Tribal Journey by Gary Robinson Page A

cross the open waters of something called the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
    â€œWhat’s a strait?” I had asked Jessy before we left Seattle. I figured he’d know since he’d been on the last Tribal Journey.
    â€œIt’s a narrow passage of water that connects two larger bodies of water,” he’d answered. “This strait connects the Pacific Ocean to the Salish Sea.”
    â€œWe have a sea named after us? That’s cool!” I looked at the map Jessy had.
    â€œWhat’s a Juan de Fuca?” I followed up.
    â€œThat’s a
who,
not a
what,”
he replied. “Juan de Fuca was some explorer who supposedly found this strait in the 1500s.”
    â€œWas it lost?” I asked.
    â€œHa-ha, very funny,” Jessy said. “No, he found it for the Spaniards when they were exploring over here. We knew where it was all along.”
    â€œOh.” I nodded.
    â€œDo you have any more dumb questions?” Jessy asked.
    â€œAs a matter of fact I do. When and where do we cross the borderline that separates the U.S. from Canada?”
    â€œThe international border between the two countries runs down the middle of the strait.” He pointed to a small dotted line on the map.
    â€œHow do people know when they’ve crossed the border?” I asked. “Is there a line floating out in the water?”
    â€œThese
are
dumb questions,” Jessy said. “Of course there’s no line floating in the water. When we arrive at our first stop on Vancouver Island, we all have to show our passports.”
    â€œNow I get it. I was wondering when we’d need those.”
    â€œThe Sockeye skipper will have all our passports locked in his safe on the support boat. Any more dumb questions?”
    I thought for a minute. “No, not now, but I’m sure I’ll have more dumb questions later.”
    So now we were pushing off the shores of the Lummi Nation, headed west. The morning was again cold and foggy.
    I spent the morning shift on the Sockeye while other pullers had their turn on the Raven. I got to ride in the main cabin with the skipper, who was answering more of my dumb questions. How else is a fella going to learn anything?
    The skipper had been watching the skies and listening to the weather reports for the area. He didn’t like what he saw in either. The fog was not thinning out. The wind hadpicked up. The ocean’s surface was choppy. The pullers were not getting very far and were exhausted.
    â€œThese are dangerous waters,” the skipper said. “We’re very close to the international shipping channel. That’s where large freight carriers move shipping containers in and out of Vancouver. One of those monsters wouldn’t see a little thirty-foot canoe in the fog.”
    So the skipper made a decision for safety’s sake. He radioed the skipper of the Raven. He told them they needed to come aboard the Sockeye for the remainder of the morning. He’d tow the canoe as we crossed the stormy strait.
    None of the pullers really wanted to get out. But Tribal Journey rules allowed canoes to be towed for short distances during bad weather or dangerous water conditions. After everyone was on board the Sockeye, the Raven was tied on behind. The skipper set off across the strait.
    Meanwhile, fresh from the water, the pullers warmed themselves with blankets,coffee, and hot chocolate. I sat with them while they talked about how hard the going had been. As I listened, I noticed the fog getting even thicker. You could only see about thirty or forty feet in front of you.
    All of a sudden a moving, rusty red wall broke through the fog and headed right for us. I didn’t know what it could be. It scared me and I yelled.
    â€œWhat’s that thing coming right at us?”
    Everyone turned to see the bow of a freighter ship as it became visible. It was barreling down on us. It must’ve been seven stories tall! The skipper saw it, too,