In August, we gathered for Saltwater Tongues, Georgia Strait Alliance’s very first community poetry night, hosted at Caffe Fantastico in Victoria. More than 30 people came together to share original poems, favourite works, and even songs, filling the room with art, vulnerability, and connection.
It was an evening that celebrated creativity, courage, and care—a reminder of the power of gathering around words that speak to who we are, where we live, and the waters that shape us. From shared songs and beloved readings to heartfelt original work, we were deeply moved by the range of voices and the spirit of community in the space.
This first Saltwater Tongues was born from a simple idea: that poetry and art can help us connect more deeply with each other and with the living ocean that sustains us. The night became a vibrant example of that truth: a tide of stories and emotions rising and falling in rhythm with the people in the room.
The Sea Doesn’t Ask for Permission
One of the evening’s most powerful moments came from local poet Kath Healing (they/them), who shared their original poem “the sea doesn’t ask for permission” that they specifically wrote for the event.
We are grateful to Kath for allowing us to share their poem here in full:
the sea doesn’t ask for permission
by Kath Healing
I grew up on another coast —
North West England —
where the tide climbed stone stairs
like it was breaking into its own house.
Now I stand at the Salish Sea’s edge.
Guest. Witness.
Not naming. Just listening.
The sea says:
they’ve been drawing lines through my body for centuries.
Cargo routes. Trawl nets. Tanker lanes
that slice the kelp like arteries.
Every orca here
carries a bullet of mercury between her ribs.
Chinook salmon are vanishing from my blood.
Every herring net
is a throat closing.
Every kelp forest
holds the heat like a fever.
And you’re breathing her in right now.
Do you taste it?
That’s the salt of what’s left.
I have never eaten animals.
Not because I am pure —
but because I know what it means to be hunted,
to be pulled from your own body
for someone else’s hunger.
The ocean knows.
Both of us have been cut open,
harvested,
sorted into boxes for someone else’s shelves.
Both of us are still moving.
They say the ocean is dying.
The ocean says:
I am being killed.
And I will not stand here pretending
we don’t know the killer’s name —
oil slicked into my lungs,
nets closing around a living coastline,
profit counting out the last breath of water.
The sea says:
don’t let them leash you.
Don’t let them net your name.
Rise when you need to.
Pull back when you must.
Refuse to be where they expect you to be.
I say: I will.
I say: I am the saltwater between.
And I will not carry your shame,
or your plastic,
or your profit
into this body.
This body is already ocean.
Already un-contained.
Already moving —
and the tide will keep my shape
long enough for you to remember
how to breathe.
About the Poet
Kath Healing (they/them) lives in Victoria on the unceded territories of the Lək̓ʷəŋən speaking peoples. They write poetry about survival, the body, and our relationship with the natural world. “the sea doesn’t ask for permission” was written in conversation with the Salish Sea—about harm, survival, and refusing to be contained.
We’d love to keep the tide of creativity flowing
If you have a poem, song, or visual art piece inspired by the ocean, the coast, or the Salish Sea, we invite you to share it with us! Our plan is for Saltwater Tongues to be an event series that we have around the Salish Sea, so please do let us know if this is something you’d like to see in your community!
Your work might be featured in future Saltwater Tongues events or on our website and social media. Use the form below to submit your marine-themed art and join our growing community of ocean storytellers.