My Clean Water Story: Kristin Saunders

I spent my childhood summers with my toes stuck deep in Chester River muck. The only reason my mother let me paint my toenails red at such a young age was to cover the black stains the muck left on and under my nails. 

I was first tossed off the end of a dock during Red Cross swimming lessons at Quaker Neck Landing. I went right into the river where the Chester River meanders toward the Corsica and my curiosity was piqued by the mahogany tide of murky water that I fell into. I wanted to know what was in that water, but really, I noticed how being near the water’s edge made me feel. 

Marshes, waterfowl and slack tides made me feel at peace. We played games of capture the flag on cow pastures, in cornfields and marshes up and down the Chester, traveling on little sunfish sailboats, adult supervision contained to a small skiff that followed behind for stragglers. When the river sat flat as glass in the August humidity with no puff of wind in sight, the only relief was capsizing practice in our tiny boats, daring to whip them “ass over tea kettle” as my grandmother would say, into the water. We never knew if we would hit bottom or a jellyfish because we could not see through the murky water below–we just knew it would be an adventure. 

These places of refuge are buried deep in me, connecting me to the importance of protecting a sense of place. Not only the Chester River, but the Chesapeake Bay and the entire Delmarva peninsula. The farmland with rich soils and bobwhite quail, growing corn and soybeans. The osprey showing up in March, followed by the arrival of the Canada geese in September. Progging for arrowheads, sea glass and other treasures at low tide, riding down winding back country roads in low-lying areas that somehow all led to the water’s edge, where Chesapeake deadrise workboats, crab pots stacked on piers, crab shanties with peeler tanks and oyster rigs would be there waiting for the next catch.

When my ninth grade civics teacher (Wayne Gilchrest before he was elected to the House of Representatives for Maryland) assigned us to read Thoreau’s essay, Walking, and write a paper about its connection to civics, I didn’t receive a grade. I never turned in the paper and in socratic style, argued that I failed to see the connection. I passed the class and went on to work in public service many years later. When Representative Gilchrest appeared at a Maryland Board of Public Works meeting 10 years later to advocate for the purchase of what is now the Sassafras Natural Resource Management Area, he reminded me of my missing essay. 

At this time, I was an assistant to former Maryland Governor William Schaefer, where part of my job included working with natural resource and environmental agencies. This is what led me to be in the room that day, watching the approval of this large land acquisition on the Sassafras River. This was a place where I had hiked into, sneaking onto the beach as a teenager, enjoying the carefree riverfront life. 

At that moment, listening to Representative Gilchrist advocate for conserving land that had meant so much to me as a child, I began to truly understand the connection between Thoreau’s essay and our civic duty to conserve nature for the benefit of creatures and people alike. It is true, I never turned in that paper, but I have spent a good part of my 35 years in public service helping to conserve special places for people to swim, boat and hike, for wildlife to thrive, and where communities can connect with their history.

It is my hope that by providing access to these areas, others can feel their own sense of place and love for this beautiful, precious resource we have been entrusted with, the Chesapeake Bay.