heritage

Article
What Is There to Do If You Find an Old Indian Canoe?
Anti-Colonialism in Maritime Archaeology
Sara A. Rich 1, *, Cheryl Sievers-Cail 2 and Khamal Patterson 3

1 HTC Honors College, Coastal Carolina University, Conway, SC 29526, USA

2 Waccamaw Indian People, Aynor, SC 29511, USA
3 College Park School of Architecture, Planning and Preservation, University of Maryland,
Baltimore, MD 20742, USA
* Correspondence: [email protected]

Abstract: Following Max Liboiron’s claim that pollution is colonialism, the anti-colonial maritime
archaeologist’s role in the Anthropocene might be to reframe research questions, so that focus is
directed toward interactions between marine and maritime, and that the colonial ‘resurrectionist’
approach that has dominated nautical archaeology ought to be reconsidered altogether. This norma-
tive statement is put to the test with a 4000-year-old waterlogged dugout canoe that was illegally
excavated from the Cooper River in South Carolina, USA. Upon retrieval, the affected tribal entities
were brought into consultation with archaeologists and conservators to help decide how to proceed
with the canoe’s remains. Tribal representatives reached a consensus to preserve the canoe with
PEG and display it in a public museum. This procedure follows the resurrectionist model typical
of maritime archaeology in the West, now the dominant protocol globally, where the scholar acts
as savior by lifting entire wrecks from watery graves and promising to grant them immortality in
utopian museum spaces. However, this immortalizing procedure is at odds with some Indigenous
Citation: Rich, S.A.; Sievers-Cail, C.; values, voiced by tribal representatives, which embrace life cycles and distributed agency. In the
Patterson, K. What Is There to Do If end, the desire to preserve the canoe as a perpetual symbol of intertribal unity dominated concerns
You Find an Old Indian Canoe?
surrounding the canoe’s own life, spirit, and autonomy, and that plasticizing it would permanently
Anti-Colonialism in Maritime
alter its substance and essence. We argue that the object of the canoe has become subservient to its
Archaeology. Heritage 2022, 5,
postcolonial symbolism of Indigenous unity, resilience, and resistance. Further, by subscribing to
3664–3679. https://doi.org/
the resurrectionist model of maritime archaeology, the immortalized canoe now bears the irony of
10.3390/heritage5040191
colonial metaphor, as an unintended consequence of its preservation. We echo Audre Lorde’s famous
Academic Editors: Ana
sentiment by wondering if an anticolonial maritime archaeology can ever hope to dismantle the
Crespo-Solana and Tânia
master’s boat using the master’s tools. The conclusions reached here have implications for other mar-
Manuel Casimiro
itime and museum contexts too, including the highly publicized case of the wrecked 1859–1860 slave
Received: 20 October 2022 ship, Clotilda.
Accepted: 21 November 2022
Published: 24 November 2022 Keywords: Anthropocene; decolonization; heritage crime; logboats; nautical archaeology; postcolonialism;
Publisher’s Note: MDPI stays neutral
prehistoric North America; savior-scholar model; shipwrecks
with regard to jurisdictional claims in
published maps and institutional affil-
iations.
1. Introduction
One quarter of the way through the 21st century, we earthlings find ourselves deep
in the throes of the Anthropocene, the geological epoch characterized by human activ-
Copyright: © 2022 by the authors.
ity. The earliest date for the start of this epoch has been identified as 1610, when global
Licensee MDPI, Basel, Switzerland.
maritime expansion by European imperial conquistadors, crusaders, missionaries, and
This article is an open access article
settlers resulted in the deaths of so many people in the Western Hemisphere that global
distributed under the terms and
carbon dioxide emissions plummeted, leaving an indelible anthropogenic mark on Earth’s
conditions of the Creative Commons
crust [1,2]. The sudden global spread of floral and faunal species following the ‘Age of
Attribution (CC BY) license (https://
creativecommons.org/licenses/by/
European Discovery’, and the biotic homogenization that we see now, will leave another
4.0/).

Heritage 2022, 5, 3664–3679. https://doi.org/10.3390/heritage5040191 https://www.mdpi.com/journal/heritage

Heritage 2022, 5 3665

anthropogenic mark in the fossil record [2] (pp. 273–274). The Anthropocene and colonial-
ism are inextricably entwined; in other words, what began as continental genocide has
erupted over the last few centuries into global ecocide.
Continuing the fallout of the Columbian Exchange, anthropogenic geological markers
have become more frequent: layers of plastics, layers of chicken bones, the sixth mass extinc-
tion, radiation from nuclear bombs testing, CO2 spikes from burning fossil fuels, methane
spikes from fossil fuels and corporate agriculture, etc. For these reasons, the Anthropocene
Working Group has pinned the date of 1950 as the Anthropocene’s official start. However,
the groundwork for the Great Acceleration, with its globalization and industrialization,
was already set in stone in 1610; in other words, the documented geological features of
neocolonialism require the a priori onset of colonialism [3]. Therefore, the 1610 start date of
this new epoch is more comprehensive, lest we forget that the Anthropocene is the mere
‘extension and enactment of colonial logic’, as Indigenous and other scholars have argued [4]
(p. 769, original emphasis) [3,5].
Over the last 400 years, the intensified deposition of anthropogenic strata and the
proliferation of ‘material culture’ into nearly every feature of the planet support Shanks’
observation that all scientific research is archaeology [6]. With thousands of man-made
chemicals polluting rivers, lakes, and streams, and microplastics in polar ice, tap water,
beer, and blood, even phlebotomy is archaeology. Shanks’ observation, which a decade
later seems grimmer than when first written, was forecast by Flatman and Staniworth, who
observed that in the postcolonial era, nearly all historical archaeology is maritime, contin-
gent as material culture of this age is upon the transoceanic movement of people, things,
and ideas [7]. In these ways, material culture from the last four centuries, even the dirtiest
polluting bits we archaeologists often ignore, falls under the remit of maritime archaeology.
The peculiarities and predicaments of the Anthropocene also raise the question of what
archaeology, and maritime archaeology in particular, might consist of in the future [8].
Anthropocene reality awakens the importance of inclusive studies of ‘maritime cultural
heritage’ that account for, not only the beautiful and inspiring, but the revolting and the
shameful. But how can we begin to acknowledge these more ‘unruly’ kinds of maritime
heritage [9]? We argue that because the Anthropocene is an effect of colonialism, an An-
thropocene archaeology—which is fundamentally maritime in nature—is most effectively
and responsibly situated from the premise of anti-colonialism.
Therefore, this paper seeks to provoke introspection into what an anti-colonial mar-
itime archaeology might be or become. Although terrestrial archaeology has long grappled
with the discipline’s colonial legacy, its maritime counterpart lags behind in discussions
of how power relations influence interpretation and management of underwater cultural
heritage [10,11]. This reluctance to address colonialism continues despite the 25 years that
have passed since Fred McGhee first published his provocation, ‘Toward a Postcolonial Nau-
tical Archaeology’ [12]. Because not much has changed in these 25 years, we aim to pick up
the torch here. In so doing, we attempt to present our ideas forcefully (because we believe
in them) but with humility (knowing that we might get some things wrong) and from our
own perspectives (a woman of mixed ancestry settled on unceded Waccamaw land, the
Vice Chief of the Waccamaw Indian People, and an African-American man residing on the
unceded territories of the Susquehannock and Piscataway Nations). Our question, and
the case presented here, comes from a place of concern for how best to care for antiquities
with integrity, and from a place of respect for the discipline of maritime archaeology and
its im-material cultures.
McGhee’s paper dedicates one section each to postcolonial views on the conspicuous
absences of the African diaspora and Indigenous America in nautical archaeology. Our
paper’s structure is similar but starts with the case of Indigenous American material
culture and finishes with the case of a slave ship and the African diaspora. Our argument,
that conforming to ‘industry standards’ of artifact preservation and conservation may
conflict with the aims of anti-colonialism, is made by first presenting two new theoretical
angles into the inquiry of anti-colonial maritime archaeology. We then think with these
Heritage 2022, 5 3666

new frameworks to consider the fate of a late Archaic dugout canoe from the American
Southeast. Finally, we conclude by presenting a second case from the American Southeast,
that of the last slave ship to the United States, Clotilda. Bringing an ancient, fragmented
canoe and a historic wrecked schooner into direct conversation may seem a bridge too far,
but with this concluding discussion, we hope to provide a proof of concept and demonstrate
what we believe to be the broader implications of the paper’s findings.

2. Thinking with Theory

French philosopher Paul Virilio famously stated (twice) that the invention of the ship
was the invention of the shipwreck [13,14]. His sensible warning to consider the eventual
and inevitable failure of our technologies has, of course, not been heeded, and the result is
widespread ecological ruination. Oil spills, burst pipelines, and nuclear radiation disasters
are a few examples of technologies whose inevitable failure was inadequately anticipated.
Waterways often bear the brunt of ruined technologies in the form of runoff and spillage,
but shipwrecks also frequently contain and comprise toxic and pollutive materials that
damage marine, lacustrine, and riverine ecosystems [15].
The list of ecological horrors is ever increasing as climate scientists warn of apocalypse
looming ever larger on the horizon. These warnings are secular variations on Christian
eschatology and prophecies of Armageddon or the Rapture; the fall of current civilization
is always in the future, the dates changing with new interpretations of scriptures or data.
Whenever it comes, the apocalypse will be painful but unstoppable. However, from
an Indigenous perspective, the apocalypse has been underway since 1492, ever since
Columbus’ nau (or carrack), Santa María, wrecked on the shores of Ayiti, and he claimed the
island and its people for Spain and the Christian god. While all shipwrecks are catastrophic,
this particular wrecking event launched the ‘ancestral catastrophe’ of genocide and ecocide
that continues to unfold, and which is now beginning to ripple into the lives of settlers
too [5,16,17]. Survivors of Indigenous genocides and the Middle Passage know well that
apocalypse is not on the horizon; it has been here since 1492 and the Columbian Exchange,
since 1610 and the start of the Anthropocene [1,2], since 1619 with the arrival of the first
African slaves to America [18,19]. Many settlers, however, especially those who have
benefited from ancestral catastrophe, have been able to ignore its effects until now.
But now, the reach of the colonial apocalypse is everywhere: in the water we drink, in
the blood coursing through our veins, in the placentas feeding our unborn children. As
Métis environmental scientist Max Liboiron has deftly argued, pollution is colonialism [20].
To be clear, the Anthropocene is not wholly defined by pollution, as it includes other facets
of Homo sapiens’ capacity to act as a geophysical force that leaves permanent records in
Earth’s crust. That said, Liboiron argues, pollution is not merely an effect of colonialism,
the way that the Anthropocene is its effect. Instead, the act of polluting is a colonial act. We
might define the relationship like this, noting how it folds in on itself, as an ouroboros:

colonialism → Anthropocene: genocide - habitat destruction - pollution (=colonialism) (1)

As Liboiron explains, in the process of polluting, there are baseline assumptions made
about access to and rights over land (a synecdoche that includes the air and waters that
flow in and around land), and about the passivity of land as a mere surface to traverse, a
ground to build upon, or as a receptacle for waste. Put simply, ‘pollution is best understood
as the violence of colonial Land relations’ [20] (pp. 6–7), a violence that is epistemic,
ontological, and cosmological [21]. Colonialism is when land, and all that it encompasses,
is conceptualized as a resource for profit; along the same lines, pollution defines land as both
resource and receptacle (or sink) to further the colonial agenda of extraction and exploitation,
commodification, and appropriation [15,20,21]. In this way, Liboiron reiterates, pollution
is colonialism.
Because of this equation, one could further argue that the role of the anti-colonial
maritime archaeologist in the Anthropocene is to reframe research questions so that focus
is directed toward deleterious interactions between the marine and the maritime. Marine is
Heritage 2022, 5 3667

often defined by ‘nonhuman’ activities such as ocean currents, organisms and habitats, and
geological processes, whereas maritime most often applies to things that directly involve hu-
mans, like wrecks, ports, and submerged prehistoric sites. But again, in the Anthropocene,
when the human reach is everywhere, it becomes ever more apparent that the distinction
between these two concepts of marine and maritime, just as the distinction between ‘nature’
and ‘society’, has always been arbitrary if not insidiously destructive [15,22,23]. With the
equation of pollution and colonialism in mind, questions like these below become more
relevant to our discipline, and more pressing:
Given the increasing amount of satellite and rocket debris that re-enters Earth
and crashes into oceans, what can maritime archaeologists contribute to the study
of its effects on marine habitats?
As those who study death by drowning (shipwrecks and submerged coastal
settlements) in the midst of global cataclysm, how can maritime and nautical
archaeologists significantly contribute to conversations about and actions against
global sea-level rise?
What can nautical archaeologists offer to mitigation efforts of polluting Industrial-
era and contemporary shipwreck sites?
In what ways can maritime archaeologists convert their knowledge of waterways
into concrete changes to public policy on nuclear waste disposal, fossil-fuel
pollution, sea- and airborne pandemics, microplastics pervasion, wastewater
and runoff?
With the understanding that ships were the mechanisms of European colonialism,
how can maritime archaeology contribute to post- and anti-colonial narratives,
instead of reiterating that of the seafaring colonizer as ‘Great Man’? [24]
This paper attempts to offer new perspectives into some of these provocations: namely, the
potential ways that nautical archaeology might start mitigating pollution as one way of
refusing its larger twin, colonialism [25].
Lynn Meskell makes a strong case that UNESCO’s approach to
global world heritage could be perceived by some as an extension of the colonial
project, traveling to, knowing and mapping territories outside one’s own na-
tional boundaries. The language of the UNESCO conventions reinforces Western
notions of value and rights, while the ownership and maintenance of the past is
suffused with the concepts surrounding property [26] (original emphasis).
Meskell’s concerns extend to ‘property’ on the seafloor too. Several problems emerge
from UNESCO’s protocols for underwater cultural heritage, but one general aspect of
maritime archaeology that relies on colonial land relations has been termed the ‘resurrection
model’ [11]. This model places the scholar in the position of savior by construing the wreck
as a dead ship and commencing to resurrect the ship from the wreck. The resurrection,
or savior-scholar, model has dominated nautical archaeology from the discipline’s outset,
and can be seen in famous examples, like the Mary Rose and the Vasa, whose corpses have
been scientifically exhumed from their watery graves and placed on display in the utopian
space of a museum. Originating in the West, the resurrection model quickly became the
dominant protocol on a global scale (e.g., Nanhai no. 1 in China, Kyrenia in Cyprus, Batavia
in Australia, and the Kinnaret and Ma’agan Michael in Israel). The model rests on the
assumption that the wreck is a passive entity, despite its active presence in composing
underwater habitats, a presence that in the vast majority of cases has persisted far longer
than the ship ever functioned on the surface of the water.
Additional to the resurrection model’s roots in Christian theology and its imperialism,
it clearly replicates extractive colonial land relations, even if—or especially because—
the land in question is below a body of water—a body that is often conceptualized as
feminine [11]. In this way, an anti-colonial maritime archaeology ought to at least be deeply
suspicious of the resurrection model of ‘saving’ artifacts and entire ships who ‘have fallen
Heritage 2022, 5 3668

victim to Earth’s watery depths’ [27] (p. 10). Suspicion might further pique when wrecks
are labeled as cultural heritage resources—things to profit from, things to exploit, things to
commodify—rather than ‘as sources—of community, of biodiversity, of nutrients, of toxicity,
of hazardous waste, of contemplation, of knowledge’ [15]. By acknowledging fundamental
conceptual differences between source and resource, nautical archaeologists might be placed
in a better position to intervene where it is most needed, rather than assuming, like deep-sea
miners, a passive underwater landscape for the plucking [28]. Indeed, it is odd that Earth’s
oceans and seas are often regarded as the world’s largest museum, yet when we excavate
(for science or for profit), it is not regarded as museum theft [10,29,30].
Another aspect of the resurrection model, relevant for our purposes here, is its em-
phasis on immortality. In the case of wrecks, immortality may be achieved by physical
resurrection to a museum space or digital resurrection to the even more utopian space of
virtuality [11,29]. Sara Rich explains that this practice is an inheritance of Christian theology
and its influence on science in the Early Modern era; in this respect, scientific resurrection
of ships from wrecks assumes that the wrecked ship’s rightful place is a heavenly zone
of immortality, preserved eternally with pixels or conserved eternally with polyethylene
1
glycol (PEG) [11].
UNESCO’s first recommendation for in situ preservation of underwater cultural
heritage is in some respects progressive, and it would seem to mitigate these concerns
about the resurrection of ships from wrecks. However, the protocol is at least partially in
place due to the limitations of excavation technologies, budgets, and museum spaces [31,32].
The cases of the Mary Rose and the Vasa have suggested that ‘ultimately such recovery
would be the appropriate practice in underwater archaeology’ but because of present
limitations, as many wreck sites as reasonably possible ought to be managed and ‘preserved
for future generations, including future generations of researchers’ [31] (pp. 24–25) [33]
(p. 109). While future generations of fish, corals, or cephalopods might also benefit from
a wreck’s in situ preservation, as it forms an artificial reef, these benefits are ancillary
to the strictly anthropocentric intention of the passage. The preference for preserving
wrecks in situ is concerned with increasing the longevity of the wreckage so that it might
again benefit (some) humans in the (near or distant) future. The archaeological fixation
on preservation for the sakes of heritage and the archaeological record is apparent here,
despite the philosophical shortcomings of both arguments [34,35].
Another part of our concern with the archaeological imposition of immortality onto
shipwrecks is that the preservationist agenda assumes a predictable future with a linear,
pseudo-evolutionary, trajectory from the simplicity and imperfection of the present to-
ward the complexity and perfection of the future. Preservationism rests on the belief that
excavation methods and archaeometric analyses will inevitably improve over time, that
more knowledge can be gained from the wreckage then, that we will have better ways to
present underwater cultural heritage to the public, and that the public will care more—or
at all—about underwater cultural heritage [31]. In other words, deferring to the future
(despite the impossibility of its arrival in the now) assumes that our technologies will
be improved such that resurrecting entire wrecks from their watery graves will become
more plausible and more desirable. However, as it looks from the Anthropocene crow’s
nest (Figure 1) [36] (fig. 1), none of these assumptions about the future is safe, let alone
certain [37].
Furthermore, the immortalization of the wreck for human posterity denies the wreck
the possibility of decaying into the food chain, or otherwise returning to the muddy waters
from whence all things came [38]. In psychological terms, because there is a transference of
the human body onto the form of the ship, we tend to project our own anxieties of decay
and death onto the form of the wrecked ship [11,38]. However, this outlook is specific
to Western thought, with its roots in a Christian theology that valorizes eternal salvation,
bodily resurrection, and heavenly utopia over aging, death, and disintegration. Given
that European scientific development and its corresponding colonialism was a theological
project [39], it is not surprising that archaeologists notoriously have a hard time ‘letting
 Heritage 2022, 5 3669

go’ [40,41]. It is as if the colonial project has known all along that its powers would burn hot
and fast, with the preservation fetish emerging as an attempt to preempt the ruins of settler
states [42,43]. In short, we echo the claim that preservationist agendas for underwater
cultural heritage are ‘a continuation of the same anthropocentric logic underlying quests for
utopia and immortality that first sent colonizing crusaders across the Atlantic in 14920 [11]
(p. 25). Therefore, in advocating for a more earthbound, anti-colonial, maritime archaeology
that places decay in the context of recurring cycles of existence and entropy, we are also
Heritage 2022, 5, FOR PEER REVIEW 6
advocating for something of an existentialist maritime archaeology that embraces the
finitude of all objects, physical and metaphysical [35,37,38].

Figure 1. A monstrous and toxic oceanic view, observed from the Anthropocene crow’s nest. Painting
Figure 1. A monstrous
by Vanessa and toxic
Daws, Dublin, oceanic
2018. view,
Acrylic onobserved from theReproduced
canvas board. Anthropocene
withcrow’s nest. Paint-
permission from
ing by Vanessa
Steve Mentz. Daws, Dublin, 2018. Acrylic on canvas board. Reproduced with permission from
Steve Mentz.
3. The Late Archaic Canoe
Furthermore, the immortalization
Normative claims such as those made of theabove
wrecktendfor human posterity denies
to be universalizing, butthe
ourwreck
inten-
the possibility of decaying into the food chain, or otherwise returning to
tion here is merely to introduce a healthy sense of skepticism into the long-established the muddy wa-
ters from whence all things came [38]. In psychological terms, because
norms that govern our treatment of underwater wreckage. Because each site is situated there is a transfer-
ence of the
locally, human
comes withbody ontosets
various the of
form of the ship,
peculiars we tend to project
and particulars, our own anxieties
and (mis)behaves of
differently
decay
within and
itsdeath onto the
ecosystem, form
each of the wrecked
deserves its own ship
set of[11,38]. However,for
considerations thishow,
outlook is spe-
when, or if
cific to Western
humans thought,
ought to intervene.with Asits roots insummarizes,
Liboiron a Christian ‘The
theology that valorizes
universal eternal sal-
is never universal, but
vation, bodily resurrection, and heavenly utopia over aging, death, and
rather an argument to imperialistically expand a particular worldview as the worldview,’ so disintegration.
Given
even—orthat especially—anti-colonial
European scientific developmentclaims areandbestitsweighed
corresponding colonialism
on a case-by-case wastoa allow
basis the-
ological project [39], it is not surprising that archaeologists notoriously have
for local nuance [20] (p. 52, original emphasis) [44]. Here we consider a late Archaic dugout a hard time
‘letting go’ [40,41].
canoe from It is as if the
the waterway nowcolonial
knownproject
as the has
Cooperknown all along
River, in thethat its powers
region wouldas
now known
burn hot and fast, with the preservation fetish emerging as an attempt to preempt the
ruins of settler states [42,43]. In short, we echo the claim that preservationist agendas for
underwater cultural heritage are ‘a continuation of the same anthropocentric logic under-
lying quests for utopia and immortality that first sent colonizing crusaders across the At-
lantic in 1492′ [11] (p. 25). Therefore, in advocating for a more earthbound, anti-colonial,
maritime archaeology that places decay in the context of recurring cycles of existence and
 norms that govern our treatment of underwater wreckage. Because each site is situated
locally, comes with various sets of peculiars and particulars, and (mis)behaves differently
within its ecosystem, each deserves its own set of considerations for how, when, or if hu-
mans ought to intervene. As Liboiron summarizes, ‘The universal is never universal, but
rather an argument to imperialistically expand a particular worldview as the worldview,’
Heritage 2022, 5 3670
so even—or especially—anti-colonial claims are best weighed on a case-by-case basis to
allow for local nuance [20] (p. 52, original emphasis) [44]. Here we consider a late Archaic
dugout canoe from the waterway now known as the Cooper River, in the region now
South
known Carolina
as South(USA). This(USA).
Carolina case represents an apparent
This case represents anclash of universalizing
apparent and local
clash of universalizing
value systems,
and local valueand a considerable
systems, amount of amount
and a considerable nuance. of nuance.
In
In 1987,
1987, the
the remains
remains of of the
the late
late Archaic
Archaic canoe
canoe werewere illegally
illegally excavated
excavated from from the
the
Cooper
CooperRiver
Rivernear
nearCharleston,
Charleston,South
SouthCarolina.
Carolina. Although
Although the thecanoe’s
canoe’sexact
exactfindspot
findspotwas was
never
never divulged
divulged to to authorities,
authorities, the
the river
river and
and its
its environs
environs arearehome
hometo tovarious
varioushistorical
historical
Indigenous
Indigenous communities, many of the descendants of whom still live inthe
communities, many of the descendants of whom still live in theregion.
region.Later
Later
that
thatyear,
year,the
thecanoe
canoewas wassurrendered
surrenderedto tothe
theSouth
SouthCarolina
CarolinaInstitute
InstituteforforArchaeology
Archaeologyand and
Anthropology
Anthropology (SCIAA),
(SCIAA), at at which
which point
point ititwas
wasradiocarbon
radiocarbon dateddated andanddetermined
determined to to be
be
the
theoldest-known
oldest-knownwatercraft
watercraftin inthe
thestate,
state,having
havingbeenbeenfashioned
fashionedfromfromthe thetrunk
trunkof ofaasingle
single
cypress
cypress tree (Taxodiumdistichum)
tree(Taxodium distichum)ininthe thelate
lateArchaic
Archaicperiod,
period,4170
4170+/+/−− 7070 yBP.
yBP. Without
Without
funds
funds for conservation, the canoe remained in a tank of water outside the SCIAAoffice
for conservation, the canoe remained in a tank of water outside the SCIAA officeinin
Fort Johnson until 2020 when it was moved back to the Charleston area,
Fort Johnson until 2020 when it was moved back to the Charleston area, where it currently where it currently
resides
residesatatClemson
ClemsonUniversity’s
University’sWarren
WarrenLasch
LaschConservation
ConservationCenterCenter(Figure
(Figure2)2)[45].
[45].

Figure2.2.The
Figure The remains
remainsof
of the
the 4000-year-old
4000-year-old dugout
dugout canoe,
canoe, illegally
illegally excavated
excavated from
from the
the Cooper
Cooper River,
River,
and currently undergoing conservation with PEG. Photo by Sara Rich, 2021.
and currently undergoing conservation with PEG. Photo by Sara Rich, 2021.

At that point in 2020, plans were made to invite leaders from the state’s fourteen
recognized tribal entities and two tribal non-profits into consultation with archaeologists
and conservators to discuss how to proceed with the canoe’s remains. Invitations such
as these are uncommon and usually reserved for human remains or other items or places
considered explicitly ‘sacred’. The event organizers are to be commended for initiating
consultation with Native partners in this case of a cultural object allegedly outside this
ill-defined category [45] (but see [46]). Given the novelty of the opportunity to consult with
scientific experts on this matter, the invitation was accepted by eight tribal leaders located
across the state (Wassamasaw; Edisto Natchez-Kusso; Waccamaw; Catawba; Yemassee;
PAIA Lower Eastern Cherokee; Pine Hill; and the Eastern Cherokee, Southern Iroquois,
Heritage 2022, 5 3671

and United Tribes of South Carolina). As welcome as the consultation event was for all
in attendance, we need not become complacent once a precedent is established; rather,
we ought to strive to improve upon those precedents and to do the work of redressing
colonialism in all its forms.
Over the course of the day-long consultation event, Native partners conceded that the
canoe, consisting of one large hull section that preserves part of the curve of either bow or
stern along with several smaller fragmentary hull pieces, would be conserved with PEG
and then placed on display in a public museum. At first glance, this outcome seems to be a
rare case of rapid consensus between multiple stakeholders, and at the same time, a rare
case in which the resurrection model works in the service of anti-colonialism, rather than
in celebration of imperial or dominant-culture prowess. However, thinking with theory
about the implications of this decision, and the immediate and broader contexts in which it
was made, may lead us toward new processes for future consultations, and toward a better
understanding of the subtler impacts of colonization.
The consultation event was a unique opportunity for leaders of multiple South Car-
olina tribal entities to come together, in the first place, and in the second, to offer views on
how their own material culture ought to be managed. Because of the canoe’s extraordinary
antiquity, ownership cannot legitimately be claimed by any one contemporary tribal group,
so the consultation presented an opportunity for diverse descendant communities to unite
in a decision that would potentially affect everyone. With this in mind, the consultation
was primarily to inform Indigenous partners of the lengthy process for conservation of the
canoe with PEG, to gauge interest in a website and determine who would host it, and to
raise possibilities for eventual museum display and other outreach initiatives.
An unexpected discussion of the presumed conservation method nearly derailed the
agenda. Present at the consultation by invitation of the Waccamaw Indian People, the
first author of this paper drew on niche archaeological knowledge of waterlogged wood
conservation to raise the point that conservation with PEG would fundamentally alter
the nature of the canoe, as the process infuses the cellular structure of waterlogged wood
with a petroleum-derived liquid plastic. The process would irreversibly change the canoe
from wet to dry and from organic to inorganic. The second author of this paper, the Vice
Chief of the Waccamaw Indian People and an expert in industrial pollutants, along with
Chief Michelle Mitchum (Pine Hill), seconded and thirded the concern that this method of
conservation presented a conflict with Native interests: in particular, the way that some
Native peoples understand their material culture as borrowed from the earth, and just as
importantly, that pollution is colonialism. This issue sparked considerable conversation
between Native and non-Native consultation partners [47].
Chief Se’khu Gentle Hadjo (Yemassee) explained first that the spirit or soul of the
cypress tree persists, even as it was transformed into a canoe, and that canoe was trans-
formed into a ruined or fragmented state in the riverbed; in other words, the tree-canoe is
best thought of as a living thing (on life and non-life in Indigenous thought, see [48]). The
tree-canoe may not be an ancestor per se, but it is a relation, and we have certain obligations
to our relations [20,46,49–53]. Chief Hadjo went on to explain that the ancestors brought
forth these ruins at this particular moment for a particular reason: namely, to unify and
empower the tribal communities and future generations of Indigenous South Carolinians.
This point was rendered all the more salient given that his own young children were in
attendance for the consultation (Figure 2).
With the first part of Chief Hadjo’s commentary, it became apparent that the Yemassee,
with concurrence from other Native leaders present, believe that change, including dis-
integration, is an integral part of the sacred life cycle. All living things, including those
altered by human hands, must perish and return to the earth. His sentiment recalled the
famous mantra, ‘keep it in the ground’, of the Water Protectors who fight against fossil
fuel infrastructure and its encroachment on and pollution of Native lands and waterways.
Living things gone back to the earth, including oil, are best kept in the ground [49]. Of
course, there was no way to prevent or undo the canoe’s illegal excavation, or rather, its
Heritage 2022, 5 3672

theft. Yet the option to return the canoe to the river was weighed only briefly among
other alternatives (freeze-drying, in-water retainment, sugar–alcohol impregnation [54,55])
before reaching the consensus to conform with ‘industry standards’ and plasticize the
tree-canoe [45,47].
On one hand, it may seem that the consensus of Indigenous partners was an expression
of self-governance, autonomy, and sovereignty, and certainly this consultation event was
a step in that direction (but see [12]). However, there were some barriers to leveling the
uneven playing field: the highly consequential decision of the canoe’s fate needed to be
made that day; some consulting scientists seemed insistent that PEG impregnation was the
right or even only rational choice; and the pressure to rapidly make the ‘right’ decision
inhibited partners from gaining sufficient contextual knowledge. Some might even point to
the hierarchical if not confrontational arrangement of speakers versus sitters, at odds with
the ‘talking circle’ where all partners are equally seen and heard [52]. Some tribal leaders
expressed feeling that they were students being instructed rather than consulted as experts
and equals.
There is more to respecting sovereignty than simply recognizing the peoples’ authority
to make decisions on their own behalf. Due to centuries of unequal power relations,
sovereignty demands respect along with reciprocity and responsibility [52], where ‘partners’
are truly understood as equals, with all the relevant information shared bilaterally. For
example, while Native partners were informed of some of the risks of PEG conservation,
they were not informed that PEG-infused Vasa is deteriorating faster now than when it was
underwater [56]. They were not made aware of the possibility that the canoe had been an
ancestor’s coffin [57–59]). Nor were they privy to how others have resolved the question
of what to do with an old canoe, which is often—though not always [60–62]—to rebury
it [45,63–65]. But at the end of the day, the ‘conservation paradigm’ of loss aversion [66]
with its managerial ontology [20] was agreed upon. To further understand why, we will
provide some political context and explore additional underlying factors that may have
contributed to the consensus.
Five centuries of attempting to render Indigenous peoples extinct have resulted in
death-defying acts of resilience. Sometimes just to exist is to resist, as in the numerous
accounts of children having been told by teachers in South Carolina that they cannot be of
the tribe they say they are because Indians only exist on reservations out West or, worse
yet, ‘that tribe is extinct’. Most children’s textbooks in South Carolina mention only three
tribes (Catawba, Cherokee, and Yemassee) of the sixteen or more still present, and those
three are written about in the past tense. With this context in mind, the canoe was rapidly
embraced as a symbol of Indigenous resistance and perseverance [47], qualities shared by
all contemporary tribal communities in the American Southeast and worldwide. It is often
said that history is written by the victor, but material objects can offer powerful alternatives
to received narratives, challenging and subverting those stories to offer a direct link to the
past itself, as opposed to the stories told about it.
But this particular symbolic attachment to the canoe raises a series of questions: If
its main purpose now is to parallel Indigenous survival against all odds, how does this
reductionist metaphor affect its autonomy as an animate, lively being? Has the tree-
canoe now become subservient to its symbolism? If so, are there any dangers associated
with an object’s symbolic content overpowering the thing in itself? And do the ends
(museum artifact to showcase Native perseverance) justify the means (the tree-canoe’s
eternal preservation in plastic)?
Ultimately, the canoe as symbol of survival renders it entwined with political goals
of a unified voice, federal recognition as sovereign nations, and legal rights to artistic and
religious freedoms and protections that are not afforded tribes without federal recognition.
To place these aims in context, of the sixteen or more existing tribal entities in South Carolina,
only one (Catawba) is federally recognized, and only nine others have state recognition [67].
The radically conservative nature of South Carolina politics places a higher price on the goal
of legal recognition than in other areas where that status is easier to attain [62,68]. Because
Heritage 2022, 5 3673

of these circumstances, the canoe’s political symbolism has overwhelmed its spiritual (or
ontological-epistemological) reality, despite the absence in traditional thinking of a division
between the political and spiritual, or the scientific and spiritual [17,46,51–53]. Hence, the
desire to preserve and display the canoe as a perpetual symbol of intertribal unity and
shared struggles won out against concerns surrounding the tree-canoe’s own life, spirit,
and autonomy—and it won out against concerns of the pollutive plasticization process of
PEG that renders the ensouled organic into a desouled inorganic, its substance and essence
as indelibly altered as Earth’s crust since 1610.
And yet, there may be still other contributing factors behind the consensus to immor-
talize the tree-canoe, and to concede ancient spirit to modern symbolism in what Native
stakeholders were several times reassured is ‘industry standard’ for conservation. It is
possible that Western ideals have so permeated Indigenous thought that resurrection and
immortality are now Indigenous values too. Tribal communities living along the mid-
Atlantic coastlines were among the first to be impacted by colonization, so the forces of
assimilation have been at work for some 500 years in this area. It took only two gener-
ations following first contact for Native peoples in the Southeast to substitute guns for
bows. Following still more generations of assimilation, much of it forced, many if not most
Indigenous South Carolinians are Christian, so the archaeological fixation on resurrection
and immortality may after all be perfectly aligned with tribal members’ own political and
spiritual values.
On the other hand, and most concerning, is that the consensus among Native part-
ners may also represent an acceptance of a Western paradigm of immortality in order
to affirm their own Indigeneity. In other words, over the course of centuries of settler
colonialism, Native identity in South Carolina may have become defined more by survival
than other (pre-contact) shared values, such as land stewardship, kinship ties, cosmologies,
2
epistemologies, and ontologies [52]. Echoing Liboiron, colonialism is sneaky like that [20].
To summarize, we find that the ensouled tree-canoe has become subservient to its
post-colonial symbolism of Indigenous unity, resilience, and resistance, but ironically, by
subscribing to the colonial ‘resurrection model’ of maritime archaeology and the pollution
that it entails, the immortalized canoe may not be the anti-colonial statement that was
intended by its conservation. This case serves as a potent reminder that post-colonial and
anti-colonial are not synonyms [20]. But it is also a reminder of how powerful metaphors
are, and the care that we must take when constructing them, especially in the context of
settler colonialism [21].
In 1984, three years before the canoe was stolen from the Cooper River, Audre Lorde
published a now-famous essay explaining how the structures of colonial patriarchy cannot
be disbanded by rebranding those same structures and harnessing them into a new one [69].
That method (dismantling the master’s house using the master’s tools, in her words) can
only ever replicate the selfsame dysfunctional structures that need tearing down. Elizabeth
Povinelli seems to have a similar metaphor in mind with her illustration of a Spanish ship
(galleon, carrack, or nau): in the upper panel, it heads toward ‘Horizon 10 , realizes it made
a mistake (‘oops!’ is scrawled in the negative space), and reroutes toward ‘Horizon 20 in the
lower panel (Figure 3) [16] (fig. 2.1). The problem is that the horizon is the same, regardless
of the direction taken to reach it. In other words, it is the horizon that needs radical
reconfiguration, not the compass. We might expand on this metaphor by suggesting that
the galleon—that symbol of European conquest, that forest turned floating war machine—
might also be scrapped to build a new means for new ends. Following Lorde and Povinelli,
we see a similar scenario playing out in this context and suggest that an anti-colonial
maritime archaeology cannot hope to dismantle the master’s nau using the master’s tools;
or, we cannot hope to reach the horizon of a different, less catastrophic, future by relying on
the same old neoliberal methods of the present. An anti-colonial maritime archaeology does
not need to subscribe to the same ‘industry standards’ as archaeology practiced elsewhere,
especially when there are good reasons for questioning the continuation of those practices
in the first place.
 turned floating war machine—might also be scrapped to build a new means for new ends.
Following Lorde and Povinelli, we see a similar scenario playing out in this context and
suggest that an anti-colonial maritime archaeology cannot hope to dismantle the master’s
nau using the master’s tools; or, we cannot hope to reach the horizon of a different, less
catastrophic, future by relying on the same old neoliberal methods of the present. An anti-
Heritage 2022, 5 colonial maritime archaeology does not need to subscribe to the same ‘industry standards’ 3674
as archaeology practiced elsewhere, especially when there are good reasons for question-
ing the continuation of those practices in the first place.

Figure 3.
Figure 3.An Anearly modern
early moderngalleon realizes
galleon its navigational
realizes error anderror
its navigational reroutes
andtoward the toward
reroutes same er- the same
roneous horizon, where it is destined to repeat the same error again and again. Copyright: Elizabeth
erroneous horizon, where it is destined to repeat the same error again and again. Copyright: Elizabeth
Povinelli, 2021; reproduced with permission of the artist.
Povinelli, 2021; reproduced with permission of the artist.
In time, when the immortalized tree-canoe goes on public museum display, we hope
that itInistime, wheninthe
presented immortalized
a way tree-canoe
that intentionally goesdialogue
generates on public museum
among display,
audience mem-we hope
that
bers itasis to
presented in a way
the treatment that intentionally
of cultural heritage ingenerates
a world dialogue among
being slowly butaudience
assuredlymembers
as to the treatment of cultural heritage in a world being slowly but assuredly decolo-
nized [17]. As Natali Pearson writes, ‘Orphaned [looted or otherwise decontextualized]
underwater objects are the ideal starting point for examining these legacies, because they
force museums to question their very reason for being’ [10] (p. 137). If that reason truly is for
education, then surely part of the museum’s charge will be to open conversation—debates,
even—about the theft of the canoe from the river, but also—and just as importantly—about
how and why the conservation method and the museum context have irreversibly changed
this object, and whether the ends justify the means.

4. Conclusions: The Clotilda

We have argued that, when considering what to do with an old Indian canoe, stake-
holders ought to consider what anti-colonialism means in maritime archaeology. This
includes, at the very least, (a) recognizing sovereignty regardless of the object’s status
as sacred or otherwise, (b) honoring equal partnerships while acknowledging unequal
power relations; (c) understanding the origins in Christian imperialism of the conservation
paradigm; and (d) equating colonialism and pollution, which implicates petrochemical
industries and their artifact conservation materials.
Heritage 2022, 5 3675

Despite the specificity of the case described above, we believe that the conclusions
reached here have implications for other maritime archaeological contexts too. One such
example is the highly publicized 1859–1860 slave ship, Clotilda, located in the delta of the
waterway now called the Mobile River in the area now called Alabama. The ship, which
carried an illegal cargo of 110 enslaved Africans, was burned and scuttled after it was
docked and unloaded, rendering criminal tracks covered. Documentation of the ship’s
remains began in 2018, and the perennial question immediately returned of what to do
with them.
In an article in Time magazine titled ‘History Demands We Preserve the Wreck of
America’s Last Slave Ship’, Ben Raines, the journalist who ‘discovered’ the vessel, forcefully
argues that the Clotilda ought to be surfaced, conserved, and reassembled for display in a
new museum in Africatown, Alabama [70], which would ‘instantly make Africatown one
of the most important sites in the burgeoning Civil Rights tourism industry’ [71]. In other
words, Raines wants the resurrection model of maritime archaeology applied to a ship that
was conscripted in the service of slavery, so that it may feed into a current trend in heritage
tourism. He explains further, ‘To the community, having the wreck on display in a new
museum is vital to both resurrecting Africatown’s declining fortunes and reconnecting
the people living there to their own history’ [71] (p. 221). Granted, it is not his decision,
nor ours, to make. The Clotilda captives’ living descendants and the people of Africatown
will decide, in conjunction with the state of Alabama, whether the ship should remain in
situ, where it has been for over 160 years, or if it should be ‘resurrected’ (along with the
town’s fortunes).
In addition to the concerns outlined above regarding the use of petrochemicals to
immortalize the ship, the Clotilda presents an opportunity to think about what we really
mean when we talk about ‘bringing history to life’ [10,11]. What exactly would spring to
life with the ‘resurrection’ of this ship from the riverbed? When history ‘comes alive’, it’s
hard to make it rest in peace again. Given that at least two enslaved passengers perished on
the journey from Dahomey (modern Benin), raising Clotilda risks severing the connection
between these lost souls and the waters in which their bodies were cast. Knowing this
connection between the waters and the dead, Clotilda survivors would congregate within
and around the water to perform ‘sacred community commemorative rituals. These rituals
continue to the present, upheld by the descendant families’ [72]. Many Clotilda descendants
recognize the ship and the waters in which it rests as a conveyance of lost ancestors but
also as a conveyance between the Over Here and the Over There of ancestral lands [73].
The live oaks, white oaks, and pine trees that furnished Clotilda’s timbers [74,75] were
likely older than the captives taken onboard. That the ship was designed to transport
lumber, further connects the timbers of felled trees with the bodies of enslaved people.
Although Clotilda may not really be alive in a biological sense, neither is it really dead given
the brackish and marine lives that teem within and beside those timbers now. It could
be metaphorically conceived as being conscious within, if not wholly belonging to, both
worlds. So exactly what good would come from the public spectacle of this exhumed body?
If the only answers to this question pertain to economy and capital, let us not forget that
‘capital’ and ‘chattel’ have shared etymologies.
Further, in what ways might the decontextualized and immortalized remains of
Clotilda only serve to underscore white supremacist notions of the scientific and technolog-
ical omnipotence of Euro-American shipbuilding (made public through Euro-American
archaeological and museum methods of quasi-miraculous resurrection)? Even on the other
side of the political spectrum, raising Clotilda may still subject the enslaved captives and
those lost at sea to a death in amber, a spectacle ironically most visible during self-interested
scrutiny [76,77]. Along those same lines, in what ways might the slave ship’s sanitized
museum remains gloss over the reality of having been chained on or to that ship, cry-
ing, screaming, bleeding, vomiting, urinating, defecating, menstruating, gestating, dying?
Again, etymology is telling: museum and mausoleum both refer to the keeping of the dead,
but only the former is directly positioned to commodify those holdings as a resource.
Heritage 2022, 5 3676

In its current position in the Mobile River delta, the third most polluted river in the
US, perhaps the symbolism of the wrecked Clotilda is already at its most potent [72]. Given
all that the ship signifies for the descendants of its 110 enslaved passengers—grief over
the violent separation from ancestors and ancestral lands, generations of oppression, the
entire African diaspora, Black genocide, environmental racism, and myriad other ongoing
injustices—perhaps letting the wreck gradually disintegrate into dirtied waters might open,
slowly and persistently, new futures without those pollutive forces of white supremacy
and colonialism that brought the ship, wrecked and burned it, and sold its human cargo.
Alternatively, if it is decided that the wreck ought to be preserved for perpetuity,
perhaps the first recourse should be cutting off the streams of industrial pollutants at their
sources, rather than introducing new petroleum byproducts into those same waters in
efforts to immortalize Clotilda’s timbers. As McGhee writes,
For nautical archaeologists interested in studying the slave trade, it is, I think,
important that the budding slave ship scholar keep several things in mind. For
example, it’s one thing to say that “slavery was bad” or that “slavery is bad”.
It’s another thing, however, to critically examine the conditions under which
representations of slavery are produced by scholars [12] (p. 8).
Keeping in mind McGhee’s call, as-yet fully unanswered, for critical examination and
reflexivity, perhaps it is time to rethink the first recourse of eternal preservation and public
presentation. Perhaps, again, the master’s nau cannot be dismantled with the master’s tools.

Author Contributions: Conceptualization, S.A.R.; investigation, S.A.R., C.S.-C. and K.P.; writing—original
draft preparation, S.A.R.; writing—review and editing, S.A.R., C.S.-C. and K.P. All authors have read and
agreed to the published version of the manuscript.
Funding: This research received no external funding.
Acknowledgments: This paper was written on settler-occupied territories of the Waccamaw Indian
People, and the Susquehannock and Piscataway Nations. The authors first thank the consultation
organizers, especially Gyllian Porteous, for working toward artifact decolonization. Segments of this
paper were first presented at a seminar of the Unruly Heritage Working Group (UiT, Norway) and
at the 2022 conference of the Nordic Theoretical Archaeology Group (Oslo). A later version of this
paper was presented at the Warburg Institute’s symposium, Resurfacing: Shipwrecks in Art, History,
and Archaeology. The authors thank the conference organizers and those in attendance for their
thoughtful comments, questions, and suggestions. We also thank Natali Pearson for providing us
with an advance copy of her insightful book, and we thank the anonymous reviewers of this paper
and editors of this special issue of Heritage. The first author especially thanks Jeremy Killian for
helping her to think carefully through these arguments in their earlier stages and to better articulate
the enormously consequential issues that arise from them.
Conflicts of Interest: The authors declare no conflict of interest.

Notes
1 It is perhaps worth an aside to mention that the term for the application of PEG to waterlogged wooden artifacts is ‘impregnation’,
a term which seems to betray the process’s patriarchal and colonial origins.
2 On the difference between ‘survival’ and ‘survivance’, see [16] (pp. 129–130).

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