Excerpt from Man on the Balcony.

29. June 2010 by Marie Pinschmidt.

Hello everyone. With all the concern regarding the oil spill in the Gulf and the Grande Isle area of Louisiana, I thought you might enjoy reading this excerpt from my novel that pertains to the flora and fauna, and the people who make their living in that unique area of our country.  The book is a novel but the descriptions are from personal observation.  ENJOY!

CHAPTER 29: (An artist’s visit to the bayou country in search of painting inspiration.)

“At daybreak, Maggie and Flora left the bustling Big Easy and headed out for a day of sightseeing, sketching, photo taking and camaraderie. The two-lane highway snaked alongside lazy bayous, the monotony often interrupted by narrow drawbridges, small towns and wide expanses of marshland. As they passed through Westwego, Raceland, Lockport and LaRose, shrimp boats of every size and description hugged the banks of the waterways, resting from a busy week of harvesting delicious fruits of the sea.

Along Bayou Lafourche, the large shrimp boats were mostly painted white with a diverse selection of names painted on the back or side. Some logos were clever and funny, usually female names, and some were writen in French. Long, saltwater fishing-sized rods extended skyward from the stern. Massive airing shrimp nets draped the vessels like clumps of wet Spanish moss. On each side of the bayou, small cottages and framed houses vied for attention with larger and more impressive homes. Much like the houses, the boats came in every size and color, some requiring a large crew, some showing scars from frequent tropical storms or hurricanes, yet adequate for personal use. Flora explained that some of the larger shrimp boats were more valuable than the homes of the owners.

“Seafood festivals draw hungry crowds from miles around. Then we have a yearly “blessing” of the shrimp boats when they are dressed up like Mardi Gras floats, and parade the waterway with style. The priest stands on top of a bridge and offers the blessing as the boats glide beneath.”

“Sounds like a great idea for a painting.”

“It would certainly be colorful,” Flora replied.

After driving for about two hours from New Orleans, they entered the small bayou town of Golden Meadow, Flora’s former home. If they chose to go further they would end up in Grand Isle, the furthermost marshy land mass in Louisiana. Here, the bayou was wider, with boats lined up on both sides of the canal. Flora pointed out a large, shiny white craft, the stern covered with blue canvas awning. 

“That’s my son’s boat.”

Maggie laughed when she saw the clever logo below the stern: MARK AND TWAIN, Golden Meadow, La. A small boat was attached to the side to serve as added security in case of a nautical mishap.

Mark’s home, a few feet from the water, was a one-story bayou house with white siding. A double carport held a late model Honda Accord. A long porch spanned the structure and held a dated but well maintained glider and two rockers painted in Mediterranean blue. The home was as well maintained as his boat but there was no question about which he loved the most. Maggie learned that the house originally belonged to Flora who sold it to Mark after her husband died.

Mark took Maggie for a tour of the Mark and Twain.   With an eye patch, Maggie thought he would look like a swashbuckling pirate in spite of his white shorts and t-shirt. His attire did much to show off his tanned and muscular physique. He explained the workings of the boat, how the nets were used for trawling, and the culling process where the marketable seafood was immediately put on ice, and the remainder returned to the sea.

“It’s hard work, but I can’t imagine doing anything else. Doesn’t leave much time for a personal life, however, but that’s just as well.” He didn’t elaborate and Maggie didn’t ask.

She placed her hands firmly on each side of the wheel and imagined how powerful one would feel guiding the impressive craft through the long channels into the open sea. She understood why Mark loved his life on the bayou, away from the noise and fray of the city. The briny smell of the sea and seagulls flying overhead cleared her mind in minutes. Mark went to a bait chest and gave her a handful of small shrimp to feed the gulls. “The gulls are all right as long as they don’t poop on my boat.” Sensing there was a banquet in progress, large brown pelicans arrived to join the gulls in the delightful but noisy feasting and frolicking.

When the shrimp were devoured, the pelicans took up vigil atop the wooden pilings. Mark came up behind her with keys in hand. She felt his chest against her shoulder when he leaned over and inserted the key. “Turn it on, you’ll get a better feel for it.” He stood close by as the powerful twin engines came to life, the propellers churning the water into an agitating muddy eruption. Maggie felt the vibration in every sinew of her body. Overcome by the power of the boat, she turned the key and handed it back to him. Her hands smelled of the sea, the odor blending with a spicy fragrance of aftershave before merging with the fresh clean-smelling breezes of the bayou.

“Do you have something to drink?” she asked, feeling a need to steer the moment into safer waters.

He disappeared into the galley and returned holding a beer in one hand and a Coke in the other. “You don’t look like a beer drinking kind of girl,” he said. They eyes held until she turned away.

“What’s life like here on the bayou?” she asked.

“Oh, we’re a close knit group around here. We hang together in good times and bad. Seafood harvesting is our lives. Saturday nights, when we aren’t too tired, we gather at a local tavern, listen to zydeco music, dance and flirt with the local girls. If we’ve had a bad week on the water, we might even drink too many beers and have to be driven home by a fellow shrimper. This is a mostly catholic community and we take the Blessing of the Shrimp Boats seriously. We also take hurricanes seriously. They visit quite frequently.”

“What do you do with your boat during a storm? You can’t exactly store this big thing in your garage.”

“The boats usually fare better than the homes. We batten down the hatches, scientifically adjust the anchor lines so she can move with the tide without sinking. Then we do a lot of praying. Smaller boats are usually moved into a more sheltered canal where they can ride out the winds without damaging other boats. This one has survived two bad storms without major damage.”

Mark became quiet for a while, deep in thought as he watched the easy-waltzing white clouds overhead. “You know, Maggie, it’s the same with boats as it is with people; to survive, you ride out the storms.”

He wondered what she would do if he kissed her, and she wondered if he would let her paint him. They were oceans apart.

“Have you always lived here on the bayou?”

He nodded. “For generations, we have made our living harvesting the sea. I can’t imagine it changing. I have two nephews who can’t wait to finish school so they can take to the briny deep. Mark and Twain will be paid for in another year. I make good money and I like to live simply. I don’t need the city with fancy houses and cars that seem so important to other people. I love being out in the open gulf, just my partner, the seagulls, an occasional family of dolphin, and me. Out there, all the ugliness in the rest of the world disappears leaving only beauty, peace and tranquility. Some days I stay out as long as I can just to experience the sunsets over the marsh on my way home. What more could one ask for?”

“I’ve never been happier than I am now,” Maggie replied. “Yes, my art is enough.”

“We’re a lot alike. The sea is as much in my blood as the smell of paint is in yours.”

Later, back at the house, they were welcomed by delicious smelling odors including the hot spicy scent of Zataran’s crab boil that no native cook would dare be without. They found Flora in the kitchen surrounded by pots and skillets and happy as a pirate with a new bag of treasures. On the table, she placed a large serving dish filled to the rim with a steaming concoction prepared in a rice base.

The three of them feasted on jambalaya, file gumbo, shrimp Creole, boiled crawfish, and spirited conversation. The two hour meal was brought to a close with bread pudding smothered in whiskey sauce. Mark was in heaven and Maggie couldn’t imagine ever eating again.           End of  Chapter 29.

I hope this gave you a feel for “life on the bayou” and the importance of solving the oil spill problem immediately. We have only begun to feel the impact of this disaster.

If you haven’t read Man on the Balcony, the book is still available through Author House.com, Amazon.com or your favorite book seller. For autographed copies contact me personally at MariePin001@comcast.net.  My latest novel, Spanish Moss, is also set in New Orleans with bayou country connections. Thank you for reading and feel free to leave a comment or question. Have a great summer.  Marie

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