Storytelling: A complete story

This story was created as part of the VANISH Storytelling Workshops for Adult Adoptees, a new initiative supported by Relationships Victoria and the Australian Government’s Forced Adoption Support Services Small Grants Program.

Facilitated by adoptee, theatre director, and teaching artist Dr Alison Ingram, the workshops offered a safe and creative space for adoptees to explore and express their experiences through storytelling.

“A Complete Story”  

The meditative lapping of sea water against the ribs of my shiny little, walnut shaped boat, are rhythmic, soothing, calming. She, my little boat, has a name hand painted on the starboard side, written skillfully on the polished, horizontal wooden beams. The regularity of the sounds of the small waves soothes my soul as I lay in the warmth of her warm, shallow hull.  

I’ve anticipated this moment, a scathing wind with intermittent bursts of light so charged, for a moment it feels as though everything will turn to carbon.  

Silent fear overwhelms me as I look down knowing my little hands cannot fully grasp the large handles of the wooden oars, I cannot see over the bow, I can barely see over the sides of the boat. Seasickness compounds the lack of horizon. 

My little boat seems to go in all directions as I try and use the oars to navigate a path which goes some way into propelling us in a random direction.  

I keep trying and trying. For a long time, we drifted around in the water. The big motorboats rush past causing walls of water to spray over the sides and onto my feet. Using a tin can that has holes in it, I scoop up the water placing it back where it belongs. I’d like to tell the people in the big motorboats to slow down. Unlikely they will listen, I do not say anything. 

Sometimes people cruising slow down briefly and wave hello, curious to my predicament.  

My basic needs are met although there is not enough shade to stop the sun burning my pale skin, blistering it then turning to light brown. My skin will never be the same as the older man and his olive skin, along with the older grey-haired lady with hostile disposition and black-haired boy, who visit me in their modest, white boat, which doesn’t rely on oars for power. The black-haired boy has different features from the older people, his eyes a light blue and his face is full of freckles, although there is a superficial similarity to the grey haired, older woman.  

The olive-skinned man, grey-haired woman and black-haired boy visit my boat and provide things that meet my daily needs. Where are my people?  The olive-skinned man has a warm smile, he is caring. 

Getting where I think I need to go, my little boat and I zig zag across the water. What an exhausting effort it is. Trying to control my little walnut shaped boat is so tiring, as it doesn’t seem to matter what I do, I cannot steer her properly. It doesn’t take long to work out something that is missing. All the other boats appear to have rudders. 

I look at all the other boats easily making directions in which to turn, I decide to get to shore and find a robust branch which can be fashioned into a rudder. Where’s my anchor and how will I moor my little boat? She is all I have, and I don’t want her to drift out to sea while I go to shore.  

We’ve made it, my little boat and I, it is rudimentary, but we can steer! Well, sort of. 

People in fancy boats mock my makeshift rudder which is attached to my little boat using all sorts of odd things I have found discarded here and there. 

There is lots of noise, jet-ski’s, paddle boards. It is a busy day. A fast motorboat accelerates creating a large wake. I am hit by one of my oars and the bronze-coloured rowlock jabs into my abdomen as I am ejected into the water. I am defeated, floating motionless, facing upward towards a blue sky that quickly becomes black. My little boat is carried by the agitated sea, drifting away. The sun is shining again, my body burnt, and I see my little boat in the distance. I cannot leave her, I swim for my little boat and hoist myself back in and once again, the sky turns black.  

The grey-haired lady and olive-skinned man approach my little boat and give me medicine and leave. The black-haired boy is the only one who visits me while I convalesce. 

The seas a rough and the days are short, they become longer, and the sun burns once more. 

Feeling brave, I row over to the mainland and visit a shop that sells maps. I wonder what it is like to know places I have been to and places I might go. The man tells me to be aware of fake maps as they are likely to be full of falsehoods, where people end up in the wrong places. For the first time I have a real map. 

Studying the large document, a place on the map feels very familiar, I must go there, I am being called.  

It is a long journey, my hands are calloused, blistered and bleeding, despite my hands fitting the oars better. It takes a long time until I arrive to see what I hope are familiar lands and people.  

Arriving at the place to which I am being called, I meet people who look like me. Although I understand these people are my people, forever I feel as though I am an encore when the audience has already left.  

My little boat and I travel to this area again, my hands continue to blister and bleed.  

For the last time I fold up my map and place with next to the other documents that threaten to rip apart as soon as they are unfolded and cannot be stuck back together.  

I leave the land of my ancestors for the final time.  

Using discarded remnants, I fasten fabric around the handles of my oars. With restorative warmth from the sun, my little boat and I make our way out past the familiar and safety of the bay. 

Daylight is fading and the sea is responding to changes in temperature and onset of the moon’s light.  

Fatigue persists and my soul is tired.  

Lights illuminate a village a short distance inland. I am hoping for respite from the open seas. It is time to rest. With just enough light to see, using herculean effort I drag my little boat along the slippery pebbles up onto the sand. I hastily tether my little boat to a banksia tree which stands on the shoreline deeply rooted, wise and proud, a witness to time, a matriarch.  

Seeing a stranger on their shores, people walk toward me and grasp my hands and encourage me to stay with them. Without asking, they check my little boat, re-tie the knot, and reassure me she is safely secured with no risk of becoming adrift. These people want to know about my journeys, stories about rudder-building, my challenges and want to see the scars on my hands, abdomen and soul. They offer me healing cream for my hands and gently apply it, taking great care. I am home.