Cool Water is the second in a series of essays on the Spirit of Water by the Water Stewards II. Published in the Marquette Monthly October, 2024.
– Jeff Noble
I clearly remember the best drink of water I ever had…
July 1st, 1988; Stockyard Fire, Rapid River Michigan. Late evening. Although the sun is westering, I could swear it’s mid-afternoon. Some sort of temporal glitch, perhaps caused by recent events. The air is filled with smoke, with the sound of firefighting equipment, with aircraft… but I’m sidelined.
I’m with Conservation Officer Ralph B. His face is a study in concern, trepidation and care.
“The ambulance is on its way, you’ll be fine, I’m with you – stay with me” Ralph holds out a one-quart canteen. He’s a mountainous man; the canteen looks like a baby bottle in his hand. “Take a drink, its well water from my house.”
How can I say no?
I’m reborn. It’s as though my circuitry has been reset. Pain, anxiety, fear all fade – replaced by acceptance, serenity, calming breath. A gift of life from Mother Earth, shared with me by Ralph.
Where did this water come from? Was it distilled from a cloud that formed over an ancient forest in Canada? Did the cloud drift south over the Upper Peninsula, only to release its gift of life to the waiting earth below? Did the water help sustain and nourish the forest as it percolated through the soil to the water table? Could it be aware that it might comfort me in dire straits?
The second-best drink of water came shortly after.
Hoot-owl early the next day. I’m in the Intensive Care Unit at the burn center of St. Mary’s Hospital in Milwaukee. Dr Anthony L. is consulting with ICU Nurse Michelle F. I’ve been intubated due to the burns around my face and head. The intubation was more traumatic than the burnover; a greater violation of my sense of self. I’m tussling with my medical team, via sign language and grunts around my breathing tube:
(Take this (blessed) tube out of my throat!)
“With the burns you have, your airway could easily swell shut. We’d be unable to reinsert it and you might die.”
(On my Mother and All the Saints, I swear I’m not gonna croak. Get this thing out!)
Anthony is adamant; Michelle is persuasive. They come to an understanding. As Anthony prepares to de-tubate me he promises me:
“You croak, I’m never going to speak to you again.”
It feels like he’s dragging a rusty, corrugated tube out of my throat by main force. I gasp, then say the only thing appropriate:
“Thank You, Doctor. I’ll see you later today and we can chat.”
Michelle comes to my bedside.
“What do you need?”
“Water.”
“I can’t give you water yet – Doctor’s Orders: But I’ve got ice chips.”
“Yes, please”
She leans in close, so close. Spoon feeds me ice chips gently (with the tiniest dram of water in the spoon). I think the look on her face is beatific; the same look that a woman shared with a weary man beside a well in the Middle East.
(“Your greater trials are still ahead; but rest a second – take a drink of water for what is next.”)
So many, many fires, before that day and in all the days since. So many sips of water; taken hurriedly in the midst of action. Or taken at leisure when the smoke had cleared. With total strangers and with lifelong friends. All linked, joined. Different seeming, but essentially the same.
At this stage of my life, living beside the greatest of the Great Lakes, Lake Superior, I am following a new Quest: Along with many others I recognize the priceless Gift of Water and the vital importance of preserving and protecting clean drinking water for all. I feel this endeavor to be even more vital than my previous work as a Wildland Firefighter.
I hope; I pray; I believe: Someday when I have gone the elements of my body and the water I contain will be proffered up as a gift to the earth and to all Creation. That I might slake the thirst or support the life a creature I will never know, but who is loved fully by the Creator and nurtured by Mother Earth as I have been loved and nurtured. And I will abide. As a drop of cool water.
