After 10,000 Years of Coastal Living, Chumash Tribe Finally Gets a Seat at the Federal Table—Next to the Offshore Wind Farm Plans

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In a heartwarming twist of fate that feels like a rom-com where the universe is just as confused as we are, the Chumash people are set to co-steward a new national marine sanctuary along California’s central coast—a region they’ve called home for a mere 10,000 years, give or take a few. Don’t worry, it’s not the concept of co-management that’d make a beige bureaucrat’s heart flutter; it’s the irony that they’re now being ‘invited’ to help manage the very waters that once saw their ancestors fishing and failing spectacularly at dodging colonizers.

Yes, folks, the Chumash Heritage National Marine Sanctuary, recently designated by the Biden administration, marks a historic shift—one that’s probably long overdue since the last time these waters were well-looked-after, flint was still a popular Netflix genre. Now they get to cozy up with a federal agency that, let’s be honest, probably still can’t tell a crab from a clam without a PowerPoint presentation.

At 116 miles of pristine coastline littered with human-induced calamities like climate change and pollution—because what’s a beautiful beach without a side of toxic waste?—this initiative promises to mesh traditional wisdom with some good old-fashioned government red tape. It’s like inviting your estranged family to Thanksgiving dinner but with more fish and less passive-aggressiveness—well, maybe a little of the latter.

In the hands of the Chumash, who have been keeping the ocean in check since before “sustainability” was a buzzword smothered in avocado toast, the sanctuary will feature all the delights of marine life struggling for survival amidst mankind’s persistent mischief. Picture leatherback sea turtles trying to dodge plastic straws while blue whales contemplate the existential dread of having the ocean as their only home.

This arrangement comes almost a decade after the late Chief Fred Collins, who was undoubtedly hoping for an invitation to a less murky governance, originally dreamed of this partnership. And while the ceremonies likely involved dancing and dreaming about fish tacos, the paperwork that precedes any celebration is enough to make anyone question their choices. Because if there’s anything the Chumash have learned from the last thousand years, it’s that a little paperwork goes a long way in both securing rights and ensuring that no one gets the wrong permit for their fishing boats.

And about those wind farms—fear not, renewable energy enthusiasts. The balancing act of preserving heritage and pushing for “green” initiatives is the kind of tightrope walk that would make Cirque du Soleil performers weep. Here, we have the Santa Ynez Band of Chumash Indians securing voting seats that truly matter. Yes, because nothing says “empowerment” like a ceremonial vote in a system developed by the very people who spent centuries laying waste to indigenous cultures while pretending to be the eco-warriors of their time.

“Not only did we protect our homeland, but we also maintained our spiritual connections,” Walker proclaimed, likely while pinching herself that she wasn’t just living in a history book. So, let’s raise a glass of morally questionable algae smoothie to the Chumash Heritage National Marine Sanctuary—a place where ancestors would be proud, and beachgoers will get a lesson in both marine biology and the poetic irony of survival in the modern age. Here’s hoping those grunions behave themselves this time around.