Tribal Journey (6 page)

At first Mom wouldn't hear of it. She didn't want me taking part in the journey or spending any time in the canoe out on the water. What if the boat flipped over? I couldn't swim anymore. I'd probably drown.

“First of all,” I said, “we never call the canoe a boat, out of respect for the canoe traditions. I'd get thrown overboard for sure if I called it a boat. Second, this was all Mr. Franks's idea. You said he was a wise man, so I think we should do what he says. Third, I need to do this. I don't know why, but I feel like there's something here I need to be part of.”

I kept talking and explaining and pleading. I told her the canoe family had promised to take care of me and make sure I didn't fall out of the canoe. Finally, she understood how
important this was to me. She changed her mind and signed the permission form that allowed me to participate.

“You never could do just a little bit of something,” she said. “You always had to go all the way. Jump in with both feet. I hope you know what you're doing.”

“So do I,” I said with a big sigh.

I quickly learned there were lots of rules for canoeing. And there were guidelines for pulling on the ocean. These were serious rules to keep paddlers safe during the long hours spent on the rough waters.

Everyone else had been learning the rules and practicing with the canoe for months. I had to take a crash course, because our paddle to Cowichan began in two weeks.

I trained every day so I'd be ready for the two-hundred-mile trip. Practice sessions were held at one of my favorite places: Alki Beach.

Jessy became my closest brother within the Raven Canoe Family. He'd been on last year's Tribal Journey and knew how things worked.

“Out on the open water, your life jacket is your best friend,” he said. “If you wear it and the canoe capsizes, it will save your life.”

He handed me one. I put it on and tightened the straps. It felt a little awkward. I fiddled with it trying to make it more comfortable.

“Some people would rather sit on theirs instead of wearing it. But last year they told us we could sit on it only if we wanted to be comfortable
right before we drowned.
”

Ha-ha, very funny, I thought.

There were so many things I had to do over and over again until I could do them without thinking. Like matching my paddle stroke to the person's in front of me. Like pulling my paddle out of the water and holding it straight up when we were cruising. Like learning all the signals that pullers used to communicate clearly and quickly out on the water.

We even had to practice flipping the canoe over—with us
in it
—so we'd know how to survive in the freezing-cold ocean. Our canoe trainer, a Native guy named Joseph, had been on several canoe journeys and ran a kayak
rental company. He said that if we were in the cold water too long our brains and muscles would quit working and we'd pass out.

“I'm used to the cold water,” I told Joseph just before he flipped the canoe. “I used to swim here at Alki Beach at least once a week.”

“That's great, Jason,” he replied. “That probably means you'll turn blue fifteen minutes after everyone else does.”

I thought maybe he was kidding around, but I wasn't sure. He was wearing a wet suit that covered him from the neck down so he was warm. He stood waist-deep in the water next to our canoe. His assistant stood on the other side, also wearing a wet suit.

“The canoe will float no matter what,” Joseph told our group. “So, when it rolls over, hang on to it or climb on top of it until you're rescued.”

At the count of three, Joseph flipped us over with his assistant's help. The rush of cold water hit me like a slap in the face, the chest, the back—everywhere! Even though I
couldn't swim anymore, it felt good to be in the water again.

Jessy was watching from the shore. He laughed and clapped when I pulled myself out of the water and onto the bottom of the overturned canoe.

By day I was struggling to master the physical process of canoeing on the ocean. By night I was struggling to learn the other part of Salish canoeing: the spiritual part.

This meant learning to sing the traditional Salish canoe songs to be used during departures and arrivals. And there were what they called the “Protocols.” These were the activities that took place each time our canoe landed on the shores of another tribe. The Protocols involved introducing ourselves and our tribe to our hosts. They also included singing traditional songs and sharing stories of the day's journey.

It was like being an ambassador from one country who was visiting another country. Only this was about one tribal nation visiting another. To be courteous and respectful, we
needed to ask permission to come ashore for a friendly visit.

I had been practicing with the canoe, learning the songs, and doing my physical therapy exercises. But others in the canoe family had also been busy. There was so much to do to get ready for this voyage.

Volunteers for the ground crew had to be rounded up. Maps and charts of the canoe route had to be plotted. Equipment, supplies, and food had to be gathered. On and on and on it went.

Most importantly, the canoe family had to make sure we had a motorized support boat to follow behind the canoe in case of emergencies. And the support boat's crew had to be with us for the entire two weeks of the trip.

Emmet George, one of the Duwamish members who lived in the area, ran a fishing company and owned several boats. He donated the use of his boat, called the Sockeye, for the support boat. Sockeye is a type of salmon that's important to the Salish
people. Emmet also volunteered his own time to be the skipper of the boat. His two sons, who worked for him, would be helping out too. This made everyone in the canoe family really happy.

Billy and the carvers finished our canoe one week before our Tribal Journey was to begin. Everyone in the canoe family gathered for the dedication ceremony.

The finished canoe was bold and beautiful. The outside was painted black from front to back, top to bottom. On the bow, the image of a raven had been painted in red paint in the Northwest Coast Native style.

After a blessing prayer and song, Mr. Franks spoke. He said, “We're bringing back our old ways of doing things. These ways of thinking, talking, and living make up our Salish culture. Many of these things were not allowed by the American settlers when they took over our lives. Finally, in the past few years, we've taken back the freedom to do these things once again.”

When the ceremony was over, everyone ate a traditional Salish meal. Fresh salmon was cooked on an open fire. It was served with wild blackberries and other edible wild foods. I'd never eaten some of these foods, and the tastes took a little getting used to.

“I'm really starting to see why these cultural lessons and activities are important,” I said to Jessy as we ate. “You can't know who you are or where you came from without them.”

“You think you understand it now,” Jessy replied between bites, “but just wait till you live it for a few days. Just wait till you see dozens and dozens of canoes arriving on the final shore. And thousands of paddlers and supporters are all together singing the ancient songs and
living
the canoe culture. That, my friend, will blow you away.

Departure day finally came. Hundreds of us gathered at Alki Beach for the launch at 7:00 a.m. There were paddlers, support team members, parents, and extended family. The tribal chairwoman was even there to give us words of encouragement. And a TV news crew. What a sight!

Mr. Franks offered a Native prayer for the journey ahead. Afterward, I gave Mom, Zak, and Shauna a good-bye hug. Mom was a little teary eyed. I sort of looked for Dad in the crowd. But of course, he wasn't there.

Our elders and others started singing a Salish canoe song. Within a few minutes everyone was singing, whether they knew the words or not.

Jessy wasn't going to be pulling during our first shift on the water. He lifted me out of
my chair and carried me to the canoe. I settled into my seat and tightened the drawstring on my cedar hat so it wouldn't blow away.

“I'll see that this wheelchair makes it onto the support boat,” Jessy said. “Your other chair is already in the van with all your camping gear.”

Mrs. Anderson had been so proud to see me come out of my depression and take an active part in the whole canoe adventure. She had the hospital donate a second wheelchair for me. Two chairs allowed me to have one chair on the support boat and the other at our campsites. A land chair and a sea chair.

“Bet your land chair beats you to the first stop up at Suquamish.” He laughed.

Of course my wheelchair would arrive at the first camp before the canoe would. That was the job of the ground support crew. They drove ahead during the day to set up camp at prearranged locations. That way our tents would already be up and ready when we arrived. And part of that crew would cook
dinner for the paddlers. This allowed us to focus on pulling.

And pull we did. With Mr. Franks standing in the bow dressed in traditional Duwamish regalia, the Raven Canoe pushed away from shore. The lead puller set the pace as we stroked the water. Our skipper, steering from the rear, pointed us northward.

We left the singers and our families standing at the water's edge. As they became tiny specks on the horizon behind us, the adrenaline started pumping through my body. A moment of panic struck me unexpectedly. What had I been thinking? Was I crazy? It had been a nice fantasy, but I can't really do this! Can I?

Then, from behind us, a gust of wind came up. It was as though the energy of the singers on shore set the wind in motion. For a moment I thought I could hear those voices on that wind, even though I couldn't have really heard them.

But there was another sound within that wind. It was like a loud whisper. In a whoosh
it said, “You can do this!” And right after hearing this message, I became aware of the sound of the paddles pushing through the water. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh! And from within that sound came the same message, “You can do this!” And with every paddle stroke, I heard, “You can do this!”

At that moment, I remembered one of the talks Mr. Franks gave at a canoe family meeting. He said, “Don't be surprised if the spirit of Nature and the spirit of your Duwamish ancestors assist you in your journey. They are constantly present and available. All you have to do is tune in to them.”

So I relaxed and went with the flow.

We pulled and sang with great energy that first morning. From time to time, one of our paddles kicked up a spray of cold water that misted over us. What a rush! Seagulls often drifted in the air nearby to check us out—such an unfamiliar sight we were.

Following their regular sailing schedules, ferryboats crossed behind us or in front of us. These huge vessels were loaded with cars,
trucks, motorcycles, and pedestrians going to work or just heading from one of the islands to the mainland. In the greater Seattle area, ferries are as common as buses and commuter trains are in other cities.

As soon as someone on board a ferry noticed us, a group gathered on deck to snap photos or shoot a video on their cell phone. This happened several times as we made our way up through the waters of Puget Sound. We must've seemed like a blast from the past. A hundred years in the past.

After about four hours into the trip, the skipper called for a break. I was glad because my arms were about to give out. I signaled I was ready to take an extended rest. Using the walkie-talkie we had on the Raven, our skipper radioed the support boat. The Sockeye was several hundred feet away. It moved in beside us.

The support boat crew had come up with a way to get me out of the canoe easily. They used a device called a Lifesling. It had a padded, U-shaped loop attached to a long
length of rope. They dropped the loop down to me. I slipped it around my back and under my arms.

A crew member on the Sockeye then turned a crank that slowly pulled me straight up from my canoe seat. Within a couple of minutes I was aboard the support boat. One of our backup pullers had climbed down the ladder into the canoe.