Coast Salish Gathering commits to environmental action.
Good Old Days
(The e-mail text below is from my Sto:lo friend Darryl E. Bowles, who grew up in the woods near Elwha, Washington in the 1930s, and is now a retired seafarer and storyteller living in Nerja, Spain.)
I used to go to Celilo every year when I was a kid. It is quite difficult to describe what it was because it was still the biggest by far, open air market in the Northwest back then. People came from all over to trade, not only for fish but every conceivable item produced by Native people.
The most flamboyant were the Indians from around Yakima and Colville who brought some of the most beautiful horses I have ever seen. Not so much for trade but to show off. We didn’t have horses nor did we have any use for them and our boats could not make the trip around from Puget Sound and then up the river so our “Best” was never seen there.
Later on I sailed on the Columbia and was one of the first tugs to go through the new locks at the dam. (The largest in the world at that time.) Brought tears to my eyes as I knew what had been lost. The rest of the crew on the boat were white men and although they were all from around that area none of them had a clue. And when I tried to explain they all looked at me like I was nuts. THIS WAS AN IMPROVEMENT!
When I asked “For who?” They really thought I should be locked up.
The “Good old days” weren’t always so good to all of us.
Working Up Steam
While some skippers are content to silently swing at anchor, this one still prefers to make a pronounced wake. So pull in the fenders and post a lookout, because we’re getting underway.
Collected Stories
I immediately picked him up on our radar screen, and by the time we finished our mugup, could clearly see her rows of cabin lights steaming down the channel at a good clip. It was the first really large vessel we’d seen since leaving Seattle four days earlier, and was quite a sight all lit up. I was also glad we had clear visibility; I wouldn’t want to be dancing with her in the fog.Then Sandy said, “He’s losing control of her in the current, see how his stern is being shoved our way? How much room do we have between us and the beach?” I stepped out the pilot house door, and yelled, “less than a quarter mile.”
[ From Narrow Escape, one of the stories in Life as Festival by Jay Taber ]
Hello world!
If you’ve ever watched a summer moon come up over a placid bay from the pilothouse, or hung on to the wheel as ocean waves crashed over a pitching foredeck, your memories are acutely aware that life has its ups and downs. In time, I hope to share some of my seafarer’s tales of those moments of intense joy or horror that elude most shoreside occupations. Maybe with luck, you’ll share some of yours.
