Posted by stoweaway on 08/29/2007 11:58 pm

We are here at Amchitka, and I can’t write about it. It is all too fresh and overwhelming. Fortunately, Kieran has done a wonderful blog about our experience here, which you may want to check out. Later I will try to set something coherent down.
Meanwhile, on a MUCH lighter note, in my last blog I promised to talk about what my Mom, Chuck Berry, Pink Floyd and Bono all have in common. So here goes. (Warning…Bono story included. I know many other Greenpeacers have Bono stories…bring ‘em on!)
It all comes down to food. Good cooking and good music are inextricably entwined in this story, and on board the Espy. Raymond, the ship’s cook -- whose combined Dutch, Indonesian, Chinese and Italian heritage have resulted in black wavy hair, brown skin, and a love of a great variety of cuisine -- is de facto DJ of the deck where many of our cabins reside. His music blares out into the halls as Samantha – 23 year old assistant-cook/kitchen goddess who sports a ponytail and an uncannily calm, elegant bearing – chops and dices while Raymond sautes and boils. Our dinners are accompanied by Sinatra, Swing, Classic Rock, and you may find yourself heaping your plate with a vegetable medley or fried chicken while getting down to the sounds of Mr. Chuck Berry. Swabbing the deck…the type of chore we all…almost all…do between 8 and 9 in the morning…goes faster to Pink Floyd, unless you are in a melancholy mood, in which case just let your tears mingle with the soapy water in your bucket.
Meanwhile, back home, my mother is cooking. I know this even though I haven’t talked to her for the two weeks I’ve been on the Espy. How? Because besides founding Greenpeace with a few other souls my mother is known by friends, family and the many visitors she is always inviting to dinner for her gourmet meals, and when not in the kitchen is to be found shopping at Granville Island Market for the freshest produce in Vancouver or rifling through one ot the hundreds of cookbooks on her shelves. Picture her now, five feet on a tall day and wearing a white chef’s hat bigger than her head, pounding dough to the sound of Pavoratti, serenading the entire block around her house through the giant speakers my father always insisted our house contain.
You may be wondering where Bono fits in to all this. At this point in the story I must introduce my brother-in-law Ed Montague, a lawyer and a very persistent fellow who happens to be a huge U2 fan. When he heard the band was coming to Vancouver a few years ago he said, "Hey, Bono is a big Greenpeace supporter, I bet he’d love to meet a founder of Greenpeace, why don’t you invite him to dinner at your Mom’s?
Right. Like Bono would happen by for a bite and a brew at the home of total strangers. I ignored the insane request for awhile but Ed (like all lawyers) is so stubborn that I finally wrote the Great Man just to get Ed off my back. The response? Dinner was out of the question. Surprise! However, Bono would like to meet my Mom, if he had time. I had to give Ed credit at this point. Credit, and a big hug, and then dance around the room for a minute.
Three o’clock on the day U2 was to open in Vancouver, Ed got a call: my Mom and entourage (Ed, myself, and our spouses) were to be backstage at 7 pm. Passes would be waiting. Needless to say, we were a tad excited.
When we entered the green room…having first been escorted through at least three security details…we bopped around like idiots wondering whether to partake first of the chilled wine, beer, or snacks, and taking dumb photos. My mother sat serenely on the couch, holding the history of the beginning of Greenpeace that Rex Wyler penned, and one of the original Greenpeace buttons, presents she thought Bono might like. As forty minutes ticked by, then forty-five, then fifty, our spirits fell. We weren’t going to meet the Man after all. Of course it was silly to think he’d actually show up...as if he wasn’t busy enough.
And then, just when all hope was lost, in he strode, clad in black and those trademark green shades (that his eyes are very visible through). "Dorothy, Dorothy, Dorothy," he sighed, putting his arm around her. "You ruined my life."
It was Greenpeace, he confided, that first inspired him to activism. He asked if she had any earplugs and everybody laughed until he pulled out a pair. It was hard to imagine how, minutes before walking onto the stage, a rock star could be so focused on the comfort of a petite 84 year old woman, how he could be so entirely present, or how he could submit so graciously to posing for a photo.
During the concert he dedicated a song "Original of the Species", to Dorothy, and the next day U2 posted Ed’s photo of Bono and Doro on their website with a link to Greenpeace.
As we walked down the stairs to the floor after the concert everyone stood back, making way for the elderly lady with the smooth white hair. Dorothy, they called, reaching out to grasp her hand. Thank you.
My mother smiled back, and only on the way to the car, having passed all the crowds, did she pull out her nitro inhaler and take a couple of puffs. I don’t remember what, if anything, any of us ate that night, but if Bono ever does come to dinner, you can bet my Mom will have something good on the table. Meanwhile, on the Espy, it’s dinnertime. Until tomorrow then…

Posted by kieran_mulvaney on 08/29/2007 01:33 am

Thirty-five years, eleven months, and eighteen days later, we finally made it.

On September 15, 1971, a crew of twelve set out from Vancouver Island in an eighty-foot halibut seiner called the Phyllis Cormack on a daring, even foolhardy, mission: to steam to the Aleutian island of Amchitka and protest, or even prevent, the detonation of an underground nuclear test. When the plan was first hatched, the group that organized the mission went by the name of the Don't Make a Wave Comittee. By the time the Cormack set out to sea, they were calling themselves Greenpeace.

The Cormack didn't make it to Amchitka. President Nixon delayed the test, the crew put into the Aleutian port of Akutan to figure out next steps, and the US Coastguard arrested them on a technicality. But the mission was a success: although the explosion, dubbed Cannikin, went ahead, it would be the last on the island: a further four tests were scheduled but canceled in the face of the enormous protests that found a voice in the Greenpeace voyage.

And yet, ever since, a circle has remained broken, a path unfinished. Almost thirty-six years have passed, the island has become a wildlife sanctuary, and a kind of calm has returned in this most remote of realms, and yet, no Greenpeace ship had completed the Phyllis Cormack's journey and reached the shores of Amchitka.

Until today.

To the last, Amchitka seemed determined to keep its secrets. We arrived as night was reluctantly yielding its grip, and even when daylight barged its way through, Amchitka lay shrouded in thick, seemingly impenetrable fog. An initial boat ride in search of a suitable landing beach provided little of great promise, but at least one option, and after lunch we headed ashore.

The island is ringed by thick kelp beds--the reason it was once lush habitat for sea otters, all now gone, whose violent deaths as a result of the blasts angered Irving Stowe and motivated him to protest the explosions, a move that gave rise to the Don't Make a Wave Committee and thence Greenpeace. There was no doubt that the kelp could do serious harm to the propellor of the African Queen, our large inflatable, so we employed a shuttle service: from Esperanza to African Queen to the smaller Novuraina, which threaded its way uncertainly through the shallows, before we began an undignified clamber across kelp-coated rocks and finally made it ashore.

We had made it. We were on Amchitka. But the object of our attention lay a couple of miles away yet, over the intimidating-looking hillside that sloped down toward us. Undaunted, we picked and clambered and hauled our way to the top of the island, and there, of all things, stood a concrete hut at the end of a gravel road. It had been, presumably, a form of sentry post.

We stepped inside. On the floor there sat what appeared to unexploded shells. We stepped back outside.

We wandered along the road, but according to our charts and calculations, we needed to head inland a short distance. And so we marched across spongy mosses that sprang back up as our footprints left, along thick tundra that enveloped our feet as if trying to suck us into the ground, and tall grasses that hid holes into which at least some of us sometimes stumbled and fell.

Then we rose over a ridge and there, ahead of us, was what we had come to see: Cannikin Lake, created when the force of the blast caused the land to collapse, forming a crater which filled with water from nearby White Alice Creek.

It looked, frankly, disconcertingly peaceful and calm, the water gently breaking against the lush grassy coast, But its placidity is deceiving: samples have shown that the lake, the creek, and the mosses and lichens contain radioactive elements, which are still seeping into the groundwater from the blast chamber a mile below the surface.

At ground zero itself, close to the lake, the reality was more evident. Here, in stark contrast to the lush environment on the way in, the ground was all but lifeless, the remnants of scorched lichens clinging to bare earth. And there was something else, something I hadn't truly realized until talking later with Raymond back on the Esperanza. This is an island that has felt but a handful of human footprints for more than thirty years, that is an undisturbed wiildlife reserve. But there is virtually no life here. Oh, there are some seabirds, some songbirds, moths and spiders and flies here and there. But compared to the other Aleutian islands we have visited, it is lush but desolate. The place just feels wrong. It feels violated. It feels ... dead.

The crew had made it clear they had no intention of allowing us solely to come and monitor and document the site without making at least a symbolic statement, and so we stood, facing the lake, with the ship's flags tied to poles and waving bravely in the strong wind, a testament to how Greenpeace has grown globally in scope in the decades since its founding, and how, on behalf of the nations of the world, we were reclaiming this patch of inhumanity and calling for peace.

Then the flags came down, and everyone stomped back over the hill, leaving Brent, Clive, myself--and Barbara. Barbara Stowe, 14 years old at the time of the Cormack's sailing, our connection to the founding era, had sold pins and buttons on street corners for 25 cents a pop to raise money for the Cormack's voyage. And now, representing all of those who had devoted so much time, energy, and emotion into making that seminal event happen, she was here, with us, bearing witness firsthand to the place her late father had sworn to protect.

We filmed some interviews, and then again we did battle with the terrain, forcing weary limbs through unforgiving ground, and then precariously down the slopes we had earlier climbed, before once more running the gauntlet of rocks and hitching a ride back to the welcoming Esperanza.

On the beach, some of the crew had arranged driftwood to spell "Bering Witness" in honor of the campaign, a quiet message visible only from the cliff tops. 

And at the test site, too, a memorial now stands: a small piece of driftwood, which Diek retrieved from the shore and tied to a short post. In the wood, he carved a simple message: Phyllis Cormack 1971, Esperanza 2007. And now it stands on the shore of Cannikin Lake, a solitary sentinel, bearing witness on our behalf to a silence broken only by the blowing of the wind, the calls of the seabirds, and the gentle lapping of the waves.