinding the child, then comes careening down to
earth, bringing with it pain; fear; despair; and deep,
pressing claustrophobia.

When the fight begins, the water explodes with fire,
metal, and sound.
Then it is push and pull; it becomes a battle to see
who can survive long enough as the prey to become
the predator.
The pushing and shoving is frustrating, as one cannot
feel the pressure against them, cannot tell where to
push against.
It is chaos.
Sheer chaos.

This confusion envelops the scene, taking on the form
of screaming men, metal ripping from metal, lives
taking lives, humans killing humans.
The ships cluster in groups, each small fight making
up part of a greater circle of pandemonium.
Sometimes the adrenaline alone is enough to distract
from what is going on.
Sometimes it isn’t.
And when it’s over, and everyone breathes again, the
smoke clears, and the devastation becomes apparent.
Thus continued the cycle of silence-inhale-uproarexhale-
silence.

*

I became so involved and so integrated in the
institution that I felt it was my duty to die, to give
myself up for the greater good.
I never thought it would actually happen, though.
I would be a survivor, but just in case, I had to be
ready for the worst.
I wasn’t.
No one was.

I thought I had prepared myself, but I didn’t truly
believe that I would be one of the 1791; I would be a
hero.
But I felt insignificant.
I felt like a small part of something bigger.
That’s why so many of us became soldiers; to be part
of something, whether it be malignant or benign.
To feel pride in Canada and all she symbolizes for us.
To belong.
To protect.

To be allowed to love.
For me, where land ended, life began.
My dear friend, the advice I give to you now, is to
fight for love.
Leave be the things that are small, but if you ever fight
for anything in your lifetime, make it love.
Make it family, friends, lovers, and children.
Seek only to defend, and never, ever, begin a conflict
where one never was.

Listen to the dead; we made mistakes so you don’t
have to.
The future of this country is based on you.
I was and am; you are and will be Canada.
Every time a child waves a flag, a cadet salutes an
officer, or a refugee crosses our border, they become
Canada; protect what you love.
In the end, it is all we have.