The race has begun.
Our paddles follow
the rhythm of the drum’s heartbeat.
Pulling and pushing the salt water,
the sun shines down with heat.

As I dip my paddle into the water to the pound of the drum,
I reminisce about how this ritual came to be.
The tradition of the Dragon Boat Festival.
278 B.C. was the year it all began.
The year a poet named Qu Yuan
jumped into Miluo River
with a rock tied to himself.
The locals raced across the river to save him.
Finding the poor man had drowned,
They threw glutinous rice balls down the stream,
hoping the fish would eat those
instead of his remains.

Today, as I use all my strength against the current,
an old tradition is re-enacted.
Celebrating this festival that began as a loss.
I see 20 oarsman glistening in sweat,
from the blazing summer sun shining down on us.
As the drums beat in my ears,
I think of my family at home preparing for this evening.
My children decorating themselves,
with colourful silk threaded perfume pouches,
hoping to keep the evil away.
My red silk clad wife waits for the steaming Zongzi,
glutinous rice stuffed with,
red bean paste, chestnuts and lotus seeds
wrapped in bamboo leaves.
She hangs Mugwort leaves and Calamus on top of the doors.
The strong fresh scent trickles through the house
blocking all diseases from entering.

I hear the drums beat louder and louder,
as we race to the finish line.
Listening to the people cheering,
and the sound of splashing,
we shoot across the row of red flags,
ending with perfectly synchronized strokes.