On a July morning, the cedar bow of our massive dugout canoe, the Swissaloh from Squaxin Island, heaved and fought through the monstrous wake of a stadium-sized container ship.

Surging waves pushed our nose straight up toward the sky. The behemoth sounded its foghorn, announcing delivery of the day’s shipment to the settlers of Puget Sound.

My dad braced his foot against mine. Behind us, our skipper called out, “Ten more power pulls Squaxin Island!” The bow of the Swissaloh crashed into a trough between waves as we pulled through the Salish waters in unison. “One, two, three . . . ”