April 8, 2006,
Today proved to be one of the most challenging and overwhelming days of our trip, and up to this point, of my sailing experiences. I am sure I can say with absolute certainty that is was equally “defeating” for my family as well. We departed from Bainbridge Island and Eagle Harbor early at 8 Am after a short breakfast of coffee and fruit. I knew we were in for it as soon as we left the bay, for the skies were overcast and the wind had subsided very little over the last 12 hours. If anything, it had increased from 15-20 knots to a steady 18-25. I knew that it was only a matter of time before small craft advisories were issued. However, we were under a tight time line as we had planned to be in the Tacoma Marina by night fall, and had made reservations for lunch at Blake Island in a place known as Tillicum village. No sooner had we swung free from the bay then we were met with our old nemesis, the channel and our reef. The wind was a steady 18 knots on the nose from the South/South West, directly into the direction we needed to go, with white caps as far as I could see. It was important to both Barb and I that we make it to Blake Island, as it was to be the “highlight” of the trip. So, with waves over the bow, the thru holes sealed shut, and the hatches latched off, we headed at a close haul with the waves on our faces.
Blake Island was an ancestral camping ground of the Suquamish Indian tribe, and legend has it Chief Seattle was born there. It is believed the island was named by naval explorer Captain Charles Wilkes in honor of George Smith Blake, who commanded U.S. Coast Survey vessels from 1837 to 1848. William Pitt Trimble acquired the island at the turn of the century and re-named it Trimble Island, transforming it into a magnificent private estate. After his wife was killed in Seattle in 1929, Trimble never returned to the property. The foundation of his mansion still stands, although the home itself has been destroyed by fire. The property became Blake Island State Park in October, 1974. Blake Island offered a unique Northwest Indian dining and cultural experience at Tillicum Village. You can schedule and enjoy a barbecued salmon dinner cooked in traditional Native American style while watching Northwest Indian dancing. Their web page, at http://www.tillicumvillage.com/, offers more information, but we refused to miss it.
By the time we could point Nesaru on an azimuth that would set us into the Tillicum Village bay, it was already 1000 am. We were exhausted from forcing the boat to weather over two hours, but happy we had made the village in time for the Salmon dinner. We were greeted by views of the native American Log and Smoke House from Blake Island to the South, and Seattle to the North. It was beautiful. We were able to reach the peer right as a light sprinkle began to fall. The park offered 1,500 feet of moorage. Twenty-one mooring buoys and a linear moorage system was available for overnight boaters. A boat pump was also available. Moorage fees are charged year-round for mooring at docks, floats and buoys from 1 p.m. to 8 a.m.: Daily moorage fee is 50 cents per foot, with a minimum of $10. Moorage buoys are $10 a night. The annual moorage permit fee is $3.50 per foot, with a minimum of $50. Moorage permits are available at parks offering moorage. You can find more by going to: http://www.parks.wa.gov/parkpage.asp?selectedpark=Blake%20Island&pageno=1. AS we departed the boat, we were greeted by several dozen totem poles positioned at the end of the peers. It was surreal. The grounds were very well kept up, and dozens of statutes had been placed throughout the island which had been created by the Indians. Barb and Nicolette moved into the main log house, where we would be dinning for lunch, in order to secure tickets for us. Sophia and I began to look around at the Native American art and the side trails which cross the island. Within a matter of moments I was astonished to find a herd of wild deer grazing on the grass several meters from the edge of the trail. There were at least several Dow. Sophia and I crept as close as we could take photos as we went. We were able to reach within 50 meters before Sophia’s little two years old mind could stand it no longer. With a Gail full screech of, “Doggy Daddy!” I lost control of her and she ran down the trail towards the bewildered creatures! At first shocked, the gained the composure after a brief moment and bounded into the wood line, gone forever. Sophia let out a wail of displeasure, but I found satisfaction in the knowledge that I had been able to secure several photos of her chasing down the creatures. While Barb missed the chase, she was able to get a good view from the deer from the porch and corner of the lodge. After the excitement we walked the trails until the ferry from Seattle arrived with the rest of the guests for the show.
Once we entered the lodge we were pleased to learn that we would be receiving front row seats to the Show! The trip had been worth it. We Walked up a path strewn with white clamshells bleached by the sun and enjoyed steaming clams in nectar broth, while dinning in an authentic cedar longhouse and savored salmon baked over open fires on cedar stakes. The show was sublime, with a spellbinding dance performance, which provided an emotional journey through the legends and dances of the Northwest Coastal Indians. Once it was complete, we browsed through a Gift Gallery of Northwest Coast Native American art, which included hand carved masks, plaques, totem poles and beaded. The most remarkable thing I found in the gallery was a speech which had been given by Chief Seattle, for which the city of Seattle is named. The speech was mounted on the wall of the lodge, and not for sale. While writing this entry I found a copy on the internet and provided it here in its full version. I know it is long, but I think it truly reflects the northwest’s attitudes toward the Puget Sound, and a vision of life I would like to pass down to my children as well. Here is a copy of it for your review:
Version 1 (below) appeared in the Seattle Sunday Star on Oct. 29, 1887, in a column by Dr. Henry A. Smith.
"CHIEF SEATTLE'S 1854 ORATION" - ver . 1
AUTHENTIC TEXT OF CHIEF SEATTLE'S TREATY ORATION 1854
Yonder sky that has wept tears of compassion upon my people for centuries untold, and which to us appears changeless and eternal, may change. Today is fair. Tomorrow it may be overcast with clouds. My words are like the stars that never change. Whatever Seattle says, the great chief at Washington can rely upon with as much certainty as he can upon the return of the sun or the seasons. The white chief says that Big Chief at Washington sends us greetings of friendship and goodwill. This is kind of him for we know he has little need of our friendship in return. His people are many. They are like the grass that covers vast prairies. My people are few. They resemble the scattering trees of a storm-swept plain. The great, and I presume -- good, White Chief sends us word that he wishes to buy our land but is willing to allow us enough to live comfortably. This indeed appears just, even generous, for the Red Man no longer has rights that he need respect, and the offer may be wise, also, as we are no longer in need of an extensive country.
There was a time when our people covered the land as the waves of a wind-ruffled sea cover its shell-paved floor, but that time long since passed away with the greatness of tribes that are now but a mournful memory. I will not dwell on, nor mourn over, our untimely decay, nor reproach my paleface brothers with hastening it, as we too may have been somewhat to blame.
Youth is impulsive. When our young men grow angry at some real or imaginary wrong, and disfigure their faces with black paint, it denotes that their hearts are black, and that they are often cruel and relentless, and our old men and old women are unable to restrain them. Thus it has ever been. Thus it was when the white man began to push our forefathers ever westward. But let us hope that the hostilities between us may never return. We would have everything to lose and nothing to gain. Revenge by young men is considered gain, even at the cost of their own lives, but old men who stay at home in times of war, and mothers who have sons to lose, know better.
Our good father in Washington--for I presume he is now our father as well as yours, since King George has moved his boundaries further north--our great and good father, I say, sends us word that if we do as he desires he will protect us. His brave warriors will be to us a bristling wall of strength, and his wonderful ships of war will fill our harbors, so that our ancient enemies far to the northward -- the Haidas and Tsimshians -- will cease to frighten our women, children, and old men. Then in reality he will be our father and we his children. But can that ever be? Your God is not our God! Your God loves your people and hates mine! He folds his strong protecting arms lovingly about the paleface and leads him by the hand as a father leads an infant son. But, He has forsaken His Red children, if they really are His. Our God, the Great Spirit, seems also to have forsaken us. Your God makes your people wax stronger every day. Soon they will fill all the land. Our people are ebbing away like a rapidly receding tide that will never return. The white man's God cannot love our people or He would protect them. They seem to be orphans who can look nowhere for help. How then can we be brothers? How can your God become our God and renew our prosperity and awaken in us dreams of returning greatness? If we have a common Heavenly Father He must be partial, for He came to His paleface children. We never saw Him. He gave you laws but had no word for His red children whose teeming multitudes once filled this vast continent as stars fill the firmament. No; we are two distinct races with separate origins and separate destinies. There is little in common between us.
To us the ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their resting place is hallowed ground. You wander far from the graves of your ancestors and seemingly without regret. Your religion was written upon tablets of stone by the iron finger of your God so that you could not forget. The Red Man could never comprehend or remember it. Our religion is the traditions of our ancestors -- the dreams of our old men, given them in solemn hours of the night by the Great Spirit; and the visions of our sachems, and is written in the hearts of our people.
Your dead cease to love you and the land of their nativity as soon as they pass the portals of the tomb and wander away beyond the stars. They are soon forgotten and never return. Our dead never forget this beautiful world that gave them being. They still love its verdant valleys, its murmuring rivers, its magnificent mountains, sequestered vales and verdant lined lakes and bays, and ever yearn in tender fond affection over the lonely hearted living, and often return from the happy hunting ground to visit, guide, console, and comfort them.
Day and night cannot dwell together. The Red Man has ever fled the approach of the White Man, as the morning mist flees before the morning sun. However, your proposition seems fair and I think that my people will accept it and will retire to the reservation you offer them. Then we will dwell apart in peace, for the words of the Great White Chief seem to be the words of nature speaking to my people out of dense darkness.
It matters little where we pass the remnant of our days. They will not be many. The Indian's night promises to be dark. Not a single star of hope hovers above his horizon. Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Grim fate seems to be on the Red Man's trail, and wherever he will hear the approaching footsteps of his fell destroyer and prepare stolidly to meet his doom, as does the wounded doe that hears the approaching footsteps of the hunter.
A few more moons, a few more winters, and not one of the descendants of the mighty hosts that once moved over this broad land or lived in happy homes, protected by the Great Spirit, will remain to mourn over the graves of a people once more powerful and hopeful than yours. But why should I mourn at the untimely fate of my people? Tribe follows tribe, and nation follows nation, like the waves of the sea. It is the order of nature, and regret is useless. Your time of decay may be distant, but it will surely come, for even the White Man whose God walked and talked with him as friend to friend, cannot be exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers after all. We will see.
We will ponder your proposition and when we decide we will let you know. But should we accept it, I here and now make this condition that we will not be denied the privilege without molestation of visiting at any time the tombs of our ancestors, friends, and children. Every part of this soil is sacred in the estimation of my people. Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove, has been hallowed by some sad or happy event in days long vanished. Even the rocks, which seem to be dumb and dead as the swelter in the sun along the silent shore, thrill with memories of stirring events connected with the lives of my people, and the very dust upon which you now stand responds more lovingly to their footsteps than yours, because it is rich with the blood of our ancestors, and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch. Our departed braves, fond mothers, glad, happy hearted maidens, and even the little children who lived here and rejoiced here for a brief season, will love these somber solitudes and at eventide they greet shadowy returning spirits. And when the last Red Man shall have perished, and the memory of my tribe shall have become a myth among the White Men, these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe, and when your children's children think themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the highway, or in the silence of the pathless woods, they will not be alone. In all the earth there is no place dedicated to solitude. At night when the streets of your cities and villages are silent and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled them and still love this beautiful land. The White Man will never be alone.
Let him be just and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not powerless. Dead, did I say? There is no death, only a change of worlds.”
Barb and I were sad as we departed the warmth of the lodge, but know we had a long trip ahead of us to Tacoma Marina. I knew we were in for it as soon as we made it back down the shell covered path to the bay. I could see dark skies in every direction, and the wind had not subsided or shifted yet. Additionally, the rain had picked up. The end of the day was going to be a very, very hard fight. Another vessel (her name eludes me right now), watched in amazement as we began to cast off our lines. Its skipper asked our destination, and implied insanity as he heard our response. A quick recommendation of staying put for the night was debated, but in the end the lines were cast and we went for it. I would soon wish we hadn’t.
Within sight of the channel we were conducting a man over board drill. The wind was on our nose at 15-20 knots out of the South / South West (directly on our nose), and every wave was breaking over Nesaru’s bow. While setting the main sail, the boom crutch had come loose from Barb. It was simply to much weather helm and wind for her to control the sail and wheel at the same time. I should have known better to begin with. We circled around and were able to rescue the crutch, but could now very clearly see what we were in for. We beat to weather across Blake Island, and then cut East toward the “east Passage” enroute to Tacoma. We intended to go South through Colvos Passage. However, once we could see the course, a heated debate began on several different topics. Firstly, we were not sure how much of this Nesaru could take. She had never been in anything like this at our hands before. We knew she was a rough weather baby and could take a beating, but it is one thing to read about it and another to be in it. The second issue was what course to set. As we were undecided as to rather we would be able to sail southward, we were tempted to head across the bay toward Seattle. The thought did enter our minds that with a Westerbeak store in Seattle, they could look at the engine and fix our still failing engine throttle for us, and we would be saved from the pains of the waves which had already drenched us. Another option was to head on a slightly altered course through the East Passage toward the Des Moines Marina. This would get us half way there at least, but we would still be left to head back into her directly for the last half of the trip. Our last option, to turn back, did not even enter our minds. Barb did some calculating while I held the wheel, and soon recommended we push to Des Moines along the outer passage. I glanced one last time at the inner passage and Colvos Passage back toward Gig Harbor and sighed in relief that we were not going to fight that battle, and steered her onto her new course. For several hours we sailed hard. I was astonished at the wind. During an inspection of the sails I noticed that the Staysail had finally began to give way, with rips appearing all along the luff. With the engine giving as small a push as it did, we decided to keep her up. There was too much wind for the jib, so we would pray she would hold. I could not help but to think of the Gordon Lightfoot song, “The wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald.” The line, “Does anyone know where the love of G-d goes when the waves change the minutes to hours?...”
By 3 Pm we needed to make another choice. With the welcome sight of Demoin in sight, we could either push south toward Tacoma, or hold where we were at. For the love of G-d, we decided to push south. It took 10 minutes for me to regret my decision, and the next 4 hours to correct it. We pushed at a close haul during that entire time, tacking back and forth, through Poverty Bay west of Saltwater State Park. By 5 PM the wind had actually picked up, and every other wave sent the bow sprit straight into the drink. As it disappeared into the murky depths of Davy Jones locker, I actually, for the first time in my life, began to fear for the welfare of our family. At 6 PM the Staysail tore straight out, and we had already reefed the main to the first set of grombits. The weather helm was tremendous, and every time we tacked I was not sure if she would even come about. At least once the main sheet tore loose and we had to scramble to recover her. At 7 PM Barb noticed that the Port Cabin windows were actually under water! With Nesaru heeling as badly as she was, with a single reef and no jib or stay sail to think of, we were not making any further headway. Every wave swapped the cockpit, and we were beginning to take water into the cabin through the forward birth and mast step. In all truth, my indecision and complete determination not to fail making the waters of Poverty Bay had kept us pushing into the eye for the last hour. It was at this point that I began to falter, however. Stained with salt from the waves and stained to the core of my soul by the chill of the wind, I implored Barb for her thoughts. She left it to me, which crushed me even further as I turned tail and ran. We never made Browns Point. The blame laid now squarely on my shoulders. Having never been defeated by the elements before, this was a bitter defeat. What we had fought to gain for the past four hours was lost in less then 20 minutes. We limped, latterly, into Des Moins. The harbor master met us at the gas dock. He seemed almost curious as we pulled in and assisted in tying us off. Once secure, he politely told me that he had been off since 5 Pm, but had been watching us through his Binos for the last 2 hours to see if we would be ok. When I implied to the cost of the dock, he simply said stay here, we can talk cost tomorrow. For now, take care of your family. – and that’s what I did. As I moved below I saw that Barb was tending to the children. I set down on my birth, and fell asleep as I sit, exhausted from the elements and the weight of my defeat.
We learned a valuable lesson that day. The bays may be a fitting place to learn how to sail, and the sound may not be open water, but it is still the ocean. The waters are no place for the inexperienced to be or play. We will never again underestimate the powers of the ocean or wind. I suppose, in some greater irony, that it was this exact relationship that I had set out to establish in the first place. Though pain comes growth, and we had bled this day indeed. Barb and I will count ourselves blessed to be in good health, and we will more closely at the skies before we set out on another day such as this again.
