Issue link: http://digital.canadawide.com/i/144909
postcards Island rule: On the rocks in Hudson Bay I F FOG HADN'T GROUNDED MY FLIGHT, I'D be crunching stale pretzels on my way back to Saskatoon about now. Instead, having just completed summer baseball clinics in Rankin Inlet, I take up an offer from my clinic liaison, Pujjuut Kusugak, who calls me at the B&B. "Will you come with us to Marble? We are going out on the land." Soon, we're pushing off the docks and starting up the outboards. The two boats are aluminum with a ramshackle wooden cabin area towards the middle. I'm in one with Pujjuut and his cousin Wayne. Sebastian, Tommy and Atuat are in the other boat. They're here to hunt seals but will take me to see Marble Island along the way. We head straight out onto Hudson Bay and before long nothing is visible but water in all directions, the fog gradually lifting. I deeply inhale the crisp fresh air. The sea melds with the sky like a grey-blue blanket over the sleepy bay. Glassy water breaks when a seal head pops up for air. The boat circles and slows after the gun fires the kill shot. Harpooned quickly in case it will kivik, or sink, Tommy pulls the seal towards the boat. It takes two of the men to lift the slippery animal out of the water, resting half of it on the edge of the boat before a final burst of strength brings the seal entirely aboard. By the end of the morning, Sebastian is grinning at the harvest – one harp, one ringed and one 90-kilogram bearded seal. "An Arctic zoo for this guy to see!" The guys chat on their CB radio with other boats on the bay. Their native language, Inuktitut, is laced with smatterings of English. One word keeps popping up, followed by giggles. "What is kah-bloo-nah?" I ask. "Qablunaaq? You," says Pujjuut. "Me?" "White guy. Qablunaaq means white man. You are a good luck charm today, and other people want us to lend you to them for a while so they can have a good hunt too." After an hour we duck into a small cove and drop anchor off Marble Island. Sebastian, pointing to his right, says, "You will crawl on that land soon." He must be joking. The hot tea, sun and calm during our stop intensify the warmth of the insulated, 10 W E S T W O R L D p10-11_Postcards.indd 10 >> SUMMER 2012 orange flotation suit I wear. I unzip the top half for instant relief. Earlier I questioned why the qablunaaq was the only one wearing this get-up and why everyone else appeared underdressed. "We know what happens if we fall overboard . . . no chance. Wearing that suit helps keep sanity for firsttimers though." I dunk my hand into the sea. Frigid. Like digging for a canned drink at the bottom of a plastic cooler filled with ice. The engine of our boat sputters a few times and then kicks in, allowing us to continue to the shore where the seals are dragged onto the rocks. "Don't go too far," Sebastian warns. "You are going to crawl." "You are serious?" "Sure. You must crawl on your hands and knees to dry land. It is out of respect for the spirits that live here." "You can do what you want," Pujjuut says, "but if you don't crawl, many believe you will be cursed with bad luck the rest of your life." "OK. But why aren't you guys crawling then?" "We have all been here before. You only have to do it on your first trip." Not crawling is said to shorten one's life, he adds, and some say that visitors will die one year after being on the island if they don't get down on all fours. The long-short: I need to crawl. The wet, jagged rock hurts my knees through the orange survival suit, scratching my hands with each pull forward. Laughter and comments in Inuktitut abound. Finally, I make it up the bank and stand up in relief. Around me, there's the stillness of the water on Hudson Bay, the sepia and white rock of the island and my companions busying themselves with the seal carcasses. This moment will never be duplicated. It's late in the day. Time to head back. The wind has picked up and choppy waves increase in height. The bow of our boat bounces like an old car over potholes. Suddenly, the nose of our vessel drops and pierces a wave. Water rushes up to the gunwales, sloshing inside the boat. The engine sputters and cuts out. Rocking with the waves, we trade stunned glances. Sebastian, Tommy and Atuat motor off ahead of us, oblivious. It's 9 p.m., and I'm cold, hungry and wet. Pujjuut repeatedly pulls on the cord of the motor like a frustrated kid trying to start a lawnmower. He takes the cover off the engine and starts working. We are helplessly adrift on an awakened Hudson Bay. Fifteen minutes feels like five hours. But Pujjuut works without complaint, tinkering with the metal parts of the outboard, immune to the cold. Finally, a sputter and puff of exhaust. Relief. We are on our way, heading towards Rankin Inlet, just as the fog begins to thicken again. –Brent Loehr All Canada Photos/©H. Mark Weidman Photography 4/12/12 5:11:38 PM