It happened at the end of April, which for generations has been whaling season in the Siberian Yupik village of Gambell on St. Lawrence Island on the northwest edge of Alaska. More than 30 crews from the community of 700 were trawling the sea for bowhead whales, cetaceans that can grow over 50 feet long, weigh over 50 tons and live more than 100 years. A few animals taken each year bring thousands of pounds of meat to the village, offsetting the impossibly high cost of imported store-bought food.
In mid-June, as his family crowded into their small kitchen at dinnertime, Chris stood by the stove, eyes on the plate in his hands. Behind him, childhood photographs collaged the wall, basketball games and hunting trip selfies, certificates from school. Lots of village boys are quiet, but Chris is one of the quietest. He usually speaks to elders and other hunters in Yupik. His English sentences come out short and deliberate. His siblings are used to speaking for him.
“I can’t get anything out of him,” his mother said.
His sister, Danielle, 17, heads to University of Alaska Fairbanks in the fall, where she hopes to play basketball. She pulled a square of meat from a pot and set it on a cutting board on the table, slicing it thin with a moon-shaped ulu. Chris drug a piece through a pile of Lawry’s Seasoned Salt and dunked it in soy sauce. Mangtak. Whale. Soul food of the Arctic.
Soon conversation turned, once again, to what happened. It’s hard to escape the story in Chris’ village, or in any village in the region that relies on whaling. People are disturbed by it. It stirs old pain and anxieties about the pressures on rural Alaska. Always, the name Paul Watson is at the center of it.
“We struggle to buy gas, food, they risk their lives out there to feed us, while this Paul Watson will never have to suffer a day in his life,” Susan Apassingok, Chris’ mother, said, voice full of tears. “Why is he going after a child such as my son?” (...)
Alaska Natives have been hunting bowhead in the Western Arctic for at least 2,000 years. The animals were hunted commercially by Yankee whalers from the mid-19th century until the beginning of the 20th century, decimating the population. Since then, whale numbers have recovered, and their population is growing. In 2015, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration estimated there were 16,000 animals, three times the population in 1985.
Alaska Native communities in the region each take a few whales a year, following a quota system managed by the Alaska Eskimo Whaling Commission (AEWC). The total annual take is roughly 50 animals, yielding between 600 and 1,000 tons of food, according to the commission.
Subsistence hunting of marine mammals is essential for villages where cash economies are weak. The average household income in Gambell, for example, is $5,000 to $10,000 below the federal poverty level. Kids rely on free breakfast and lunch at school. Families sell walrus ivory carvings and suffer when there isn’t enough walrus.
Store-bought food can be two to three times as expensive as it is in Anchorage, depending on weight. In the village grocery, where shelves are often empty, a bag of Doritos is $11, a large laundry detergent is more than $20, water is more expensive per ounce than soda. No one puts a price on whale, but without it, without walrus, without bearded seal, no one could afford to live here. (...)
“I can’t get anything out of him,” his mother said.
His sister, Danielle, 17, heads to University of Alaska Fairbanks in the fall, where she hopes to play basketball. She pulled a square of meat from a pot and set it on a cutting board on the table, slicing it thin with a moon-shaped ulu. Chris drug a piece through a pile of Lawry’s Seasoned Salt and dunked it in soy sauce. Mangtak. Whale. Soul food of the Arctic.
Soon conversation turned, once again, to what happened. It’s hard to escape the story in Chris’ village, or in any village in the region that relies on whaling. People are disturbed by it. It stirs old pain and anxieties about the pressures on rural Alaska. Always, the name Paul Watson is at the center of it.
“We struggle to buy gas, food, they risk their lives out there to feed us, while this Paul Watson will never have to suffer a day in his life,” Susan Apassingok, Chris’ mother, said, voice full of tears. “Why is he going after a child such as my son?” (...)
Alaska Natives have been hunting bowhead in the Western Arctic for at least 2,000 years. The animals were hunted commercially by Yankee whalers from the mid-19th century until the beginning of the 20th century, decimating the population. Since then, whale numbers have recovered, and their population is growing. In 2015, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration estimated there were 16,000 animals, three times the population in 1985.
Alaska Native communities in the region each take a few whales a year, following a quota system managed by the Alaska Eskimo Whaling Commission (AEWC). The total annual take is roughly 50 animals, yielding between 600 and 1,000 tons of food, according to the commission.
Subsistence hunting of marine mammals is essential for villages where cash economies are weak. The average household income in Gambell, for example, is $5,000 to $10,000 below the federal poverty level. Kids rely on free breakfast and lunch at school. Families sell walrus ivory carvings and suffer when there isn’t enough walrus.
Store-bought food can be two to three times as expensive as it is in Anchorage, depending on weight. In the village grocery, where shelves are often empty, a bag of Doritos is $11, a large laundry detergent is more than $20, water is more expensive per ounce than soda. No one puts a price on whale, but without it, without walrus, without bearded seal, no one could afford to live here. (...)
Soon Chris had congratulations in his ears and fresh belly meat in his mouth, a sacrament shared by successful hunters on the water as they prayed in thanks to the whale for giving itself. He had been the first to strike the whale, so the hunters decided it belonged to his father’s crew. They would take the head back to the village and let the great cradle of the jawbone cure in the wind outside their house.
They towed the whale in and hauled it ashore using a block and tackle. Women and elders came to the beach to get their share. Every crew got meat. Whale is densely caloric, full of protein, omega-3s and vitamins. People eat it boiled, baked, raw and frozen. Its flavor is mild, marine and herbal like seaweed.
People packed it away in their freezers for special occasions. They carried it with them when they flew out of the village, to Nome and Anchorage and places down south to share with relatives. Everyone told and retold the story of the teenage striker. Then the radio station in Nome picked it up: “Gambell Teenager Leads Successful Whale Hunt, Brings Home 57-Foot Bowhead.” The Alaska Dispatch News, the state’s largest paper, republished that story.
They towed the whale in and hauled it ashore using a block and tackle. Women and elders came to the beach to get their share. Every crew got meat. Whale is densely caloric, full of protein, omega-3s and vitamins. People eat it boiled, baked, raw and frozen. Its flavor is mild, marine and herbal like seaweed.
People packed it away in their freezers for special occasions. They carried it with them when they flew out of the village, to Nome and Anchorage and places down south to share with relatives. Everyone told and retold the story of the teenage striker. Then the radio station in Nome picked it up: “Gambell Teenager Leads Successful Whale Hunt, Brings Home 57-Foot Bowhead.” The Alaska Dispatch News, the state’s largest paper, republished that story.
It used to be that rural Alaska communicated mainly by VHF and by listening to messages passed over daily FM radio broadcasts, but now Facebook has become a central platform for communication, plugging many remote communities into the world of comment flame wars, cat memes and reality television celebrity pages.
That is how Paul Watson, an activist and founder of Sea Shepherd, an environmental organization based in Washington, encountered Chris’ story. Watson, an early member of Greenpeace, is famous for taking a hard line against whaling. On the reality television show, Whale Wars on Animal Planet, he confronted Japanese whalers at sea. His social media connections span the globe.
Watson posted the story about Chris on his personal Facebook page, accompanied by a long rant. Chris’ mother may have been the first in the family to see it, she said.
“WTF, You 16-Year Old Murdering Little Bastard!,” Watson’s post read. “… some 16-year old kid is a frigging ‘hero’ for snuffing out the life of this unique self aware, intelligent, social, sentient being, but hey, it’s okay because murdering whales is a part of his culture, part of his tradition. … I don’t give a damn for the bullshit politically correct attitude that certain groups of people have a ‘right’ to murder a whale.” (...)
“This has been my position of 50 years and it will always be my position until the day I die,” he wrote.
Watson and Sea Shepherd declined to be interviewed for this story but sent a statement.
“Paul Watson did not encourage nor request anyone to threaten anyone. Paul Watson also received numerous death threats and hate messages,” it read. “It is our position that the killing of any intelligent, self-aware, sentient cetacean is the equivalent of murder.”
Villagers have been familiar with Watson’s opinions for many years. They have seen him on cable, and many remember 2005, when Sea Shepherd sent out a press release blaming villagers for the deaths of two children in a boating accident during whaling season.
Many environmentalists who object to subsistence whaling have a worldview that sees hunting as optional and recreational, said Jessica Lefevre, an attorney for the whaling commission based in Washington, D.C.
“The NGOs we deal with are ideologically driven; this is what they do, they save stuff. The collateral damage to communities doesn’t factor into their thinking,” she said. “To get them to understand there are people on this planet who remain embedded in the natural world, culturally and by physical and economic necessity, is extremely difficult.”
The organizations are interested in conservation, but fail to take into account that Alaska Natives have a large stake in the whale population being healthy and have never overharvested it, she said. Some NGOs also benefit financially from sensation and outrage, she said, especially in the age of social media.
by Julia O'Malley, High Country News | Read more:
Image: Chris Apassingok by Ash Adams[ed. Anti-Social media, continuing its 'service' of providing hateful uninformed assholes a worldwide platform and megaphone. This story recently received the James Beard Media Award, along with those of another Alaskan writer, Laureli Ivanoff of Unalakleet (2 Alaska journalists win James Beard Media Awards) (ADN). Here's one by Laureli: Where the first spring harvest relies on a still-frozen ocean (HCN):]
“How’d we miss?” I said as I pulled the gun’s lever to eject the bullet casing, the metal against metal smooth. Arctic did the same without answering my question, knowing I wasn’t looking for an answer.
Arctic is the kind of person you want to have next to you, whatever you’re doing. When he was in high school, he was captain of the Wolfpack — the Unalakleet basketball team — and he led with quiet, assured dignity. Whether the task is to build a chicken coop, butcher a moose or cut salmon for drying, Arctic works from start to finish, cracking subtle jokes along the way. Your stomach relaxes and you breathe deeper when he’s around.
As we put the guns on safety, the ocean water lapped against the sides of the boat, and the cool spring breeze brushed the backs of our bare necks. Dad slowly backed the boat away from the ice pan in case the ugruk popped up close by to breathe after diving. The scent of rotten fish and shrimp filled the air, and Arctic and I looked at one another, smiling. Accusatorily.
“Did you fart?” I asked Arctic.
“Nope,” he said as we got a stronger whiff.
I started laughing, hard. “That ugruk farted on us.”
Sometimes our spring bearded seal hunt happens in April. Usually in May. One year, the ocean ice broke up early and we were boating around ice pans in late March. Each year we wonder if the warming northern oceans will allow us adequate time to hunt for the largest of the seal species that live in the Norton Sound. Ugruk are 7 to 8 feet long and weigh several hundred pounds, and only good thick ice will support them. Some years, the ice melts too quickly, or the currents and winds do not bring thick pans that formed in the outer Bering Sea into the sound, and we have just days to hunt. Each spring, our family works to harvest at least three adult ugruk; the meat we dry and the oil we render feeds us all year long.
Later that day on the boat last spring, Arctic pointed to the big dark head of an ugruk as the animal swam in blue water, each ripple reflecting sunlight, crisp and cheery. Unlike the smaller, curious ringed seals that duck back beneath the surface with hardly a splash, ugruk will dive in, showing their backs and rear flippers. The large seal dove, its curved spine seeming to go on for miles.
“That’s a big ugruk,” Dad said, in awe.
He piloted the boat slowly to where we’d seen the ugruk and pulled the throttle back. The motor idled; the glass-calm water reflected the clouds and bright blue sky, as if to let the earth adore itself after the dark winter. We waited. The rippling ocean waves sparkled and the water lapped against the ice pans. Our rifles in hand, we scanned the water all around us, calm and ready.
Arctic and I looked at one another, this time with wide eyes. We heard it.
The ugruk, beneath us.
Singing.
Hearing an ugruk sing is like hearing the ghost of a beautiful woman wailing, undulating between loud and soft. The song captures the attention of every cell in your body. It sounds haunting, but is nothing like a haunting. Instead of sadness or fear, the song evokes wonder and awe. And thankfulness, for getting a glimpse of the everyday for some beings, something that’s unimaginable, momentous and rare for us, the visitors.
The ocean fell silent. We heard Dad’s motor idling, again the lapping of water against ice and our own slow breathing as we waited. Seconds later, the melody from below, from the water, began again.
Tears in my eyes, trying not to move or make a sound that would startle the seal, I looked at Arctic and smiled. He didn’t smile back, but I knew he was also delighted. Anyone with a pulse would be."
***
"We both fired at the ugruk sleeping on the ice 100 yards ahead, but the bullets missed their mark. We watched the long gray mammal, heavier than the three of us put together, quickly slip into the hole it had scratched through the ice.“How’d we miss?” I said as I pulled the gun’s lever to eject the bullet casing, the metal against metal smooth. Arctic did the same without answering my question, knowing I wasn’t looking for an answer.
Arctic is the kind of person you want to have next to you, whatever you’re doing. When he was in high school, he was captain of the Wolfpack — the Unalakleet basketball team — and he led with quiet, assured dignity. Whether the task is to build a chicken coop, butcher a moose or cut salmon for drying, Arctic works from start to finish, cracking subtle jokes along the way. Your stomach relaxes and you breathe deeper when he’s around.
As we put the guns on safety, the ocean water lapped against the sides of the boat, and the cool spring breeze brushed the backs of our bare necks. Dad slowly backed the boat away from the ice pan in case the ugruk popped up close by to breathe after diving. The scent of rotten fish and shrimp filled the air, and Arctic and I looked at one another, smiling. Accusatorily.
“Did you fart?” I asked Arctic.
“Nope,” he said as we got a stronger whiff.
I started laughing, hard. “That ugruk farted on us.”
Sometimes our spring bearded seal hunt happens in April. Usually in May. One year, the ocean ice broke up early and we were boating around ice pans in late March. Each year we wonder if the warming northern oceans will allow us adequate time to hunt for the largest of the seal species that live in the Norton Sound. Ugruk are 7 to 8 feet long and weigh several hundred pounds, and only good thick ice will support them. Some years, the ice melts too quickly, or the currents and winds do not bring thick pans that formed in the outer Bering Sea into the sound, and we have just days to hunt. Each spring, our family works to harvest at least three adult ugruk; the meat we dry and the oil we render feeds us all year long.
Later that day on the boat last spring, Arctic pointed to the big dark head of an ugruk as the animal swam in blue water, each ripple reflecting sunlight, crisp and cheery. Unlike the smaller, curious ringed seals that duck back beneath the surface with hardly a splash, ugruk will dive in, showing their backs and rear flippers. The large seal dove, its curved spine seeming to go on for miles.
“That’s a big ugruk,” Dad said, in awe.
He piloted the boat slowly to where we’d seen the ugruk and pulled the throttle back. The motor idled; the glass-calm water reflected the clouds and bright blue sky, as if to let the earth adore itself after the dark winter. We waited. The rippling ocean waves sparkled and the water lapped against the ice pans. Our rifles in hand, we scanned the water all around us, calm and ready.
Arctic and I looked at one another, this time with wide eyes. We heard it.
The ugruk, beneath us.
Singing.
Hearing an ugruk sing is like hearing the ghost of a beautiful woman wailing, undulating between loud and soft. The song captures the attention of every cell in your body. It sounds haunting, but is nothing like a haunting. Instead of sadness or fear, the song evokes wonder and awe. And thankfulness, for getting a glimpse of the everyday for some beings, something that’s unimaginable, momentous and rare for us, the visitors.
The ocean fell silent. We heard Dad’s motor idling, again the lapping of water against ice and our own slow breathing as we waited. Seconds later, the melody from below, from the water, began again.
Tears in my eyes, trying not to move or make a sound that would startle the seal, I looked at Arctic and smiled. He didn’t smile back, but I knew he was also delighted. Anyone with a pulse would be."
