CORPUS CHRISTI TO LAFAYETTE

Some things can bug me at times. They don't have to be significant, life-changing, or even that big of a deal. For some reason, certain events can just get under my skin and annoy the pants off of me. It doesn't happen very often (I'm generally too lazy and unmotivated to get worked up about things much), but it happens on occasion nonetheless. It happened as I wandered along the Gulf of Mexico one day.

I had run out of matches the night before, using my last match getting the charcoal started for my evening meal. At one of my junk food stops the next day--I think it was in Rockport--I figured I'd pick up some replacements.  Stopping off at a roadside gas station I set out to fill my coffers with  sugar filled non-nutrients. Satisfied with my haul, I walked up to the counter and dumped about $20 worth of truly unhealthy food down. As the cashier was stuffing the mess into plastic bags, I innocently asked; "can I get some matches?" Usually, the cashier will reach over, grab a couple of books and toss them in the bag. Not here. She rolled her eyes, let out an "I'm so annoyed with you" breath, grabbed a box of matches out of a bin, and tossed them on the counter. "That's 11 cents plus 22 cents tax" she said. "For what?" I asked, truly ignorant. She looked at me, eyes rolled again, and said; "for....the....matches." She was clearly disgusted with this clueless out-of-towner. I thought she was kidding. She wasn't.

I wanted to pick her brain a bit about this "matches" thing. Was it her own personal perversion that compelled her to want to extract 33 additional cents from me, or was it a larger issue; the result of bad times in that part of the world? "Maybe getting matches is a hardship here" I wondered. "Perhaps there's some kind of extreme 'Match Tax' levied on these unfortunate Gulf residents, pushing them to these measures". "Maybe she's just an ill-tempered idiot who gets pleasure out of being obnoxious." I'll never know. I thanked her, told her I'd do without the matches, and bought a Bic^© lighter at my next stop. I guess I showed her.

Galveston was an unusual place; all the houses and buildings are built on stilts. I’m guessing it’s because of the hurricanes and bad weather they have on occasion. One must really want to live right on the water to have to go to those extremes in construction. Personally, I think I’d live a little bit farther inland and avoid the watery wrath of Mother Nature. It certainly was a beautiful place though. I'm glad I got to see it.

That whole region has these little access roads that head on to the sand. True to form, I took the Jeep and horsed around on the beach for a bit. I turned off of the main road and drove along the surf line for many miles. It was slow going but fun, nonetheless. I’m still sweeping sand out of the interior though.

I couldn’t help but crack up at some of the people playing out in the sand. All along the beach there were these guys with surfboards; running around like they were getting ready to do battle with Oahu North Shore big stuff. They all had their baggies on, their “big wave” sticks tucked under their arms, the proper sunglasses, you name it. The problem is, the Gulf of Mexico isn’t known for big waves. No joke, I’ve seen bigger waves in my bathtub! Oh well, they looked cool.

Continuing on the journey…

The Port Bolivar ferry was the only way to get to the other side of the Gulf road. Several ferries make the quick  journey, and it's free. I sat in line waiting for the next available sailing and thought about the countless times I'd done this very thing at home. "I sure have driven an awfully long way to sit in a ferry line" I thought. My mental meanderings were broken when I became the next target of  three girls; probably 11 or 12 years old moving down the line of cars relentlessly hawking bottled water to the captive travelers.

"How ya'll doin?'" the junior vendors asked in unison; that now-familiar Texas accent sounding odd coming from their "little kid" faces. "Doing quite well, thanks" I answered, waiting for the hard sell. "Ya'll know, sometime people wait heah fo' owahs, jus' dyin'  fo' some naas, col' watuh" the pre-adolescent ringleader said. She had practiced her pitch many times before, I guessed. I grinned, held up my own bottled water, and said "No thanks, I think I'm covered". I thought that'd be the end of it. Nope. "Well, this heah is special watuh" she continued. "What's so special about it?" I asked. "Well" she said, wrinkling her forehead and thinking for a minute; "It's special 'cuz I'm the one sellin' it to ya".

After I quit laughing, I handed her the money and set my new--albeit totally unnecessary--bottle of "special" water on the passenger seat. Still cracking up inside, I drove onto the Ray Stoker Jr. for my ride to the other side. I hope those kids made a fortune out there.

Ferry travel is a major way of life where I live. The ferries are huge (200+ cars, 2000+ people). By comparison, the Ray Stoker Jr. was pretty small. Anyway, I was on this little wienie boat, and decided to strike up a conversation with the pleasant ferry worker standing by me. “Hey, this is a little baby ferry” I quipped. “Where I come from, we have….(blah blah blah)”. I was trying to be social and “all fraindly lak”. Well, this guy looks at me like he’s going to clock me right there! “What da HELL ya’ll mean dis is a baby ferry!” he grunts in a thick Texas drawl. Apparently he didn’t take too well to me calling “his” ferry little. The moral: never make a comment about the small size of a man’s vessel…regardless of the circumstances.

I escaped that one unscathed, and continued on down the Gulf to the Texas-Louisiana border. Here’s a word of caution: Never ever go into Port Arthur, Texas. It’s on the—as yet—undefined border between Texas and Louisiana (it’s tough to draw a state line in the Sabine River, I guess). Once again, my faithful GPS put me in the middle of a real bad neighborhood. Now bear in mind, I was a long way from home. I didn’t relish the thought of tangling with the local po-leese over a “thirty in a twenty-fahv”-type altercation. As such, I drove the speed limit exactly. Unfortunately, I ended up driving several miles through real rough neighborhoods doing a stately 25 mph trying to “get the hell out of Dodge” . People in beat-up crack heaps would pull up next to me, look me up and down, and cast very unfriendly glances my way. I swear I could hear the Saturday Night Specials cocking in their laps. I was acutely aware that I didn't have windows or a top; I had vinyl and plastic for protection (Why did I decide to do this trip in a ragtop Jeep?!). Man, I didn’t much care for that at all. I was pretty happy when I left the petrochemical world of Port Arthur and got back out in the boonies.

After that thrill I drove along the Louisiana Gulf and through the bayou for miles and miles. It reminded me of one big nature preserve. They’ve got some kind of bird there—an Egret or something—that looks like it’s right out of a “Wild Kingdom” episode. They just hang out in the swamp next to the road with one leg tucked up; standing there like they’re waiting for something. I wanted to stop and watch them for awhile, but there’s no place to pull over. There’s no shoulder along the road; just swamp, then road, then swamp. I decided it was best to keep both eyes on the road at all times. I didn’t want to end up as so much ‘gator poop because I inadvertently drifted off the narrow road into the swamp, so I spent the time with my hands dutifully in the “10-2” position on the steering wheel, and made a point of not looking down and fumbling for the errant “M & M’s” rolling around on the car seat by my crotch. They could wait.

I drove along the water, the fields, and the Evergreens for awhile and…what do ya know…ran into another ferry at Cameron Island. It was aptly named the Cameron II. Presumably there's a Cameron I, out there, but I didn't see it. The tiny Cameron II ran “on demand” and was even smaller than the Port Bolivar ferry. I was waved on-board without stopping, and before I'd even come to a stop, the little boat was chugging out of the dock.

This ferry ride was pretty understated; it only had to cross the Calcasieu Ship Channel. I think the total sailing time was about 3 minutes or so. We never really slowed down at our destination,  just kind of  crashed into the dock on the other side. I'm glad I had my parking brake set. Some guy in an old truck didn't, and it went crashing into an SUV in front of him as the ferry shuddered to a stop.

Considering the verbal spanking I got from the Texas ferry dude, I felt it best to keep my comments to myself this time. The employees of this diminutive vessel didn't look like they cared much for idle banter from some out-of-state zero. I kept my mouth shut on this cruise. Offloading, I did exactly what they wanted me to, their desires conveyed  with rapid, deliberate hand signals. I chanced a quick wave  as I trundled off of the boat. The busy ferry worker smiled, waved back, and said "Ya'll have a nass time heah, yeah?"  I smiled, and told her  I figured I would.

I continued through the quiet, empty western Louisiana gulf region and soaked in the world around me. I saw a beautiful bayou sunset, alone out there in the waterlogged countryside. I plowed through a whole bunch of tiny towns with names like Creole, Grand Chenier, Pecan Island, Cow Island, and Abbeville. It was getting dark, and the world around me closed down. Towns were reduced to lighted signs emerging out of the night. It was pleasantly warm as I coasted northward through the swamps and outback of “Suth-an Loo'-Zee-Anna" on that muggy night.

I arrived in Lafayette  with a sincere desire to stand erect and get out of the Jeep.  I'd had enough sight-seeing for the day, so I popped into the first motel I saw and called it a night. The phone in my room rang at 8:20 pm. It was the gal at the front desk. She wanted to welcome me to Louisiana, and hoped I had a fine stay while in town. She let me know that the restaurant downstairs was closing soon, and that if I wanted dinner (or is is supper? I never get those two straight), I'd better head downstairs now. I thanked her and smiled as I hung up the phone. No hotel front desk manager had ever called me to extend a greeting, or tell me that the restaurant was closing. I decided I had a crush on her.

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