Gone Fishin'

I'll be moving in less than a month, and before that happens I'm going to try to go fishing with my friend Neil. We're talking about a deep sea charter out of Port Aransas, but may just settle on catching a few speckled trout in Galveston.

I haven't fished in years. I'm the type of person that goes a little nuts when I find something I like to do. The last time I fished on a regular basis was when I was living in the desert town of El Centro, California. El Centro is a farming community in the Imperial Valley, and although it is in fact in the middle of the desert, the valley is green because the farmers there are able to irrigate their crops by diverting water from the Colorado river. The irrigation canals were full of large mouth bass, and I fished the canals six days a week with my buddy Curtis. The one day each week that wasn't devoted to bass fishing found us about a hundred miles away on Mount Julian, fishing for rainbow trout on Lake Cuyamaca.

We went every Wednesday for about a year. We'd leave El Centro at five in the morning, and arrive at the marina on Lake Cuyamaca a few minutes before the ranger station opened at seven. On spring mornings there was usually a thick fog over the cool water; in the winter the park surrounding the lake was covered by a blanket of snow. Personal watercraft weren't allowed on the lake, so for twenty dollars we'd rent a small john boat with an ancient 5hp Evinrude from the rangers and head out.

They stocked the lake with rainbow trout on Tuesdays, by the time Curtis and I arrived the next day the trout were acclimated to their new surroundings and ready to eat. We'd catch our limit of five each by noon, turn the boat in, clean the fish (rainbow trout are ridiculously easy to clean), and settle in for a nice lunch at the marina restaurant. By one o'clock we were back on the road, headed to El Centro.

We were good fishing partners, both of us quiet anglers with little or no need for conversation once we were out on the water. Curtis was Chippewa, and had the reverent sensibility most Native Americans share when it comes to the outdoors. With peaceful surroundings and a silent nature, it's easy to get lost in your own thoughts; almost like being in a trance. One morning when we were out on the lake Curtis whispered my name (later he told me that he'd said my name five times before it registered); because of the whisper I had the presence of mind to move slowly. I looked at Curtis, and with the slightest nod of his head, he motioned toward the shore. I turned my head until I could follow his line of sight, and saw a mountain lion at the waters' edge, taking a cool drink. We stared at it for perhaps ten or twelve seconds, until the second sense possessed by most living things kicked in. It felt us looking at it, and briefly returned our gaze before turning on its haunches and bounding up to the top of the hill, disappearing over the rise, covering a distance of about thirty yards in just a few leaps and bounds.

Road Trip

I was about twenty, and living in Orange, TX. One afternoon I heard a knock, and standing on the other side of the screen door was my friend, Larry.

"Hey man, you wanna go to the beach?"

I always want to go to the beach. Larry told me to grab my guitar and enough clothes for two days, but wouldn't tell me where we were going. I assumed he'd snagged a beach cabin for the weekend, and a few minutes later the little duplex I was renting was locked up and we were on the road.

We headed east. There's a line in an old Jimmy Buffett song, "I'd never been west, to New Orleans, or east of Pensacola," and I'd never been west of Galveston, or east of Mamou, Louisiana, but I knew that was going to change on this trip. Larry's lips were sealed, and a few hours later he announced that we were going to make a stop in New Orleans. It was Larry's first time this far east as well, but we found Bourbon Street without a problem.

It was an eye opener, both of us lapsed Baptist boys in a town full of people that clearly loved to party. We made our way down the south side of the street, barkers standing near the front doors, trying to entice us to enter the various strip clubs. "Free head with every beer," one yelled. That dude's voice even sounded nasty, and we declined. We passed several street musicians. On an opposite corner two guys with guitars were playing "Dueling Banjos". We kept going until we ran out of clubs, and crossed the street to check out the other side. About twenty minutes later we passed the guitar players. They were still playing "Dueling Banjos." We noticed that they had a few bucks in bills and change in an open guitar case.

"You know more songs than that. Let's go get your guitar."

I'd been playing for about a year at this point, and had recently bragged to Larry about how good I'd gotten. I couldn't back down now, so with butterflies in my stomach I followed Larry to the car. I grabbed the guitar and we headed back to Bourbon. We set up a respectful distance from the other musicians, and I closed my eyes and began to play and sing. In those early years I squeezed my eyes shut tight whenever I performed, even if I was completely alone. I just felt too vulnerable when I sang, and had not yet learned how to disassociate myself from the emotions of the song. Now I wish I'd never learned how to disconnect.

I performed on Bourbon Street for about an hour, until Larry nudged me and said we needed to grab a beer and get back on the road. When I opened my eyes I saw several bills and a lot of change in the bottom of my guitar case. We stopped inside a bar and ordered a beer. There was a guy on stage playing John Denver songs. I love John Denver, but his music seemed strangely out of place in this party town. We heard two and a half songs before the musician took a break, and when he got off stage I asked if I could play a couple of songs. I was feeling confident from my earlier performance on the street corner.

I played the most up tempo songs I could think of, and the tip jar on the stage began to fill up with ones. After I finished the musician offered to split the tips with me, but I declined. It felt wrong to take the money, like it would have been an acknowledgement that I'd showed him up in his own town. He thanked me, and Larry and I left the bar and hit the road.

"Man, that was great! Do you know how much money you made?"

I counted the money I pulled from the guitar case, and it was almost twenty dollars. When I gave Larry the total he shook his head and laughed.

"You had your eyes closed the whole time. Whenever there started to be more than a few bills in the case I was afraid we'd get robbed, so I started taking most of them."

Larry reached into the right front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a wad of ones, with a few fives and a ten dollar bill mixed in. I'd made over two hundred bucks! I was exhilarated, thinking for the first time in my life that it was going to be easy to play music for a living.

Larry wouldn't give me any real clues as to our final destination, just that our next stop would be as far east as we would go. Before too long I heard the clicking of the turn signal on Larry's car. We were in Biloxi, Mississippi, and drove along the Gulf of Mexico until we found a cheap motel. We checked in and went up on the deck to watch the setting sun make the crests of the waves sparkle like jewels. I still had one more song in me, and as I began to sing, Larry joined in with me, both of us sporting triumphant grins:

"Juuust, sit right back and you'll hear a tale,
A tale of a fateful trip,
That started on a tropic voyage,
Aboard this tiny ship.."

That's right, we sang the theme song to Gilligan's Island, two young men on our first road trip, exploring the world beyond our home.

83 Days and Counting...

There are Jet Ski people and kayak people, motorboat people and sailboat people. Gather on the beach with hundreds of other sun worshippers people and walk on the deserted strip of shore people. I’m a kayak/sailboat/deserted strip of shore person, and I miss the Bolivar Peninsula, my Bolivar Peninsula, because for the next three months it will be packed with tourists and daytrippers.

I don’t mind, really. Bolivar will be waiting to greet me in early September, when you have all gone back to work and forgotten about her until next year. Did you take the ferry over from Galveston? I’ll bet you did. Did you get a little thrill when the captain blew the horn, announcing your departure from the dock? Did you get out of your vehicle and walk to the very front so that you could feel the salt spray in your face, and marvel at how much cooler the air is when you are out on the water? Seagulls are a dime a dozen, but the pelicans sure are something, huh? They look just like they are supposed to look, with the huge pouch under their bill, and that wise, seen it all look in their eyes. You probably saw a few pods of dolphins off of the bow, if you were paying attention. Now there’s a thrill for you! Did you hear the theme song to “Flipper” when you saw them? No? I guess that’s just me, then.

When the ferry approached Bolivar, and the captain asked you not to start your vehicle until the ferry was fully docked, did you get that mix of excitement with a little undertow of sadness? Happy to be on the peninsula, sad to leave the ferry? It’s a temporary feeling, because now the deckhand is waving you off, and you are speeding towards the beach.

There’s the lighthouse! It’s great to see the old girl, but she really needs a coat of paint, doesn’t she? Someone should do something about it. She’s privately owned now, but money is tight everywhere. If you knew the owners you could put them in touch with me, and I’d help stage a benefit concert to get the ball rolling.

You’ve passed the lighthouse now, and are looking for the turn that leads you to the beach. Almost any turn will do, because you can drive on the beach in Texas. The road I follow only has a handful of cabins on it, for now. My heart always flutters a bit when I make that right turn, windows down so that I can smell the salt air. My eyes widen with pleasure when I get close enough to see that first strip of green water sandwiched between the blue Texas sky and the golden sand.

It’s loud. I always forget that, and when my Jeep leaves the pavement and takes the sandy path between the dunes I can hear the waves rumbling onto the shore and I smile so much that my face begins to hurt a little. Does that happen to you?

A few hours, a few days, a few weeks even, and it’s already time to leave. I hope you made some good memories, found some interesting shells, maybe even a sand dollar, my personal favorite. When I was a very small boy you could find conch shells on the beach, but now you can only discover them in souvenir shops.

Before you leave the peninsula I hope you drive to the bay side to pick up some fresh seafood. They have several places there. The one I like the best looks like it came right out of a movie, with shrimp boats and a handful of sailboats tied up outside the shop, a brown pelican perched on one of the pilings. I only buy enough shrimp to make two meals, because I want an excuse to come back soon.

Now you’re back on the ferry, and before you know it you are underway. The seagulls are hovering above the stern, waiting for someone to toss them something tasty, the dolphins are racing you to the other side of the ship channel, and all too soon you are being reminded to not start your vehicle until the captain has fully docked in Galveston. Maybe you’ll stop at one last shop, or even drive slowly down a few of the side streets, wondering what it would be like to live in one of the old Victorian houses, before reality and your sense of responsibility takes over and you sigh before turning the vehicle back onto Broadway, getting one last glance at this jewel of an island through a veil of oleander leaves before you head over the causeway bridge to your life on the mainland. You’re a little browner, perhaps, well rested and centered, ready to tackle the world once more.