50 AMP VISION QUEST

Goose Island and Aransas Pass 

We couldn’t resist it.  We just had to see our family in Texas one last time before we left the state.  So, we spent the night in the parking lot of Cracker Barrel, that icon of interstate eateries and Americana jimmy-jack.  Suni and her family came out to share dinner with us where we had big platefuls of comfort food and warm laughter for the evening.  Bidding farewell for now, we bought the kids little gifts to remember us by.  We hate to leave our family, but we’re bound to ride.  That’s what we do now.  That’s what we saved and planned for all those years. Diane and I rose at 4:00 AM, drank down some coffee and split Austin before the huge crush of traffic could stall our trip for who knows how long trying to get through downtown Austin and that madhouse scene of trucks and cars.  Austin these days is one giant spaghetti bowl of flyover overpasses and underpasses and ribbons of asphalt and concrete.  I get dizzy every time we drive through these magnificently composed M.C. Escherian highway intersections.  We’re ready to leave and embark on yet more chapters of the 50 Amp Vision Quest. 

First stop is Goose Island State Park, Aransas Bay, TX.  This will be our second time camping here as we visited for a week back in 2019 right after the Fall Hurricane (at present I forget the name of this particular hurricane) hammered the area.  I recall all the debris and detritus that was collected from the wreckage and piled onto the grassy median section of the highway.  It seemed to be at least ten feet tall and miles long.  I suppose they were collecting it there for transfer to some final resting place. 

Goose Island is a world-class birder destination as are several other locales near there.  This coastal maze of rivers and estuaries and gulf environments is a haven for so many migrating birds.  The state park even has volunteers who act as birding experts.  They conduct tours almost daily and lead the mostly dead-serious, neck-craning, bucket-hatted, binocular-laden birders through trails within the park, which include walks along the ocean bay.  Of course, we go along on these guided bird seek-outs.  It’s a lot of fun to look closely at the birds through scopes and binoculars.  What amazes me is the beautiful assortment of colors, nearly invisible to the naked eye when viewed from afar.  The scoped perspective brings out all manner of subtle and muted as well as brilliant hues.  Shades of blues, teal, burnt sienna, and luminous greens emerge from the birds’ plumage.  I can understand the birder’s addiction to the chase and the counting of birds viewed. 

At this juncture we were just a little early for the big bird migration.  Our being a tad early for migration, coupled with the “Big Freeze” of last winter in Texas which killed off a lot of birds, left us with far fewer species to note this time through the area.  Still, it was a a pleasure to see God’s favorite animal, the birds, flying happily throughout the park.  The sea birds here are numerous, too.  There were flocks of white and brown pelicans flying in formation near the shore and across the shallow bay.  Having been habituated by so many fisherman who use the boat ramp and the fishing pier here one can get very close to the pelicans as they are used to human contact.  What an amazing animal! With their bucket gullets they seem so perfectly evolved for their environment.  I found the top section of a pelican’s bill, fully preserved.  The section that attached to the head proper had a hinge on it...amazing. It was a small one.  I suppose the pelican was very young.  This may sound nutty but I think it would make a great letter opener.  Trouble is, no one reads letters any longer. 

Goose Island is located on the Aransas Bay area.  The fishing here is out of sight.  Charters head out every morning and afternoon, some on those infernal fan boats that are among the loudest gizmos yet created by man.  Everyone cleans fish when they return.  There used to be ample oyster beds here as well, but now there is a moratorium on oystering.  The beds have run out, sadly.  When we were here last we did not fish.  The pier had been destroyed by the recent hurricane.  Now, it has been rebuilt in fine fashion so we thought we’d give ourselves an afternoon to really relax, enjoy the warm sun and see if we could reel in dinner.  The primary fish caught in this particular bay are: 

Sea trout 

Black drum 

Red drum (redfish) 

Sheepshead 

Hard head catfish (no one eats these) 

There’s others for sure, but off the pier that’s usually what you get. 

We drove down to the waterfront in Rockport (TX).  It’s a funky, old-school kind of harbor front that looks like it was conceived in the 1950’s and hasn’t changed one iota since then.  Much of the harbor front was closed down in anticipation for the weekend’s annual “ Oyster Days” carnival.  The problem was, there were going to be no oysters, due to the ban on oystering currently.  Nonetheless, there was going to be an old fashion carnival, replete with all the attendant carney folk manning the decrepit and faded rides for the kiddies and those romantics who love a turn on the “Tilt-a Whirl “ ride.  All manner of carny food was going to be served up as well...Turkey legs and funnel cakes by the bushel, washed down with sweet orange and pink liquids called “freezes”.  Don’t miss the cotton-candy spun right before your very eyes.  I’m pretty sure there was going to be an Oyster Queen crowned at some time during the weekend as well. 

We found “Mom’s Bait Shop”, a concrete bunker with but two small rooms.  One was for the retail and wholesale action while the other room faced the bay where boats could off load the bait for the day.  The outside was once a brilliant sky blue, now faded and stained with the accoutrement of the salt life.  A voluptuously painted mermaid with an intentful “come hither” look over her shoulder bade you come inside.  Once through the door the ambiance, or should I say odor, ( depending your point of view or profession ) was overpowering, immediately reassuring one that this was the place to get your bait.  We chose the simple shrimp and whole mullet which we would halve for the hook.  Diane asked the fella at the counter, Big Jim, if he was looking forward to the Oyster Day carnival. 

“Oh Yeah, I’m gonna get me a funnel cake.  Maybe I’ll get me a turkey leg, too,” was his mostly toothless reply. You knew he was a veteran of many Oyster Days and had selectively sampled all the wares to narrow it down to his personal favorites.  No cheese pretzels for Big Jim, no sir.  Off we we went to fish off the pier back at the park as no license was needed inside the State Park.  An afternoon of lazy fishing, lounging in the sun and salty gulf breezes with the thought of a fresh fish dinner foremost in our minds. 

I chose to use light tackle as opposed the heavy surf rigs we use on the beach in the waves.  We walked up and down the pier which is several hundreds yards long and chose our spot.  It’s very shallow the entire length of the pier and I wasn’t at all sure there would be good fishing here.  But, there was a fair representation of locals here, old-timers with time on their hands and fish on their minds.  That’s the sign I need.  One couple stopped by our spot as they moved up and down the boardwalk fishing the piers.  They were after Sheepshead who haunt the support legs eating urchins of the mossy structures.  They’ll go after shrimp, too.  The first thing I noticed was his STL Cardinals cap.  “Ah, a comrade in arms,” I thought.  Turns out the couple were from Litchfield, IL and were avid Cardinal fans.  They had caught 50 some odd Sheepshead over the past few weeks right here on the boardwalk. 

We, too fished the piers for a little while, but with no action there we turned to the ocean proper. After several hours we had nothing to show except for two baby Sheepshead that I had caught.  Bait-stealers were the order of the day so far. Diane had hooked something of good size but it got away.  Then, Diane’s pole bent. 

“John, I’ve got something good here!” she shouted. 

“Hang on, I’ll get the net,” I shot back. 

Diane brought in a Flounder, a good one.  We both got hyper-excited because Flounder is soooo good to eat. Turns out it was just legal at 15 inches.  A great dinner was caught.  Diane beamed triumphant.  It was a slow day on the pier and Diane was the talk among the fishing pier elite.  A great catch any day any time!  I decided to clean and prepare the fish.  I chose a recipe of parmesan panco encrusted and pan fried.  We were delighted by the result, and soulfully satisfied with our day of fishing in the warm Texas sun.  Life doesn’t get much better I tell ya.  Way to go, Diane! 

The next morning I decided to ride my bike around the area and catch some local color.  I drove through the small salty and sandy neighborhood adjacent to the State Park and quickly arrived at an aged shell-crete and wood chapel, a church, at the end of a lonely street.  One on side of the lane rested a small cemetery while the chapel anchored the other side of the street.  The church’s name was “Stella Maris”, “Star of the Sea”.  The little chapel is a Catholic church, still active with a handful of parishioners who faithfully attend the Sunday Mass. Stella Maris is the oldest church in Corpus Christi county.  It was originally constructed in Lamar, TX.  A veteran of the Texas Revolution, James Byrne, established the town of Lamar and sold some land on Aransas Bay to the Catholic Church.  Byrne then hired a French architect to design the little chapel.  It is built from what is called, shell-crete, a form of concrete made from sea shells instead of rocks.  That in itself is really unique. 

The chapel was moved to its current site in 1986 to rest beside the Lamar Cemetery.  Inside the little chapel one can’t help but feel a strong and personal spiritual presence.  It feels as if it were a respite for retreat, sanctuary from all that is over-sized and imposing and soul-squeezing.  I paused there to pray for the people of Ukraine, now under severe attack from Putin’s scorched-earth army.  I pray for all of us, actually. 

Directly across the lane is the Lamar Cemetery.  This 2 acre plot of memorials feels welcoming somehow.  I’m not one who is usually drawn to wander cemeteries, but I found myself exploring this one reverently yet inquisitively.  The place has the feel of history dripping from the Live Oak trees like the Spanish Moss. 

Again, it was James Byrne who laid out this plot of land for the settlers of the area.  Byrne fled Ireland and British persecution, attended college at the University of Belgium, and came to America.  He fought the British in the War of 1812 and built a successful business in New Orleans after that war.  He then came to Refugio, TX and fought in the Battle of Goliad during the Texas Revolution. 

The oldest grave marker in the cemetery is that of Patrick O’Connor (1822-1854), a direct descendant of Roderick O’Connor, the last king of Ireland.  It is believed that Byrne and his wife are buried in this cemetery as well, but no known grave marker bears his name.  There are several wherein the names and dates have been eroded by the harsh, salty winds.  He may indeed lay beneath one of them.  Several sea captains are also buried here, intrepid navigators of the bays and inlets around here. 

Another notable citizen here is Eve Thomas, who, along with her sister, Sarah, was captured by Comanches near Salt Creek just a stones throw away from the cemetery.  Eve was stabbed several times and left for dead as she had fainted and the Comanches thought she had perished.  Eve came to and climbed a tree to hide where she was found by a search party.  Her sister, Sarah, was later recovered in a trade for an Indian boy and some blankets.  Such was life in the “good old days”. 

As I wandered about I could not help noticing all the children laid to rest here.  I noticed what seemed like entire families all dieing within days and weeks of one another.  Various “fevers” spread over the landscape frequently claiming many folks.  Many other people buried here were in their 20’s and 30’s.  With the mosquito population being what it is on this coast, and with all the myriad states of drinking water with God knows what kinds of water-borne critters living in them, It’s amazing anyone could live at all here before modernity made longer life plausible for human folk in this environment. 

The Texas Gulf coast is teeming with life, aquatic, airborne, swampy, spits of dry land...all of it is crawling with things living.  There is no shortage of food available for a settler. But, one must remember that within this ecosystem you are also food.  The unbroken chain of life is most evident here. 

Sea Rim State Park, Texas and Louisiana border, Port Arthur, TX 

This land is unlike any we’ve seen to date on our Vision Quest.  It’s as if the past 400 years have been rolled up into a ball.  It’s like a stew of yesterday and today, and all the ingredients are trying to mix together, but they just can’t dissolve into each other.  As you drive north from Aransas Bay towards Galveston and Port Arthur you glide over and through flat prairie farm land with rich black soil.  The occasional long horn steer stares up at you as you fly by on the two-lane asphalt belt.  Now and then you find the road elevates slightly to bring you across a swampy area or an estranged bayou.  Bugs of all manner smash against your windshield to the point that after an hour or so your wipers can’t remove them...their unfortunate carcasses just shmoosh around in a gooey film. The land is fully alive. 

Arriving near Port Arthur you take a right turn and drop down into the bay area. Almost immediately you are driving through a virtual forest of petroleum refineries.  Rusting metal structures and oily pipes leading to and from massive tanks line the road and reach back into the swamps for miles.  Ginormous tanker trucks line the roads coming and going with their black oil cargo sloshing around inside.  Huge puffs of white smoke billow from smokestacks.  Methane fires burn day and night from sky high pipes poking out of the ground like so many straws.  Ships, some coming up the channel, some leaving, some at anchor, serve up oil to the starving storehouses and refineries, their names smudged over with the residue of their cargo.  There’s a sheen on the water that appears rainbow-like, blue and red and orange glinting in the sun.  This could be hell, or it could be someone’s heaven.  This is, after all, how we power our nation today. 

With the price of oil at well over $100.00 a barrel, the workers are moving frantically, the trucks purposefully.  The machinery hums insistently on.  I know, Nell, our motor home, is also powered by this deep earth prehistoric stuff.  Our 50 Amp vision Quest is made possible by it’s stored power.  Is there a way out of this addiction we have with oil?  God, I pray there is for my children’s sake. 

Absurdly, just down the road from Hell’s gate lies a piece of Heaven, still as God mostly intended it, the northern edge of the Texas gulf coast.  Life is wild here.  Sea Rim State Park preserves the northern Texas gulf coast as it must have been 400 years ago.  Shells line the beach.  Sea birds wing and coast along the windy currents of the shoreline.  Swamps, backwaters, and little brackish channels line the inland as far as you can see.  Alligators and turtles thrive here.  Fish grow into adulthood fast here, and they grow big! And mosquitoes, oh yes, mosquitoes...this is truly their heaven on earth.  When the wind dies down you could really use netting to protect yourself.  At evening, with the motor home closed up tightly, you can hear them outside buzzing. Swarms… But this is life on earth in the coastal swamps.  It is so strange that just down the road lies the most man-made, unnatural habitat we ever constructed as a species. 

There are only 15 spots in which to camp here at Sea Rim State Park. It’s uncrowded.  We spent a good deal of time walking with the dogs up and down the beach in the stiff breezes collecting shells and talking to the pelicans and gulls, the sandpipers and the pippins.  A few folks brought their trailers out onto the beach as you are allowed to drive on it.  It’s way too sandy and salty for us to consider, plus, I’m not really convinced Nell wouldn’t sink somewhere in the sand.  There are a couple of nice boardwalks that are elevated above the swamp so you can peer down into the little channels and search for swamp life.  A warning sign advises not to go crabbing near the alligators.  I have no issue with that.  HA!  Here at Sea Rim you can kayak for many miles through the swamps on the channels and over the lakes that dot the countryside.  I can see how that would be great fun.  It was just too windy and a little too cold for us to do it this trip.  I read that the fishing in the lakes and swamps is really fine, too. 

Diane and I contented ourselves with surf fishing in the ocean.  We drove Tank the Jeep out on the beach and set up chairs and made ourselves comfortable for a along afternoon.  I would take stiff, baited pole in hand and wade out 100-150 yards into the surf and cast the bait, shrimp, as far as I could.  Letting out line I would walk backwards to the beach and set the poles up in our holders stuck deeply into the sand.  Then, I’d kick back with Diane and enjoy the scene.  Life is great! 

As the afternoon wore on I caught a few hard-head catfish, maybe two pounds a piece.  They’re not fit for eating.  At least no one around here eats them. So, back they went. Surely, some prized catch would come along soon, but if it didn’t, no matter.  It was great just sitting on the beach in the 70 degree sun.  Fish or no fish, it’s the fishing that’s fun. 

As the afternoon drifted lazily by I thought I’d take the dogs for a walk down the beach and leave the poles in Diane’s more than capable hands.  Once again, I baited them both up, waded through the waves and cast them out, setting them up in their holders before I lit out with the doggies.  Down the beach I sauntered in the sun, feeling the sun in my face and the packed, khaki-brown sand on my feet.  I must have been about a hundred yards or so down the beach when I turned to look back at Diane.  Whoa!  There she was standing up and reeling in one of the poles in earnest.  Her back was into the fight.  She leaned hard backwards and pulled ferociously on the pole, while alternately trying to wind the reel as she would quickly dip the pole forward.  She was either snagged on a huge pile of seaweed, which I had done earlier myself, or she had a big boy on the line.  I ran back towards her, the dogs alongside and behind me, ears flapping in the wind with anticipation as they ran. 

Just as I got to Diane she had pulled the Leviathan on to the beach.  Whooo Doggies it was huge!  A full 36 inches long with a massive head whose mouth I could fit my fist into, it was either a Black or a Red drum...we weren’t sure.  It had to weigh 20+ pounds, though I didn’t weigh it.  I showed it to a fellow fisherman up the beach a ways and he proclaimed it a Red Drum, a “Redfish.  It was the biggest fish we have ever caught surf fishing by a long shot.  Diane was the hero of the day as she expertly landed that big boy. There was going to be some fish dinners in our near future! 

Later that evening our dear friends, Wren and Nan arrived.  We had a superb dinner together and ate Red Snapper that we bought the day before in Port Arthur.  We had been both camp hosting at Pedernales State Park through January and February.  Of course, Wren and Nan are newer friends that we so fortunately made along our journey across America.  We’ve had marvelous times and fantastic meals together often. This one was right up there among the very best. 

Speaking of that fresh Red Snapper we had for dinner, searching that out was a really interesting trip unto itself. Port Arthur is mostly made up of folks working for the oil companies or fishermen and shrimpers.  Among the shrimpers and fishermen are families of Vietnamese.  They have moved here from their homeland and made new lives from the ocean.  In fact the fish market where we bought the Snapper was owned and operated by a Vietnamese family.  The market was busy.  There was a line a dozen people long waiting to pick out their fresh dinners from among the offerings in the cases.  The smell of the place left no doubt in your mind...fresh fish.  To add to the general ambiance of the market, a single crawdad stood guard on the tile floor, both claws extended out and upward warning patrons to stand in line or suffer the consequences.  Such a brave and foolish crawdad. But, I must say, he was effective at his job.  Everyone obeyed his directions.  I tried to talk him into relenting in his guard job but he would have none of it.  He resolutely pointed his pincers at me all the more intently and ordered me away.  I obeyed.  I will abide. 

They say that Native people occupied this area of the park beginning 12,000 years ago.  At first they lived on land that is now below the sea.  This was near the mouth of Mississippi at that time.  The Big Muddy moved eastward about 2500 years ago and these peoples moved with it.  From around the time Christ the Atataka people flourished here.  If you can deal with the mosquitoes there’s all sorts of food you can eat around here. The climate is fairly amenable as well.  Of course, the European’s migration here drove the Atataka people to oblivion.  Ranchers ran cattle here from roughly the 1870’s to around 1950.  However, the ranchers found that ranching was truly difficult here due to the land and the ecosystem so they eventually moved their operations to easier pickins inland.  Hurricane Rita smashed the Park in 2005, as the State of Texas had purchased the land for that purpose from the Oil Companies.  In 2008 Hurricane Ike did even more damage. The longest boardwalk still hasn’t been rebuilt yet.  Its supporting legs poke from the swamps without the walking planks.  It’s amazing to have this park set aside that re-establishes the semi-natural order of things so close to the Oil City of Port Arthur.  Setting aside the mosquitoes, it’s a haven we thoroughly enjoyed. 

The Big Easy...Bayou Segnette, Harahan, Lousianna 

Making our way northwards up the coast of Texas these past days we needle our way through the refineries of Port Arthur and turn eastward along I-10 towards Lafayette, Baton Rouge, and New Orleans, our next targeted campground.  The interstate becomes elevated at times lifting us over the Atchafalaya Basin, the largest swamp in North America.  Sporadically mixed into the landscape we see crawdad farms laced in between rice fields, now flooded. 

The crawdad farms are really interesting to me.  They seem to be harvesting the little mudbugs right now.  I noticed these glorified john boats with something akin to a paddle wheel in the front busily churning through the tight canals throwing mud and water everywhere.  I figure the crawdads come up with the mud and get churned back into these nets that the harvester has placed behind the paddle wheel.  It all looks home grown to me, these crawdad operations.  Every other billboard seems to be hawking some Cajun restaurant that features crawdad lunches and dinners.  Me, I like crawdad, but I find it way too much work to sit down to a pile of them on a newspaper while you separate the meat from the shell.  Diane reminds me that it’s a social event as much as an eating event.  Still, I prefer my crawdad to be already cleaned and part of a dish with all the accompanying accoutrements of Cajun country...beans, rice, saucy sauce or roux, shrimp, crab, onion, green pepper, celery. You can throw in all the above or some of it, either way I’ll love it. 

On this trip we’re not going to stop over in Swampland Louisiana...Lafayette, Baton Rouge et al.  We’re headed for Bayou Segnette on the very outskirts of New Orleans.  This state park is almost urban in that it’s surrounded by the west bank suburbs of Harahan and Weswego and is 20 minutes from the Quarter and the Garden District.  Nonetheless, it is still a bayou, chock full of bayou wildlife.  The avian inhabitants are diverse.  Behind our campsite I can see White Ibis picking their way through the thick wetland grabbing bugs and minnows and whatever else they like to eat.  Great Blue Herons glide effortlessly across the broad canal that runs alongside the Park.  Gators ply the shallow waters like elegantly jointed submarines seeking out targets, though at this writing it’s too cold to see them.  They’re hiding, preserving their body heat. 

Bayou Segnette State Park is well laid out.  There are trash cans placed strategically everywhere, much like you might see at Disneyland.  Hence, the park is very clean and litter is at a minimum. There are public swimming pools and water features that the locals can use during the hellishly stuffy summer months when it’s hot as smolderin’ embers and the air is a woolen blanket wet with dew.  A levy wall runs the length of the park to hold back storm surge, a lesson learned from Katrina.  On the canal side of the levy there are a dozen or so very attractive floating cabins for rent.  They are amply built with plenty of room for large families.  They have nice broad porches that run all the way around them to give visitors plenty of fishing or evening gabbing space..or both. You can even tie your boat up to them.  It’s amazingly well thought out.  I’d love to hang out for a few days in one of them.  I notice about half of them have satellite dishes as well.  The restrooms and shower stalls are very clean.  If you want to combine the outdoors with your New Orleans city ventures, man, this is a great place from which to base your operations. 

We made several trips into the Crescent City, mainly for culinary adventures.  Diane and I have been here several times in the past and have had such great times together during those visits.  Once we stayed at the Corn Stalk Fence House in the Quarter, that eponymous icon that features the wrought iron fence with corn stalks for the uprights.  On another visit we took in Al Hirt’s show in the Hilton.  I recall that during the show Al invited a priest up on stage who played clarinet.  He was phenomenal at playing Dixieland Jazz. Al Hirt, Pete Fountain, they both held court here once upon a Dixieland day.  Of course, during that visit we took in the evening show at Preservation Hall, the last bastion of old time New Orleans Dixieland, complete with its dirt floor.  In those days there was a sign on the wall that listed prices to request certain overplayed songs like “When the Saints Go Marching In” and “Nearer My God to Thee”.  The band was tired of playing them, but would still do it for a fee. Billy and Dee Dee held court there then.  I once had a record of theirs and that is how I knew of the place before my first visit there when I was 19. 

My first visit to this wondrous city was with my parents and my brother, Joe in the late ‘60’s while on vacation. We walked around the French Quarter while my parents would dart into a bar here and there for a cocktail. While they were enjoying their Hurricanes Joe and I would scoot down alleys and explore the inner sanctums of the quarter. It a was marvelous adventure for two adolescents. My next exploration there was to experience Mardi Gras, still before I was 21.  A psychiatrist when I was locked up in the mental hospital told me I should definitely do it during my college years...but that’s another story for another time.  Dave Perez drove us down there with his brother Pete.  We crashed with another friend, Tom Costello, who was going to school at Loyola. He had an apartment on Octavia street in the Garden District, my favorite part of New Orleans.  It was while watching a parade and getting a little too close to the floats that I was knocked flat on my ass by night stick wielding cop who didn’t favor my attitude.  After that reminder of the rules I withdrew to the curb for the remainder of Mardi Gras.  I recall that one sunny afternoon we went over to Audubon Park to check out the action there.  There was a fella there playing guitar through a tiny Pignose amp who sounded just like Jimmy Hendrix.  I was amazed.  I never caught his name.  I still wonder, who was that guy? 

Working for Sight and Sound Distributors for 15 years brought me to New Orleans more times than I can count since we had a sales office and warehouse there during the late ‘80’s and throughout the ‘90’s.  We had a really talented, yet slightly off-kilter staff there and we did good business.  Our branch was located in Metarie right next to the levee.  Our Branch Manager there was a very educated and erudite man named Gladden Scott.  Gladden knew virtually everyone who was anyone in the city and a more diverse and interesting bag of characters you’d be hard-pressed to find anywhere.  Gladden also knew the absolute best restaurants in town and whenever we had the occasion to dine out the owners and proprietors of these eateries would greet us warmly and seat us at the best tables.  Such was Gladden’s rapport and reputation in the city.  Gladden was friends with Anne Rice, the “Vampire Diaries” author.  Gladden knew Emeril before the world was introduced to him and was friends with the Brennans, the royalty of NOLA.  Paul Prudhomme was another of his personal friends, Paul being the inventor of the blackened redfish craze that single-handedly put Redfish on the endangered species list for a time.  When you went out to dine with Gladden you were guaranteed to meet the movers and shakers of the Big Easy, authors, classy restaurateurs, slippery politicians, networking artists...the real characters and lifeblood of the city. 

Since Diane and I had not been here since Katrina destroyed the city we wondered what it would be like.  What would still be standing, what would be gone, washed away in the flood?  We wandered through the Quarter on foot searching out those familiar haunts we loved so well.  K-Pauls restaurant was still standing and still had the sign out front, but was shuttered, more a victim of Covid than Katrina.  Of course, Paul Prudhomme has passed on along with his wonderful wife.  Gone but never forgotten.  Emeril’s, at least where it used to stand, was gone as well, but happily restored in a new and very classy, sleek location.  The C&G Courtyard Grill, a favorite of Gladdens, is gone, too.  How I recall with epicurean delight the dish they called, “The Feed”… a divine sampler of all that was truly NOLA inspired.  Antoine’s is still alive and kicking, though, as is Felix’ Oyster House (home of the crabbiest waitresses).  Gallitoire’s still reigns in its old glory, though shabby and rundown looking from the street.  Court of the Two Sisters is right where its always been and Brennans still stands. 
We noted that in days past the Quarter had a good number of strip clubs and what were called, “  bars and parlors”.  A sight perhaps unique to the Quarter in those bygone days were the swings that would fly out through the windows and out onto the street.  Those seedy bars are gone now as far as we can tell, replaced by equally seedy blues clubs, heavily amplified Stevie Ray Vaughn interpretations of Texas Blues.  There doesn’t seem to be a Dixieland joint left in the Quarter.  Narry a “female impersonator” club could we find, and apparently, no one is stripping any longer.  They are

certainly not flying out of barroom windows on swing sets nearly naked either. No, that version of NOLA and the French Quarter is gone now.  Maybe it's for the best.  Although I have to report that the Quarter really looks rundown at this juncture.  I mean to say, it's always been rundown a bit in my lifetime, that’s part of the charm.  Now, however, the place just feels tired, sad, and extra shabby, as if it could all fall down in a heap at any moment.  The food though, well, the food is still exquisite.  

During our brief 3 day visit we were hungry for seafood and we thought we would try new places to eat that had the highest ratings in the town.  We feasted at Irene’s one evening and I’m here to tell you that the char-grilled oysters were the absolute best I ever ate.  The Bourbon House just a few blocks away did not disappoint either with its seafood appetizers and main courses.  For brunch, (not the traditional jazz brunch of yesteryear, sadly) The Ruby Slipper was a gourmet stuff-fest.  These places receive my highest gastronomical ratings of Two Hands Up.  

You know, time changes things, even those things and places you think of as iconic and unalterable and New Orleans is changing from what I knew it as.  Then again, New Orleans has, in part, always been that.  Jackson Square and the Cathedral of St Louis still stand resolute and proud.  Artists hang on the edge of the square rendering their portraits and perspectives.  A brass band plays loud and proud for tips in the center of it.  Andrew Jackson waves from his horse as he has lo these many years.  And, as we got ready to leave NOLA, a ragged street band, who looked for all the world to be two steps from starving, played old time rags on the fiddle, guitar, and plectrum banjo on the corner of Decatur and Conti streets.  It is altogether fitting and proper that they do this.  Someone must.  I dropped a ten spot into their guitar case.  God bless them on their way...they’ll need it.  

The Mississippi Gulf Coast 

As we continue our circumnavigation of the Gulf of Mexico we pack up and move a couple of more hours eastward into Mississippi.  Skirting Lake Ponchartrain we hook up once again with I-10 for a brief 60 or 70 miles until we drop back south into the bayous of Mississippi and the Gulf Coast.  The Live Oaks, still festooned with Spanish Moss, form a cavernous ceiling over the narrow two-lane roads we take that snake southward.  These little ribbons of road are the pater familias of the term, “blue roads” that the author Least Heat Moon wrote about back in the ‘80’s.  Modest little stores punctuate the road side here and there serving as gathering places for the folks who live scattered throughout the bayous and swamps and occasional dry spaces where you can lay in a foundation for living.  Now and then we pass by a Big House where a land master still apparently holds court, not unlike what I imagine the countryside of Britain to be, the village and the folks who live spread out among the fields and hills surrounding the land baron’s estate. 

Our destination is Buccaneer State Park, a reserve for both the traveler and the locals alike.  Wren and Nan, dear friends and fellow adventurers, shared some campgrounds with us from their prior travels and this is one of them.  Buccaneer has very nice amenities for the campers as well as a water park.  I imagine the locals flood in here during the sultry, unbearable days of summer, hot as a bed of lit charcoal, when you feel as if you could almost swim in the air.  It is so humid it feels a woolen blanket wet with dew. (apparently I like those lines. I used them a few pages prior and have written them into a song I wrote)  The Park itself is nice enough, clean and well kept, but it doesn’t really feature any natural attractions of any note that would cause you to go hiking or other nature pursuit.  However, Buccaneer is an excellent place to stage your visits to and from Bay St Louis, Pass Christian and other places along the coast. 

These two little towns retain an open and breezy air of charm and warmth.  They are separated only by a long, arching bridge that allows ships to pass underneath in the channel.  Stately mansions line the main road that parallels the beach for many miles.  Some are on long stilts, twenty or more feet off the ground.  These are the newer structures that have learned the lessons from past hurricanes.  Others, ground-based, proud and strong, have taken the hurricanes’ might and survived.  Not all the homes did.  I recall the first time I visited here in 1968 or 1969 with my parents.  It was right after Hurricane Camille had ravaged the coast.  Boats lay on rooftops as if they were darts thrown from Neptune’s giant’s hand, puncturing the roofs.  I recall thinking at the time that it was as if a giant meteor had cannon-balled into the ocean and sent everything flying through the air every which way.  The towns have recovered so well from these now nearly annual weather events.  If you don’t look too closely you might not know that this area has been so often raked over by wind and wave.  Hurricane escape routes are clearly marked, though.  Everyone knows the way out. 

The edge of the ocean here is very shallow.  You could walk out into it for perhaps at least a half a mile before you reach water deeper than your knees.  As I drove to Mass one Sunday morning early I was shocked to see dry land for at least a quarter mile out into what had been the night before, ocean.  Thousands of sea birds picked furiously though the detritus of the tide’s damp wake, little shelled creatures, smallish crabs, and other forms of life left high and dry being their breakfast. 

Catholicism is strong here.  Catholic churches are abundant and in some area I felt they overlapped each other’s parishes, being only several blocks apart.  It was Lenten time when we arrived and all the Catholic churches were featuring Friday Fish dinners, just as we used to see in St Louis where the competition for the best Lenten fish fry is keen.  Though we didn’t attend any of the fish fries during our visit, we did indeed eat fish every single evening that we were here.  Oysters, on the half shell and grilled, were downed gleefully by Diane and I. 

One evening we drove over to a great little riverside restaurant back up in the swampland called, “Jourdan River Steamer”.  It hangs on the bank of the Jourdan River, a slow and muddy alligator infested ribbon of life.  This...is a great restaurant! We met our dear friends, Wren and Nan, who we most recently were camp hosting with at Pedernales Falls State Park.  It’s crazy how you cross paths across the country with new friends you meet on the road such as we are.  Actually, you look for reasons to meet up, and, since we all love a good meal this eatery was the target.  My meal was a seafood pasta that I must say might have been the best seafood pasta I ever ate.  We shared oysters as an appetizer and had a blast being together while feasting on the area’s sea harvest. 

Time and again while staying at Buccaneer State Park Diane and I would venture out to Bay St Louis and Pass Christian and walk around the main streets poking our heads into the little shops and boutiques.  We had a great time here, relaxing, refreshing our souls in the salty air and definitely attempting to satiate our cravings for seafood.  Winter and Spring is the time to come here.  Summer, I fear, may just be too damn hot and humid. The ocean is not really conducive to swimming and unless you like bathing with your 3000 closest friends at the water park, your water related options are limited. 

Our last day in Bay St Louis was the Saturday before St Patrick’s Day.  The town puts on an annual parade that somehow combines the best parts of Mardi Gras with those of the Irish holiday.  Though the floats in the parade were not the most creative, the spirit of the paraders certainly was.  Hundreds of folks lined the parade route while the people on the floats threw Mardi Gras beads to them.  But wait, what’s this? They were also throwing cabbage heads, carrots, potatoes, and oranges to the crowd. 

“Where’s the corned beef?” I hollered. 

It was great fun and everyone forgot about the gas prices being through the roof, the war in Ukraine, and their political tribe’s most recent talking points.  It was St Patrick, King of Mardi Gras, Day.  The next day as we drove down that boulevard that runs along the beach front there seemed to be a collective hang-over that hung like a low, spongy fog over the place.  Scattered beads lay everywhere like millions of Skittles.  Crushed carrots and mushed cabbage heads with red potato accents gave the impression that a massive city-wide food fight had occurred.  Townspeople were slow to emerge from their shelters.  We drove on.  Our next destination was but a short half hour drive inland to McCloud County Park on the Jourdan River. 

McCloud County Park is uniquely situated on the snaky-ass Jourdan River. The Jourdan is one of those rebel rivers in the Southland that travels five miles for every linear mile on the map.  Lob lolly Pines, Cypress, and Live Oaks, replete with Spanish Moss overtones, line its banks.  You just know there are Alligators aplenty here, Cottonmouths, too, I bet ya.  The park is surrounded by Rotten Bayou… I kid you not...that’s the name of the Bayou.  It’s primo habitat for lizard and slither life.  I imagine Catfish and Alligator Gar compete heavily for the crown of King Fish.  It’s spooky, yet somehow inviting to us.  We yearn to kayak or canoe here.  Will a gator tip us over and bite our legs off?  Hell, it could happen for sure here.  Will a tangled ball of mating Cottonmouths inject us to our deaths if we venture near?  It could happen here.  But, as luck would have it, it’s uncommonly cold for this time of year here and all the animals designed to kill you are asleep in a cold stupor.  In fact, it’s too cold for kayaking… at least for Diane and me. Maybe next time. 

Part of this park is old and shabby, the campsites have the look of a forlorn book with dog-eared pages and beat up dust covers.  Half of the park is nearly brand new with freshly paved, concrete level pads and full hookups. Most of the sites sit on smallish bluffs on the river bank, high enough to avoid high water during floods, which I imagine are often here.  We are camping in the older part of the park tucked away at the end of a lonesome narrow road surrounded by the forest of swamp and trees.  It’s perfect for us, very private with good space.  At night the county park has a ranger of sorts who patrols the campground in a beat up former patrol car that once belonged to the county sheriff.  The “Sheriff” lettering has been crudely painted over black with a paintbrush. Rust eats away at the fenders while the paint is peeling from the roof.  Still, the person on duty patrols dutifully. Perhaps there has been trouble in the past.  Judging from the condition of our campsite when we arrived I imagine drunken behavior is the chief concern.  Diane and I removed a 55-gallon trash bag worth of garbage from our campsite alone.  Beer bottles were the primary trash.  The folks who run the park work hard and they are very hospitable but they do not have camp hosts like other public parks do.  So, without the manpower to keep the place picked up, it gets trashy.  One afternoon Diane and I decided to walk the campground and just pick up trash as we would if we were volunteering here.  We still clutch to our theory that the cleaner you keep a campground, the cleaner the visitors will keep it.  Cleanliness begets cleanliness and trash begets more trash. Putting litter aside, McCloud is a really nice place to camp.  We really liked it here. 

Stennis Airport and Aerospace Center is right next door.  Stennis Aerospace has been deeply involved with NASA in testing rocket engines.  The airport serves private planes as well as military craft.  During most of the day military jets along with C-130 cargo planes take off and land urgently and confidently.  I imagine there are no mufflers on these jets. Their rocket engines obliterate any other sound that may emanate on land or in the sky.  For me, it’s exciting. I love being close to jets. They slice through the thick air low and loud overhead as they circle the airport to land.  I always stop whatever it is I’m doing to watch them. 

McCloud is very close to I-10 highway and it makes it easy for us to travel the relatively short distance over to Biloxi and the busy shoreline east and west of there.  As it turns out, the casinos of Biloxi and the high rise condos are not that enticing to us as we traveled over there one day.  The quaintness of Bay St Louis is much more appealing.  However, just east of Biloxi lies one of the campgrounds of the Gulf Islands National Seashore chain.  We spent a wonderful afternoon there hiking around and taking in the presentations in the Visitor Center. The Gulf Islands National Seashore is situated like a necklace of pearls across the gulf between Biloxi and Fort Walton Beach.  This particular part of the system is the westernmost outpost.  Though not large at all, it is a great spot for camping and fishing and retains most if not all the naturalness of the original seashore.  I wish we could have found camping here, but every time I tried to book a site the grounds were solidly reserved.  This National Park campground is one of those places you need to book six months in advance to have a chance to get in. 

During one of our three days at McCloud County Park it rained furiously all day long.  I thought the river would rise up and flood us out, the threat of flash floods still in my thoughts from so much time spent out West where they are a real threat.  The river rose, maybe, an inch or two.  I suppose the bayous and swamps swallowed up most of the rainfall without giving it up to the river.  The rainy day gave us pause to catch up on inside activities. I searched out and spoke with a repair shop close by as I had noticed brake fluid leaking from my driver’s side front wheel.  I worried about this a lot and needed to get it fixed before we ventured too far.  I caught up on my guitar practice and song writing and Diane worked on her pottery.  The dogs seemed depressed.  No long walks for them today. 

We had the news channel on for a good amount of time that day and the reality of the war in Ukraine aroused the real fear in me of all the possible ramifications it could bring.  The threat of nuclear war and the fear for my kids well-being rose up in my stomach.  Since early childhood the fear of nuclear war has, at times, haunted me. I recall clearly the Cuban missile crisis of ‘62. 

I remember Kruschev banging his shoe on the desk in the UN declaring, “We will bury you!” Those images stay with you throughout your life. I can’t possibly imagine the trauma the Ukrainians are going through right now. They’re getting bombed off the face of the earth.  The reporters and the networks sense it, too.  All other news has become incidental at this point.  A 50 car pile-up on a highway in Missouri with 6 deaths is barely mentioned.  In pre-Ukraine war days reporters would have been dispatched poste haste to the crash site interviewing survivors and witnesses for at least three or four days.  Trump, a daily regular feature on the networks, rarely is mentioned any longer.  Perhaps the silver lining to this war will be a better working relationship among both political parties.  Nonetheless, I fear we haven’t seen the worst of it yet. 

The prognosis for the wheel on Nell was not great, could have been worse, I suppose.  The hub had dried out as the fluid cap had been knocked off and the hub fluid had drained out.  She needed a new hub installed. $700.00 some odd dollars later she was fixed. 

I tell myself, “Well, if we owned a home I might be spending that much every month fixing or updating one thing or another.” Often life choices are a trade-off. I’ll take my travelin’ trade over home ownership for now. 

The Alabama Coast 

This little chapter of our journey gives us a some respite from our recent traveling schedule of three days and move, which is how we’ve planned to slowly traverse the longest possible route from Austin to Pilot Mountain, NC, where we will volunteer for the month of May.  We thought we would need a break from that routine, though it has been inspirational and a blast so far.  Ten days at Dauphin Island, Alabama is the plan.  We came here years ago, maybe 8 or 10 at this point.  Diane had picked this island out as a place to vacation on the ocean, yet not among the high rise condos of the Florida Panhandle.  Her research and intuition paid off is spades.  We love the place.  It is funky.  Oh, it’s clean and bright and the folks who come here are real friendly, but it’s not like your typical beach vacation spot. 

For starters, Dauphin Island is in Mobile Bay.  It is the site where the “Battle of Mobile” played out during the Civil War.  Fort Gaines is still here, that old bastion of Mobile’s defense.  Fort Morgan lies just offshore on another island, yet another defensive military outpost.  We plan to take a ferry ride over to see it.  Remember that old and famous cussing that the union captain, Admiral Farragut, gave when he encountered stiff resistance here during the battle, “Damn the torpedoes!”?  This was that battle.  Yep, it happened here.  It was also the title to one of the late Tom Petty’s albums.  This island doesn’t feature that brilliant blue water as other tourist destinations do.  The water, due to the Tombigbee and the Alabama rivers emptying here, is murky, thick, and fertile.  The beaches are China White, however...blindingly so.  Though the island is built up and there are homes and businesses aplenty, a tangled jungle covers a lot of the land.   That not covered by near-impenetrable thickets is laid over with beach dunes, scrubby yet vital components of land preservation against the constant onslaught of the sea.  Sea oats do their level best to hold back the encroaching sea. 

Birds of so many persuasions and species wing their way through the island.  Scientists say that migrating birds returning to America from lands across the Gulf make this their first stop on dry land.  They are hungry and tired. They refuel and refresh here and hang out for a while before continuing on.  On the east end of the island there sits a large tract of preserved island that is a formal bird sanctuary.  I’m guessing it may be 100 acres or so.  The preserve contains three different pine species, Loblolly, Slash, and I think the third is White Pine, but don’t quote me on the White Pine.  The iconic Live Oaks frame a few sections. Cypress trees thrive here as well.  In fact, the place is very full and diverse in tree species.  We walked through and along its many pathways often as you can access it via our campground. Dead center in the preserve lies a small lake and within that fresh water respite lives at least one alligator who we saw on every visit.  Turtles of several breeds hang out on the logs at water’s edge as if they are at a club meeting or seminar, sleeping through the redundant lecturing.  Due to the length of the cold weather this Spring, virtually elongating the Winter season, the bulk of the birds have yet to start arriving, though a Bald Eagle, several Ospreys, a Brown-Capped Nuthatch, and several other types of birds have shown up.  I’m certain snakes love this place as well, it has just been a little too cool for them to emerge and slither hither and yonder.  That’s just fine with me. 

Snow Birds from the northern US flock here in the winter as well.  They hang out in the RV park where we are as well. You can stay here up to six months.  The folks who love this place are by and large blue collar, working-class folks.  Tradesmen from central Alabama down for a few days of fishing, oil rig workers who have a few days off, families from the deep south vacationing.  Farmers from Illinois who have some time off between field work.  I may not be clairvoyant, but through my decades of working with so many different types of peoples, I can usually tell a person’s background by how they handle themselves socially, how they walk and talk, the air of their accent, the clothes they wear.  I don’t see a lot of lawyers and doctors and such here.  This place is down home and non-uppity.  Uppity-ness may as well be a violation of local law.  It is so non-uppity that the locals dropped the “e” from the end of the island’s original name, Dauphine. 

“What is Dauphine anyway, French, or some such uppity language?  Dauphin is just fine, thank you.” answered the camp ground manager when I asked them about the spelling. 

Dauphin Island is a working island, too.  Working boats busily run back and forth between here and the oil rigs offshore bringing them supplies.  The Coast Guard has a station here, just across the street from where we are staying.  I watched them practice rescue maneuvers just offshore in a helicopter.  They would drop a person into the water from 20 feet or so, lower a basket, and then retrieve the basket with that person in tow, thus saving them.  Over and over they performed this drill.  They know they will need to have perfected this skill some day. There is a Sea Lab located here where research on many things oceanic takes place.  They built an aquarium and an estuarium for folks to visit.  An estuarium is a small encapsulement of a coastal, estuary. All the vital inter-connected forms of estuarian geography, flora, and fauna are displayed realistically.  They are trying to give visitors a sense of why this island in particular and why estuaries in general need to be preserved in the 21st century.  Turns out they are an absolutely vital component of life on Earth. 

When we visited the island the last time we caught a lot of fish.  Speckled Sea Trout, Topsail Catfish, and a lot of sharks.  There are lots and lots of sharks around here.  Diane and I once again tried our hand at surf fishing but caught only smallish Whiting the first go ‘round, too small to keep or eat.  Our second shot netted naught.  The wind and waves were so merciless that I couldn’t get my bait but 30 yards or so from the shore.  Then, once it landed it would be washed back up on the beach.  Scant chance of catching a fish in those conditions, though during our last foray I managed something like a 5 lb Topsail and a smallish Redfish. 

We happened to be on the Island during our wedding anniversary this year. It is our 47th.  The thing is, we have been together for longer, maybe 7 years or so before marriage.  We met during the summer when we were in 9th grade.  We met at a party for Cheryl Brookman who was leaving town.  Nancy Tubbesing, whom we are going to see in Fair Hope across the Bay on the 26th of this month, hosted the party.  I’ll detail that remarkable party at some later writing.  As a tease, it involved a true paranormal experience for me, not ghostly, but out of the realm of normal consciousness for true, for true. 

The forecast for our anniversay called for storms and rain all day.  By 1:00 PM it had not started and my radar app showed it was still a long ways off.  It being Tuesday, a lot of restaurants were closed.  We were low on food as well.  We thought we would go down to the local island sea food store and perhaps cook up some tasty seafood dish, depending upon what they had in stock...fresh.  Alas, Alack, and Dadgum it, they were closed. Tuesday strikes again.  Well, what to do? 

We thought about it and Diane ventured, “Why not drive into Mobile to find a good seafood restaurant?  Let’s go exploring and make an adventure of it!”

The idea, the non-plan, turned out to be a great one.  We drove over the long bridge that connects to the mainland and coursed our way along the bay coast passing all sorts of coastline houses and cabins.  It’s really quite a mix of housing along there.  Glorified crab shacks are mixed in with substantial modern homes.  Glancing out to the left and right as we drove I thought about it and wondered who lived out there past the road’s boundary, past where the trees and swampland meld into one teeming gumbo of estuary Alabama.  Who lives out there and how do they live out there?  Folks surely do because occasionally we would see a rag tag, paint faded truck pull out of what might be a dirt (mud) road.  The Gulf Coast estuaries, which range from Texas all the way through the Florida panhandle are like no other place in America.  It’s as if you are in another country where another form of English is spoken and the customs don’t match suburbia, USA in the least.  Truly a mysterious place if you don’t live there, I find it enchanting and the people disarmingly happy and polite. 

Diane attempted to look up local restaurants on line, but the truth is most of them aren’t listed there.  They’re just out there, if, you can find them.  We found one restaurant that some folks we spoke to told us was the best in the area.  Bayley’s seafood is a local hangout that is very popular with the locals.  It’s the real deal, not fancy in the least, but lots of fish and crustaceans and shrimp are cooked up here daily. 90% of the dishes are fried, though.  That’s the way folks around here like it.  Since we were in the mood for grilled seafood or raw oysters, (grilled perhaps) Diane came up with another idea. 

“Let’s go on a seafood crawl.  We’ll have something here, something else at the next restaurant, and that way sample the best of the area’s food.  We’ll keep going till we’re full.” 

Well, I thought that was a splendiferous idea, gobsmackingly so.  So, we ordered the gumbo, which was not cheap. $19.00 for a bowl, but... it was a big bowl.  In fact, after we split that bowl I could have called it quits. However, it was not a time or day to hold back.  How often do you have a 47th anniversary?  How often are you in the shrimp and seafood basket of the nation on that 47th anniversary? 

We decided next to head over to Bayou La Batre, or, ‘The Bayou” as the locals call it.  This is the Bayou La Batre made famous in the movie, “Forest Gump”.  It is shrimp city USA. Shrimp boats line the canal that cuts through town.  It’s a tough and tumble town with no room for anyone who doesn’t want to work and work hard. Immigrants from Indo-China have established themselves here.  Shrimp is in the blood line of the town and the region.  It cuts through all racial boundaries.  Everyone is tied to the Gulf.  Driving along the main drag through town the Catalina Bayou Restaurant caught our eye.  The kitchen exhaust fan filled the gravel parking lot with delicious aromas, exotic.  Whatever was being cooked, we wanted some.  We stopped and went in, the earlier gumbo quickly wearing off. 

We were actually between lunch and dinner crowds so we had the place to ourselves.  The owner, a fast walking and faster talking woman of 50 or so, was running around laughing and talking with the crew.  Her short, cropped hair was flying every which way as she scurried around the restaurant.  This was a happy place.  It’s stood its ground through storm and sun, feast and famine since the ‘60’s.  I would describe the ambiance as funky, yet clean...tacky by city standards, yet elegant in its own way.  We ended up engaged and yacking with just about everyone on the crew including the owner.  After serious deliberation we ordered the crab stuffed Grouper and the Royal Red Shrimp dinner, both grilled.  Royal Red Shrimps are the King of Shrimps around here.  They are big and bright red, and delicious beyond words.  The Grouper was mouth-watering.  Diane and I shared our plates with each other.  Holy Moly was it great!  Of all things, I particularly liked the side of hush puppies.  But then, I’m a hush puppy kind of guy.  We would have stayed, lingering on after dinner but the folks in the Catalina Bayou were getting nervous about the coming storm.  They’ve certainly seen their share and we figured if they were fidgety about it maybe we better get fidgety and head back across the bridge to the island. 

As it all turned out, this day was wonderful, one of our better anniversary celebrations, and it was all on a whim. Sometimes the best things happen that way.  That’s one of the beauties of our lifestyle.  We can be random and we can be free...at least while we have a few coins left in our pockets. 

Towards the end of our stay on the island we dedicated a day to jumping on the ferry that connects to Gulf Shores and Fort Morgan on the eastern side of Mobile Bay.  The ferry runs every hour or so back and forth to Fort Morgan carrying 25 or 30 cars, bicyclists, and folks on foot.  So long as the waves aren’t too ferocious it runs like a Swiss clock.  Who doesn’t love a good ferry ride?  Through shallow water, brown and khaki tinged, and deeper holes and stretches, green and forbidding, the ferry scuds along like a cloud-laden storm front sending off waves off its own port and starboard.  Past vacant and apparently abandoned oil rigs we plowed, straight for the old fort that for a century and a half guarded the entrance to Mobile Bay.  Cicatrix enveloped parts of the shoreline as the skeletal remains of old buildings are seemingly never removed entirely.  Laughing Gulls cackling in our wake searched and dove for any bay life that may have been churned up, stunned by the stupendous power of the propellers of this vessel. 

We put ashore some 25 minutes after setting out from the western bank and drove the short distance to Fort Morgan.  This guardian of the bay was originally constructed in the early 1800’s as the War of 1812 proved that the young nation needed to protect it’s flanks from attack by sea.  Over the next few decades it was added onto and developed substantially into a brick, concrete, and earthen defensive behemoth.  At the outbreak of the civil war, and in fact, before Alabama technically seceded from the Union, the Alabama State Militia overran the structure and took control of it from the few Yankee soldiers living there. 

Towards the end of the Civil War, in 1864, Admiral Farrugut and his fleet of wooden and ironclad ships attacked the fort as part of an overall campaign to take Mobile.  Mobile had been a rebel blockade runner’s haven where cotton was traded to the Europeans for arms and ammo.  Farrugut and his fleet conducted a prolonged siege of the fort and nearly blew it off the spit of land it stood on.  The gunners of the fort fought back ferociously heaving over 500 rounds of cannon fire at the ships in the bay.  Only one ship was lost, however, the Tecumseh, it having run into a mine, or torpedo as they were called in the day.  In the end the fort and the town of Mobile surrendered and the deep South was surrounded and cut in half, Sherman’s March ensuring its demise. 

Walking around the fort in self-guided fashion was jaw-dropping to me.  The fort was so well planned and laid out.  Built almost entirely of brick and huge bunkers of earth.  It spreads out resembling a five pointed star.  Every conceivable point of possible attack was covered by ramparts affording multiple angles and opportunities for defensive fire.  Rifle windows, openings for cannon fire, and stout brick walls many feet thick jut out at precise shooting points.  Inside the walls of the fort you are confronted and confused by near countless arch-framed passages, hallways, and rooms that lead from storage rooms to gunpowder magazines, to sleeping quarters, and various other necessary concealed spaces that a fort in the 19th century required.  The deep burgundy red and sometimes ochre bricks and intricate arched passageways are covered over in many places by leaching white material from the mortar.  Here and there stalactites drip from the ceilings of the same white, salty material.  It’s a beautiful, yet ghostly scene in the labyrinth of rooms and arches.  The center of the fort is open to the sunshine.  A large building once stood there that housed the soldiers but it was blasted to smithereens during the battle on the bay.  No evidence is left of it.  On this day the beaming sun and ocean wind filled the void. 

Fort Morgan’s usefulness to the nation did not end during the Civil War.  The fort was retro-fitted and modernized in 1898 for the Spanish American War, again during WWI and finally again for WWII.  Each time bigger and more accurate cannons and guns were placed in the parapets.  There were cannons that could heave a thousand pound shell 8 miles accurately.  German submariners took special note as they bombasted merchant ships in the Gulf bound for Europe to supply the needs of the war.  We are not a war-loving couple, Diane and I.  However, visiting these forts and museums dedicated to our nation’s defense and the overall defense of freedom from tyranny is so fascinating to us.  Freedom is not free.  It is purchased and wrested from autocrats and dictators with blood, weapons, and unity of purpose.  We see that so clearly displayed every day now in Ukraine where gorillas are pushing back the heavily armored divisions of Russian invaders.

Next Up...Fairhope, Alabama and a dear friend from the old neighborhood 

Our stay on Dauphin Island and thereabouts was wonderful.  Outside of it being a little bit cool for this time of year and windy we vowed to return once again here one day as this stay confirmed in our minds this is a great stop.  Recently, we have had some problems with Nell, our motor home/Conestoga.  Her left front wheel was leaking fluid pretty badly prompting me to find some one expert in repairing wheels this size in a vehicle this size.  TSI Dieselworx over in Gulfport, MS seemed to have both the facility and know-how to repair the problem. They replaced the wheel hub and $700.00 later off we drove.  However, there was this chunk-a chunk-a sound coming from that wheel when we drove into Dauphin.  I called and was told they may have not put enough fluid back in the cylinder so I put more in myself.  Hopefully that remedies the problem. 

At Dauphin a mobile repairman showed up next door to us and I decided to take advantage of him already being here by having him install a new coach water pump that I bought earlier.  I have replaced 4 water pumps in the coach, all with the same problem.  They leak water back into the fresh water holding tank when hooked up to “city water”.  That leakage soon causes an overflow and water spills out of the tank It’s not good, particularly if you leave the site while it’s happening, plus, it means you have to always fill your fresh water tank and use your water pump.  It’s simply a hassle.  If you explore on line regarding water pumps in coaches you’ll find that they all seem to do the same thing...they leak into the fresh water tank.  We ended up circumventing the entire pump by placing two cutoff valves that disallows water to leak into the tank.  It’s working! 

I needed to replace the covers on our slide outs as well as our awning.  I opted to replace to covers but not the awning at this time as it still has some usefulness left and we’re already way over budget for this month’s expenses.  Finding a mobile rv repairman you can trust is an iffy thing, but this fella, Tony Dalton, at DD Onsite RV is the bee’s knees.  Seek him out if you’re in coastal Alabama and need RV help.  All in all, though, we’re into $1400.00 plus in rv repairs for the past month. Some of that is to be expected in a rv that is 17 years old. We don’t have a payment for Nell, she’s ours free and clear so we have to keep that in perspective, too.  But, you need to know that running around the country will bring you unexpected costs and surprises.  Account for it in your budget the best you can.  I set aside X amount every month in our budget for rv and auto expense. I keep a very accurate accounting of nearly every dime we spend every month and post that against a pre-made budget, trying to know both where we’re spending money as well as forecast how much we will need for the next year’s travel.  Gasoline, this year, has been a real bite.  Thank God we’re not paying for Diesel! 

Repairs having been completed and feeling good about travelin’ on we drove around Mobile Bay from the eastern shore to the western shore to land at a dear friend’s home, Nancy Tubbesing Weltlich and her husband, Bob. They have a wonderful home that Nancy designed herself in the gracious town of Fairhope, AL.  I like the name of that town, Fairhope. It’s positive and promising. 

Heading north along the western side of Mobile Bay we passed through numerous bayous and backwaters with houses on stilts ready for the next high water event.  Little intersections of two-lane roads greeted us with a smattering of small businesses perched at the best location they could afford out here in the swamplands. Shrimp and mudbugs were for sale everywhere it seemed.  Life itself must have sprung from such estuaries once upon a time.  It springs forth yet, and the folks who live out here know best how to live with it, in it, and from it. 

We emerged to merge onto I-10, fast becoming my favorite interstate.  Over and through Mobile proper we drove the short distance across the headwaters of the Bay until we found the road that would take us south to Fairhope, AL.  Along the western edge of the Bay one finds “civilization” has found the western Bay shore. Civilization, as in gas stations and franchise restaurants a-plenty line the drive south along the Bay.  Driving further south still we came upon the not so little towns of Spanish Fort, Daphne, and Fairhope.  These provinces of culture eschew charm and history, as well as a dignity and beauty that is most southern in all the good aspects of that term.  Very large and stately Live Oaks line the back streets of Fairhope.  Some of these self-same behemoths had massive limbs that caused my stomach to stir and churn in anxious anticipation of a shaved roof off the motor home.  Thankfully, with some re-centering of the motor home on these roads (meaning, by driving down the middle of the road to avoid hitting the limbs) we escaped damage and could later sit back and marvel at the massiveness of these ancient trees.  Fragrant flower gardens, mostly in abundant bloom now, and wonderfully architectured homes line the streets of Fairhope.  History and culture flower as well. 

Diane and Nancy went to Kindergarten together and attended grade school together in Webster Groves, MO, where I grew up as well.  I met young Nancy in junior high school, Hixson JR High.  Tom Kennedy and I both went there from Holy Redeemer grade school, we being the only two Catholic kids in our class who defected to Hixson, a “public school”.  Oh, how the nuns shuddered to think of such a thing!  And me, with my two older brothers in the seminary to be priests. I was always the black sheep in our family. 

Nancy, Diane, and I have long history together.  Nancy is one of the most brilliant stars out there.  Her shine lights up the room when she enters.  Nancy is effervescent, larger than life, and a blond bombshell.  She tells it like it is, all the time, every time, always with a beaming smile on her face.  Though we have reunited at high school reunions over the decades it was more intimate and enduring to have this time together without the hustle and bustle of a room full of chatty people all getting reconnected for the weekend.  Though our stay this trip was but one day, we had a wonderful time “catching up”.  Nancy’s husband, Bob, is a great guy, a wonderful fellow, erudite and witty to boot.  Bob used to coach college basketball and was a coach under Bobby Knight when Indiana went undefeated and won the NCAA tournament in 1976.  Bob was also the head basketball coach at Ole Miss.  Of course, I had to monopolize his time by asking every basketball-centric question I could come up with. 

“What’s Michael Jordan really like?” (yes, he coached Jordan on the US Olympic team) 

“Is Bobby Knight a bully off-court like he is on-court?” 

“What’s the hardest thing about coaching college level?” 

On and on my incessant questions went, but Bob was very patient and gracious, as well as honest I believe, in his answers.  He regaled me with a lot of great stories that I devoured, listening intently.  Bob’s sense of humor is keen and he interjects humor into his stories adroitly with hilarious one-liners.  Later, in the evening we watched Duke play in the semifinals of the Tournament (March Madness).  That was because: 

A) It was March Madness and we were with a former Division I college basketball coach. 

B) Bob “hired” Coach K (Mike Krzyewski) way back in the day. 

C) March Madness is a gas.

So, we had just a fantastic time with Nancy and Bob and I parked Nell overnight in their ample driveway.  They took us over to their daughter’s house for dinner and treated us to Waffle House in the morning. Nancy held court there as if she were the mayor of Fairhope.  I think maybe she is that de facto mayor. 

And now, here’s the story I alluded to earlier in this writing that I said I would get back to… 

When I was 14, during the Fall of my school year at Hixson Jr High, I made a lot of new friends.  Among them were Nancy Tubbesing and Cheryl Brookman.  We three became fast friends because the two girls sang beautifully and I played the guitar.  I could accompany them.  Isn’t that why guys pick up the guitar anyway?  I would perform duets with them from time to time for one good reason or another, usually a school assembly. 

Long about November of school year I had a very vivid dream.  In this dream that I had there was a Going Away Party for Cheryl because she was leaving for Sikeston, MO.  The dream had very specific things going on in it. For instance, there was a new album that everyone was listening to over and over.  No one had heard anything like it before and all the party-goers were mesmerized by it.  There were Tiki Lights placed around the lawn, flickering amber in their smoky, citronella infusion.  In the dream it was the heart of Summer.  Cicadas droned in the leafy Oak trees that formed a Summer canopy overhead.  It was humid and warm, a typical St Louis Summer's eve.  Other particulars stood out to me about the dream which I won’t get into here, but which I recalled when I awoke.  The most prescient of those particulars was a girl whom I met at the dream party who I fell head over heels for.  Even after I awoke and the dream was trying its best to fade away into the netherworld I could remember every detail of her face, she was that beautiful.  I was in love with a girl from a dream.  I was.  Truly, I was. 

Well, the next day at school, it still being November in “real time”, I told Cheryl all about the dream I had about her leaving and there being a going away party for her.  The mysterious album, the Tiki lights, most everything in my dream was still in my mind so I could tell her about it.  We had a great laugh and Cheryl humored me.  But, nonetheless, I told her about it, and that’s important because… 

Come June of that school year as we were all classmates ready to go to the big school, the High School, in the coming Autumn, Cheryl gets word that she is going to have to leave Webster Groves and move to...you guessed it, Sikeston, MO.  (Who would ever guess Sikeston, MO?)  Sure enough, there is a party thrown for her and ‘most the whole class shows up.  At this point, at the party itself, I still had semi-forgotten about the dream I had of Cheryl’s party.  Yet, there was that new album that everyone was focused on.  It turned out to be Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band by the Beatles.  Yes, Tiki lights blazed away throughout the backyard.  Other details began to sprout up throughout the evening.  Familiar faces from our class mingled about the back yard drinking punch, laughing and carrying on.  Some of the guys had spiked their red punch, mostly with some sort of weird alcohol that they had pilfered from their parent’s stash that had no business being mixed with anything let alone red punch juice.  It didn't matter.  Flirting and teenage abandon ruled the moment.  Then, the true magic occurred… 

Nancy introduced me to this girl from Parkway Central out in West St Louis County.  She had at one time been a Webster girl herself but had moved out there a few years back.  I was awestruck.  I was hit by lightening.  I was knocked out of orbit.  There before me was the girl from my dream.  Her face, so beautiful and shining. Here eyes were clear and bright.  Her perfectly tanned legs shown off by the evocatively short sun dress she was wearing made my backbone quiver.  Everything about her was perfect, just as in my dream.  It was her!  It was that girl.  It was Diane Dieterle.  My dream was coming true! 

I fumbled around and quite embarrassed myself in front of Diane and Nancy and I’m certain I made an idiotic impression on Diane as I tried to flirt with her by acting goofy and telling jokes.  At one point Diane teasingly shoved me and I tripped over backwards falling to the turf.  That gesture, I was sure, solidified in my teenage mind that Diane was at least somewhat interested in me.  She must at least kind of, sort of, maybe like me I thought or she never would have reacted like that and giggled the way she did.  That laugh, that voice, I love it to this day.  That was my teenage logic.  My God, my dream is coming true!  It’s all happening just as I dreamed it!  I ran over to Cheryl who was sipping said red punch by the record player as the chorus to “With a Little Help from My Friends” by the Beatles was drifting up into the summer’s leafy, evening trees. 

“Cheryl, Cheryl, remember last November when I told you I had this dream about us having a going away party for you because you were moving?  Remember this and that I told you about in the dream?” I blurted. “It came true, just as I dreampt it and just as I told you the next day!  Remember?  Remember?” 

“”Yes, yes, I do.  How weird.  Is it really just like your dream?”

Cheryl, I’m sure, didn’t remember all the details I went over that day with her back in November.  Who would? But, she did remember the dream about her going away party. 

This was one of, perhaps three at most, times in my entire life that I could point to an experience and for sure say it was paranormal, or a sixth sense experience.  It really did happen just this way.  I was head over heels for Diane, whom I met in my dreams 7 months earlier.  I still am, and I am perhaps more so every day that we live together over these past 53 years.  I really did truly marry the girl of my dreams.  I will never forget that first time we met, and it all, the dream and the emotions, come flowing back to me as a movie would in my mind.  But, it’s stronger than any movie could be. 

No one shines like Diane. In my dreams and in my waking hours, we were meant for each other.  My lifelong companion and best friend, my deeply romantic lover, the woman who loves me despite all my terrible faults and sins, the creative artist I admire so, my inspiration, and the ever-loving mother of our children.

Mexico Beach, the last stop on our circumnavigation of the American Gulf of Mexico. 

“30-A” is the famous road that runs along the China White sands and the sparkling Royal Blue waters of the Florida Panhandle.  Seaside, Rosemary Beach, Topsail State Park, the beachy playgrounds that are Destin and Panama City, and the many more destinations that line that ribbon of road.  Diane and I have been there many times as fortune would grant us.  Business as well as vacations brought us back here time and again traveling solo as well as with Suni and Eli.  What a gorgeous place!  My first time here was with my parents on vacation in the mid-60’s.  We stayed for a couple of nights in Pensacola in a tight little motel up the street from the beach. My dad and I fought the waves, which were up and breaking, together one afternoon for hours.  Diving into the big breakers we made an adventure game out of it.  My dad told me that every 7th wave would be a big one. How he knew that science I’m not sure, but he stated it as true seaman knowledge.  That afternoon lingers in my memory as one of the best times I ever had with my dad.  Later that evening I recall that a band was playing in a field behind the motel some ways.  They were a ways off but I could hear them clearly from the crumbling concrete steps as I sat there in the motel sign's garish red and green neon glow.  June Bugs occasionally bounced off the neon and fell pell mell to sandy parking lot.  The waves were still crashing onto the beach just across the two lane blacktop.  Still, with all that ambient sound, I could clearly and unmistakably hear the Southern Rock groove shake the palm fronds around me and I could make out the words to every song that night.   

"I ain't gonna let 'em catch me, Lord, I ain't gonna let 'em catch the midnight rider."

The Allman Joys, aka... the Allman Brothers were holding court in the Florida panhandle that night.  We all, the cicadas, the ocean, the critters in the bush, and me, we all tuned in and swayed hypnotically in rhythmic time, deep in a neon haze as Duane and Gregg and the boys spun magical music.

I have old friends here from the video days.  Days when Movie Gallery, my company’s (Sight and Sound Distributors) largest customer, and their chairman, Joe Malugen, had their headquarters just an hour or so from Panama City in Dothan, AL.  My old buddy and personal representative to Movie Gallery, Gary Hay, still lives here.  He has a home in Dothan and another in PC Beach.  Gary and I still keep in touch, but since the demise of Movie Gallery/Hollywood Video in 2009 (along with the rest of the video industry) Joe Malugen and I have not spoken.  I called him numerous times in 2009 and even into 2010 but never connected with him.  It’s a shame, really.  The loss of the nation’s second largest video retail chain must be a burden so heavy that it has scarred Joe deeply.  I was on the Board of Directors and Joe was the Chairman.  We worked very closely together.  He is a brilliant man.  He is also from Missouri, Bonne Terre to be exact, and our connections go back to that Missouri mining town...but that’s a whole other story.  I’ll lay it out there down the road.  The book on the rise and fall of Movie Gallery and the video industry in general is waiting to be written.  It would be a tremendous read.  There are characters, plots, dreams and visions, triumphs and tragedies aplenty.  It’s larger than life, just like the movies that drove the business.  To think and consider that an entire industry such as the video industry was, a multi-billion dollar, highly profitable enterprise, can disappear within a couple of years is not just mind-boggling but a valuable lesson in business life cycles. 

We elected this year that we would try somewhere different along the panhandle, having spent so much time in years past in the most popular of the panhandle vacation spots.  Mexico Beach came to mind.  It’s perhaps 30 miles or so east of PC Beach and just west of Apalachicola, FL, THE HOME of Gulf oysters.  It’s a little slower, a little lonelier than 30-A highway and the Spring Break crowds of PC Beach.  It’s as close to the old Florida gulf coast as you can get.  It’s a little funky, a little fishy, and a lot less developed.  No rows of high rise condos line the beach.  Crowds this time of year are scarce.  The fishing can be great.  Shockingly, however, the oyster business is closed.  The oyster beds have been over-harvested, depleted to the point that the powers that be have closed the area to oyster harvesting until the beds come back.  I wish upon a star that they do.  Oysters from this area are among the most delicious on Earth.  Diane’s dad used to bring back tubs of them when he would vacation down here.  He began my oyster appreciation. 

“Only eat oysters during months that have an ‘R’ in them”, he admonished me. 

The area got hit hard by Hurricane Michael a few years back.  The scars are still there.  Pine forests line the roads and the area in general.  Here and there you now see large swaths of broken pine trees, severed in half like twigs, their remains poking up in the sky like brown soda straws.  You can make out the actual path of straight line winds, or perhaps tornadoes, that sliced there way through the bush.  In the neighborhoods, homes that were not on stilts are gone, washed off the face of the planet.  Though they have cleaned up the rubble you see vacant lots where they stood, new grass and weeds replacing the homes that once stood there.  All in all, however, the area has recovered very nicely in this short time.  The resolve to carry on is strong here.

We chose to stay at another RV park, Old Salt.  We prefer the state parks and public lands, but the state park near here was hit hard by the hurricane and the camping area has not been restored yet.  No matter, Old Salt is a great little spot to stay in Mexico Beach.  It’s small by rv park standards, maybe 30 sites, and that gives it a very intimate charm.  It’s quiet and clean and well managed with full hookups at every site.  We highly recommend it for the area. 

One night while we were here killer storms began to gather off shore about 50 miles to the southwest.  I followed them closely on my radar app that I have grown to love.  It’s simply called, “My Radar”, but the layers of data and info that you can look at are amazing.  It throws off all sorts of weather service warnings, which for us is ideal since we live in a highly vulnerable mobile house.  A bad wind could send us flipping down the road...or worse.  Tornado, naval, and thunderstorm watches were buzzing off the app.  But, since there were no warnings per se, we dismissed them for the time being and after a while we opened the window and went to sleep.  The cool, salty night air along with the sound of the waves hitting the beach made for ideal slumbering companions. Rolling peels of thunder from many miles away out in the firth, more a whisper than a boom, punctuated the stillness now and then.  I was way down the road into dreamland within minutes of my head hitting the pillow. 

Long about 2 or 3 in the morning while we were sound asleep my phone started chirping just like the radio and tv stations do when a weather warning is coming in.  The repetend of that warning sound stunned me as if I had just imbibed a large cup of espresso.  I had no idea my phone could send out a sound so loud. It was a warning of an imminent possible tornado.  I rolled over and in the haze of sleep I foggily saw that a tornado was directly bearing down on us from the ocean.  The “hook curve” dipping down from the crimson red and blood orange image embedded in the line of storms was unmistakable.  My app was telling us to get to cover...now.  I yelled at Diane that we needed to run for cover and she complained for about 7 seconds until she realized I wasn’t just kidding around.  I held out the phone so she could see for herself.  Out the door we bounded, headed for the shower/bathroom, the only halfway solid structure anywhere around. 

Once inside the concrete building we were greeted by most of the rest of the campers in the park who had made their way there.  We had all scoped it out in advance as the only possible place to ride out the storm.  Those concrete walls and prayer were all that stood between us and the vortex of terror that was fast approaching. That’s what I thought at the time.  Maybe I got a little over dramatic here.  Maybe...but at the time I was pretty worked up.  I’m used to going to basements during these events.  You feel a little safer there, in a basement, than in an rv park for Pete’s sake.  Mobile homes and rv’s are known targets for twisters.  They search out the weakest possible victims just as lions and wolf packs do.  Everyone knows that, right?  No one was panicked, however, everyone was calm. The only matter of discussion really was should we gather in the southwest corner, or the northeast corner?  Everyone had an opinion.  The women all discussed where to gather and the men all went outside to watch for it, as if they were going to alter its course...as if anything they could do would matter in the least. 

“It will come up the beach right over there,” one of the old sages posited. 

“Nawsir, that there is due south, they always come up from the southwest,” corrected Mr. Twister Prophet. 

Yet another member from the Council of Elders announced, “Hell, there ain’t no way a’knowin’. They skip around like a leaf in the wind. It it wants to hit us it’s gonna find us.  Shit, I might make a run for it in the truck.” 

There we all stood, gathered in all manner of pajamas and sleepy fashions.  The clock ticked on.  Those with weather apps, like me, clicked on and off their phones incessantly searching for its whereabouts. 

“It must be really close now,” a nervous woman in a Hawaiian flower-patterned muu muu commented. 

“It should have hit us by now,” answered another lady in a pink jogging suit, her hair tied up under a red scarf. 

“I think it’s probably passed us by,” one of the crustier old guys in overhauls flatly stated under his breath. 

Finally, a half hour later, after much grousing and general hubbub, the tornado warning was officially lifted.  It was decided by the group that we should all go home and get some rest.  It was as if we all made the decision together telepathically.  I don’t recall anyone saying anything, really.  We all just went home.  The drama for the evening was over and no one lost their RV.  No one got hurt, and no sign of the twister ever showed up in our area.  However, this self same line of storms did do damage around the South Coast.  In New Orleans 2 twisters touched down.  Just north of us a tornado tore down and blew up some homes and farms.  The gentleman from the Council of Elders proved correct in his assessment. 

“Hell, there ain’t no way a’knowin’.  They skip around like a leaf in the wind.  It it wants to hit us it’s gonna find us.”  This night, by grace, we were not its target. 

Now, the beach itself in Mexico Beach is superb.  You can drive right up to the edge of the beach along the two lane road that runs alongside, park, walk a few feet, and you are on one the best beaches in the Southland.  It runs for several miles east and south until you come to the city of Port St Joe, a little big town as it were.  From that point eastward a great arc of a peninsula stretches out along and parallel to the mainland beach, forming St Joe Bay.  It’s a barrier peninsula formed over eons and protects the shore and inland proper. A grand state park runs the length of the peninsula, “St Joe Peninsula State Park”.  This is the state park that was basically destroyed by Hurricane Michael.  It’s been rehabbed and rebuilt except for the camping area.  We originally wanted to camp right here when we searched the area for a great spot on line.  Diane and I spent an afternoon here and had a great time trying to coax some fish out of the salty sea.  No luck and no matter.  I was a beautiful afternoon in a gorgeous spot of the world that seemed for the day to belong to just me and Diane.  One the way back to Old Salt we stopped for oysters at Indian Pass in a small unassuming little restaurant by the side of the road.  There we reminded ourselves how lucky we were to live the life we’re living.  We toasted each with grilled oysters as the sun, burning clear and unhindered by clouds, dipped below the sea for the day and turned the sky and ocean a brilliant and biting orange shade fading into Sienna in the East.  Red sky at night, sailors delight. 

A couple of fine days after the storm had passed the ocean calmed completely down.  The crashing waves were replaced with calm, rolling sheets of water caressing the white sandy beach.  We sought out a likely spot to cast our lines and lounge luxuriously in the afternoon sun.  It was in the mid-70’s that day, as delightful a beach day as you’ll ever find. 

I was able to wade out a good ways in the calm waters and fire my bait a good distance, attempting with each cast to reach beyond the second sand bar.  From my experience, that is usually a decent place to lay your bait if you can get it there.  Typically, along the beaches of the Florida panhandle there are two to three parallel sandbars out from shore.  The further you get into the trenches between them the bigger the fish are that patrol them.  The evening before Diane and I encountered a small group of fairly inebriated young men on the beach fishing together.  I approached them and got to yakking about what bait they were using and what all they were fishing for.  They were a pretty happy lot that evening.  The local characters always seem to open up to me. They must see a part of themselves in me.  I think I see myself in them truth be told. 

“Brother, if you can git just past that second sandbar you might just find some Pompano.  They’re just startin’ to run now.  Thought I had me one a little bit ago.  It was a dang Topsail Cat.  They ain’t fit for eatin’ “ offered the fella most focused on his line. 

“Shit fire, I’d never eat one, “ I countered. "But I love a good Channel Cat."

“ Don’t even think about goin’ out past the third sandbar, “ warned one of the guys as he scratched his head with his free hand, the other hand holding his pole loosely at his side.  “Sharks, bigguns.  They’re out there for sure, man.”  His pants were rolled up to apparently keep them dry, but he stood a good foot past their roll line in the water.

“Oh, hell yes,” added his seated buddy as he pulled on a can of Miller Lite. 

“Shoot, I seen ‘em come right up a few feet off the beach lookin’ for easy prey at evening,” Miller Lite man added. 

After some good laughing and friendly exchange of fishing knowledge and the requisite bullshit fish stories Diane and I and the dogs sauntered off down the beach, so much better off for having stopped and chit chatted with this group of local wise men. 

Their warnings and advice came back to me as I slowly approached water up to my armpits as I waded out to cast that afternoon. 

“Let’s see, how many sandbars have I crossed?” I asked myself. 

“ Hmmm, no dorsal fins, no stingrays, no jellies...cast.” I thought to myself. 

Retreating back to my pole holder sticking out of the wet sand I placed my pole there and tightened the line so as to see any twitch of a bite.  Not two minutes passed and zing, my line started bouncing.  Fish on!  It wasn’t the king of the deep per se, but it was a nice 17” Black Drum.  As it turned out, that’s all we caught that day, but that’s ok.  Once again we had caught dinner, and it sure doesn’t get any fresher.  Diane prepared that fish with her own altered and improved blackened recipe that evening.  Whew doggies, it was special eatin’ for sure, for sure.  Simple pleasures I tell ya.  Nothing beats it in my mind and for my money. 

There we were that evening, kickin’ back in a seventeen year old motor home in pretty good shape, some natural fresh fish with salad and some buttered red potatoes in our bellies, and me with Diane, my better three quarters, right there with me.  A really nice bed with a two year old mattress broken in just perfect, cool ocean breezes wafting in through the screens called out.  Is there anything better on this planet?