Thinking about which body of water feels the most personal to me was an interesting exercise. I come from the middle of the desert; Imperial Valley, CA, one of the hottest places on Earth, and the bodies of water in my immediacy are not naturally occurring. In my county, the largest bodies of water I see on a daily basis are canals running through our desert land. Despite being one of the hottest regions in the world, we do not experience water shortages because these canals, supplied by the Colorado River, feed our agricultural community with potable water year round. This, to me, exemplifies the blend of nature and man’s intervention in the creation of life: both factors had to be combined to sustain the life we lead today. I grew up watching these canals through my car window as we rode through town. It was when I started entering my teenage years that I realized I also had water to cherish in my own home, and I was lucky enough to not just be able to use it everyday, but also see it with my own eyes as I drive through my desert town. The flat, open landscape is the perfect backdrop to appreciate the contrast running water makes on dry land. It is difficult not to appreciate the ordinary beauty of these canals under the sun. The powerful rays bounce off the surface on a clear day and they sparkle in your vision. The water is constantly clear and mesmerizing, and perfectly reflects the deep blue sky. The edges of the water are framed by tangled vegetation that grows through the cracks of the concrete and it reminds you that life always finds a way.

And yet, these givers of life also bring death. One of the most shocking sights to me has always been at the edge of these canals, where you can often find a cross sticking out from the ground. The crosses are often simple; just two pieces of wood nailed together, with maybe an inscription of the name. Sometimes they are decorated with small fairy lights or artificial flowers, and sometimes they might even include a picture of a person. These are shrines to people that have suffered accidents, maybe gone swimming in the canal or tried crossing them for another reason, and have died by drowning as a result. Ever since I was a kid, this has been a constant motif in my landscape (in my hometown particularly, which is a border town), a reminder never to get in the canals, and of the fragility of life. We are an overwhelmingly Hispanic population, and these colorful shrines are just one more example of how Mexicans culturally deal with and process death. And yet that which can kill us also constantly gives us abundant life and prosperity as a community. Life and death coexist together in the running water of the canals. I was privileged enough to have grown up occasionally travelling to the beach on summer break, sometimes over here to San Diego or to beaches in Ensenada and Rosarito, or having access to a pool to play in once in a while. The people who played and died in the canals might have done so because they lacked this privilege, so their experience with water was tainted with considerably more danger than mine. It is in these situations that we can see how access to water recreationally (and otherwise) is not only a geographical question, but an economical one, and sometimes it means the difference between life and death. It isn’t something to be taken for granted.

In my hometown, we have a bridge that goes over one of these canals, and every time I cross it, I look over my shoulder to admire the calm surface of the water, even if for a second. Something I got from my mom, it has become a habit to always check the water level, see how we are doing. When the water is high, I always take a moment to mutter a quiet prayer: “Thank you, God,” for the blessing of water.