ot so long ago, there was a place, a living place beneath the waves. It was a sandbar that emerged each day as the tides receded; a gathering place, a people’s place, where people came to fish, a place of friendship, family and laughter. It was a place where stories were told, even acted out, the occasional songs sung, with old traditions passed from one generation to another, a nurturing place of sustenance. A place to eat and celebrate with family and friends, to share with visitors from afar, perhaps with a canoe or two drawn up for a few hours to enjoy the traditional fruitfulness of this gathering place, the False Creek Sandbar. The place would disappear beneath the waves each day, washed clean of its footprints old and young, large and small, light and heavy. Empty mussel and crab shells, fish bones and other evidence of the day’s activities were washed away by the tide, leaving nothing but pristine sand to rise again with the next receding tide to welcome its visitors...
