Bayous and Backyards (Crescent City Chapter 4)

I don’t know how Chuck cursed me, but I know precisely when.

It was a hot, still, mid-summer day in 2015. We launched our kayaks off of Highway 11 in Irish Bayou and were fishing the south shoreline of Lake Ponchatrain with very little luck. Conditions weren’t great. The sky was cloudless. The air humid. There was no wind. The tide wasn’t moving so the hot sun beat down on still, brown water. Trout had long since pulled off shore, finding some comfort and protection in the deep holes, so we cast at the weedy shoreline searching for redfish.

Chuck found a fishy looking cut, a short, narrow channel between two shallow, grassy ponds. It was the kind of spot that just HAD to hold fish and he cast at it like a mad man, over and over and over from a half dozen different angles, like he’d given up on enticing a fish to eat and settled on pissing one off enough to force a strike.

“If you’re not hooking up he’s not there.” I told him. Learning when to leave a spot had been a hard learned fishing lesson for me and in those days if I cast more than five times at a spot with out a bite I moved on.

Chuck was more determined. He gave the cut a dozen more casts before giving up and paddling on.

I don’t know why I cast at the cut. I don’t know why the redfish bit. I was using a spinner bait and maybe there was something about the flash and vibration that finally made that fish angry but after watching Chuck cast at that cut for ten minutes I dropped a lure right in the middle and got bit within second. Not only did I hook a fish, I hooked a GOOD fish, the kind of big, angry, Louisiana redfish that makes the drag on your reel scream and tows your kayak along in what we call a Louisiana sleigh ride.

“You motherfucker.” Chuck rightly responded.

He wouldn’t forgive me for that cast. He harped on it for the rest of the week, telling everyone who would listen how I forced him out of his spot and stole his fish. Good natured ribbing I thought at the time, but considering what happened after…I’m not so sure.

During a fit of depression two years earlier I bought a fishing rod and paid for a fishing license for the first time in a decade. Fishing again was soothing. Soon that one rod became two. Within a year I added a fishing kayak to my arsenal. During a personal crisis I went with my brother and Chuck to Grand Isle where we reconnected, with each other, and with in shore sport fishing. For the next three years kayak fishing trips to Grand Isle would be yearly events and when we moved home Chuck and I began fishing together every weekend, hauling our kayaks way down the bayou to Hopedale, Shell Beach, Delacroix, and Point Aux Chene when we had time, and fishing Lake Ponchatrain when we didn’t.

A combination of time, money, and luck made me the best fisherman of the bunch. As a stay at home dad of an infant all I had to do was keep the baby alive, cook supper, research and scout fishing spots. I’d sold off some guns and bought a Hobie Outback which was faster and more stable than my buddies fishing kayaks and capable of mounting sonar. I dominated our early fishing outings. I was never skunked, never came home with an empty ice chest, and I always caught more fish than anyone else. Or I did, until I stole that redfish from Chuck.

He swears to this day he didn’t curse me but that August redfish would be my last for almost half a year. I’d catch flounder, sheepshead, catfish, and bass, but no more redfish. We took October off for squirrel season and when we returned to the water in November the trout were in shallow and I massacred them, catching so many, so fast that I’d be limited out before 10am and yet I still couldn’t land a redfish.

Chuck had stolen my mojo. All my summertime bragging came back to bite me. He could pull a redfish out of thin air, he could catch them in the parking lot, but I couldn’t catch one with dynamite. I tried everything. I changed my lures. I changed my hat. I changed my breakfast. My redfish drought lingered through Christmas, past the end of deer season, past duck season and Mardi Gras. Chuck, John, Ray, even my fucking brother hooked up but I couldn’t. It’d become something of an obsession. It gnawed at me. It was starting to drive me mad and Chuck was no help. Fishing buddies give no quarter and accept none. He ragged me endlessly. I was beginning to think he’d legitimately cursed me. I seriously considered seeing if I could find a gris gris to lift the curse.

During Mardi Gras the freezer in our apartment went out. Inside were all those speckled trout fillets, gallons of them, easily hundreds of fish, all defrosting slowly. We couldn’t let them go to waste, so the next time a parade rolled Uptown, Chuck and I carted those fillets and our fish frying gear to a friend’s house just a block off the parade route where we sat behind the wrought iron fence in their front yard, drank beer, and fried fish while the Uptown parades rolled. We fed ourselves. We fed our friends. We fed their neighbors, and still we had fresh fish left over, so much that we began handing out paper plates heavy with freshly fried, wild caught, speckled trout fillets to every tourist who walked by and said “That smells good.” Not a single one of those fish went to waste.

When we returned to the water in March my drought continued. I caught some trout in Lake Borgne. I found an endlessly supply of large mouth hiding under grass mats in Shell Beach, but I still couldn’t hook up with a redfish. By then we knew we were leaving Louisiana and were starting to make plans for Massachusetts. I knew I was on borrowed time. The drought had to break.

Chuck suggested Delacroix. By then I was a broken man, so sure that I was cursed that I didn’t bother rigging for redfish and instead set my gear up for large mouth in the grass. Conditions didn’t look good when we got to the launch. The tide was slack. Wind was blowing all the water out and there were mudflats as far as we could see. Worse, there was a tournament in town and professional redfish tour fishermen were tear assing around in their million dollar boats. The best we could do was find a closed off oil field canal nearby that looked sheltered enough from the wind and the boat traffic to maybe be worthwhile. The water was so low we pulled our kayaks through the mud more than we paddled, but when we finally reached the canal it was deep, and well protected.

I cast at a rock jetty, letting my paddle tale lure sink for just a second before reeling and I felt a tap. redfish don’t typically tap. redfish clobber. redfish destroy. redfish leave no doubt. But trout and bass and any number of tasty sea creatures tap so I cast again and on the third cast there was no doubt. My lure got schwacked and as drag screamed off my reel I knew the curse had lifted. I’d finally hooked up with a redfish. I just had to touch it. I just had to get it into the boat.

That fish was just the beginning. The wind was blowing water from the shallow flats into that oilfield canal and the fish were ganged up tight on every corner waiting for a meal to drift by. I’d never seen better fishing. It seemed I hooked up on every other cast and by ten am our issue wasn’t catching fish it was trying to catch fish small enough to legally keep. Well before lunch I’d filled my ice chest with a limit, my first ever, and they were big, healthy, beautiful fish. To make the day all the more glorious the pros, the guys in the million dollar boats that got paid to fish, largely struck out. When Chuck and I paddled our kayaks back into the launch we unloaded the best stringer of fish in Delacroix that day. The curse was lifted. I was ecstatic. You can see it in my face when I posed for a picture at the launch.

The only thing better than a great day on the water catching fish with your best friend is the drive home, the cold A/C in the truck, Herman Fusilier’s “Zydeco Stomp” on KRVS playing on the radio, gas station cheese burgers. If there’s a heaven, and I get in, I hope it’s a lot like a long drive home from a stellar fishing trip. There’s work left to do. Gear’s got to be unloaded and put away. You’ve got to rinse the salt water off your reels and wash the shrimp smell and salt off your clothes and shower the fish slime and sweat off your body. But there's still nothing better than telling fish tales on the drive home.

There we were on a warm Saturday in early spring with an ice chest filled to the brim with wild caught redfish filets, what else were we to do?

We called our wives and told them “don’t bother with supper. We’re having a party." Then we called our friends and told them to bring beer. I don’t remember who’s place we were at, Chucks in Mid City, my place on the border of Gerttown and Marlyville-Fountainbleau, a friend's place Uptown, or another friend's house in the Marigny where we gathered for the really big parties. I don’t remember who came. I don’t remember what they brought. I don’t have to because all those impromptu backyard parties blend together. Jess in the kitchen. Chuck on the grill. Me guarding the ice chest while my kid toddled around. Music on the stereo. Soft purple sunsets and bugs flitting around strings of Christmas lights. Laughter and noise. We ate the redfish gilled on the half shell, covered in Cajun spices, butter and orange slices with a rice side and some grilled vegetables, pie for desert. Wine for the ladies and beer for the boys and shots once the baby was safely to sleep. We’d wake up too early the next morning with the kid, hungover, the house a wreck, but man…that random Saturday in March and the impromptu party afterwards was a high point.

Our year in New Orleans was far from perfect. It was transitory, we knew that going in, we had twelve to twenty-four months maximum and then my spouse had to find another job. We were dealing with the stress of being new parents. I was leaving the job market to become a stay at home parent and my spouse was joining the job market for the first time. Both of our families lived within easy driving distance and for the first time in a decade we were close enough to easily get sucked into the southern gothic family drama. Add the 2016 election into that equation and things were…stressful…at times.

Yet I don’t remember our year in New Orleans that way. I don't remember the baby meltdowns, the family drama, the heat and the stress. I remember taking my kid to the Uptown farmers market and buying pies from Jess. I remember catching lunch at a Vietnamese place on Magazine street with Chuck because it was right around the corner from his office and I could. I remember Wednesday movie nights at a brewery in Mid City with Chuck and Jess and their…our…friends. I remember Saturdays fishing or hunting with the boys I went to High School with. I remember Sunday mornings getting beignets and cafe au lait in City Park then watching my kid play on the playgrounds. I remember so many of those ad hoc backyard parties.

Tourists will talk to you about Bourbon Street. Folks from Louisiana will tell you their favorite place Uptown or in the Marigny. Locals can point you to some amazing hole in the wall places, but the real magic of New Orleans is in the backyards and block parties. It’s in neighbors coming together and having a good time. It’s indescribable until you’ve lived there. It’s unexplainable until you experience it yourself. But a house party in New Orleans is just different. It’s better. It’s flying pancakes. It’s crawfish boils. It’s handing out wild caught, fried fish to tourists as they wander by. It’s going too late and getting too loud and never once having the cops called on you. It’s the fact that it can just happen. No plan. No schedule. You can accidentally have a bash in New Orleans.

Mexicans do parties best in Austin. There is always a drunk uncle, the Latino version of Chuck, manning the grill and cooking up some of the best carne asada and arroz con pollo you’ll ever taste. A cousin will pull out the PA system and start playing Ranchero and Mariachi music until the white people who moved into the adjacent neighborhood full of McMansions call and complain. There will always be a drunk aunt in a too short dress who hits on the cop they send to shut the party down. I know because for almost a decade I was that cop.

I shut down white folks parties too but they were always lamer. Seemed like there were only three flavors of white person party in Texas. The best were the backyard barbecues where somebody’s uncle smoked a brisket and everyone sat around politely chatting and drinking beer. It wasn’t much of a party, not by Louisiana standards, but at least the food was good. The worst were the Hollywood movie like out of control teenage ragers where drunk kids ran screaming through the neighborhood and people got sexually assaulted. In between were the dullest, white, dinner parties, backyard gatherings with gazebos and white lights and a cover band that played Journey enthusiastically but badly. At an Austin party someone might set off a stick of dynamite and somehow it still wasn’t “fun.”

The best you’ll get in Austin are warm evenings in a beer garden, or happy hour in a downtown bar and meeting people for drinks on sixth street. On the best night, Austin is food trucks and then dancing at a historic dance hall. It’s not a “bad” party town. There’s fun to be had, but it’s not New Orleans. It's not even in the same ball park.

Massachusetts is somehow worse. For nine months of the year no one parties because everyone is inside hiding from the cold. In July there will be backyard barbecues, but for some reason the people here, like the English, seem to believe hamburger patties and Ballpark Franks constitute a “barbecue.” They can’t even manage a brisket, or sausage wrapped in a tortilla like the Texans do. They damn sure aren’t on the level of fresh caught, grilled redfish or boiled crawfish. In Massachusetts the drunk Aunt brings a bucket filled with airline bottles of Fireball liquor. Someone else brings chips. I almost feel sorry for them.

There’s no night life to speak of in Boston. Happy Hour is banned. Music venues are miles away from food and bars close early. People are angry and aggressive. Boston is the only city I’ve been to where I’ve witnessed multiple fist fights at country concerts. For a major town they roll up the streets before midnight. The trains stop running early and driving in town is a nightmare anyway. It’s cold as hell nine months out of the year. The food, the booze, the music, the whole scene is subpar even compared to Austin. Hell it's subpar compared to Killeen. May as well stay home and drink alone. From the trash I pick up in my front yard, most of the people here drink airline bottles of Fireball in their car on the way to and from work. Boston can’t hold a candle to New Orleans.

There’s just something magic about a backyard party in New Orleans. Something special, and different. It’s about the way people come together on a whim, almost by accident. There’s a joyousness to the gatherings there that you have to experience to understand. Maybe it’s the environment. Maybe it’s something in the air or the water. I suspect it’s just the people. If I’m guessing it’s Chuck and Jess and John and all of our old friends. I hardly drink a sip in Massachusetts. My friends here have never seen me drunk. They’ve barely seen me get a good buzz, but every time I visit New Orleans, every time I crash at Chuck and Jess’ house, I tie one on and eat too much and get too loud.

The last time I was home was for my grandmother’s funeral. I had a six AM flight from MSY to Logan and Chuck and Jess let me spend the night at their place. The plan was for Chuck to drive me to the airport before daylight the next morning. He’d been hog hunting the day before and we were gonna make boudin. We picked up a case of beer because why not? We so rarely get to drink beer together anymore.

It was just the three of us that evening, me and Chuck and Jess. My wife and kid were still in Massachusetts, our friends were working and we weren’t going to make a big deal about it. We cracked open a cold one and turned on some music as we cut up the hogs. One beer inevitably became two, two became four. Things got blurry. Jess and I argued loudly around the fire pit in the backyard because she said Tyler Childers’ “Feathered Indians” was “boring” and I correctly pointed out she couldn’t understand because she’d never been a twenty something dirt bag dude in love with a girl that was too good for him and I had. Chuck passed out. Jess and I watched “Barbie.” I hardly slept. Chuck couldn't even make it out of bed to see me off in the morning and Jess had to drive me to the airport.

I’ve flown around the world in U.S. Air Force cargo aircraft and I’ve never had a more miserable flight. I puked twice before even making it into the TSA screening line and I have never prayed harder than I did that morning as I waited and sweated and gagged my way through security. I feel genuinely sorry for the people sitting next to me. I’d showered and brushed my teeth and even bought mints but I had to smell like the dumpster behind a brewery. I used an airsick bag for the first time. I had to face the baggage claim at Logan exhausted, starving, and hung over, and it was worth it. It’s always worth it to party with Chuck and Jess. It’s always worth it to party in New Orleans.

And I promise you, I swear, the best parties aren’t found on Bourbon street. They’re not in the casinos, convention centers, Uptown mansions or Midcity bars. The best parties aren’t in the Roosevelt when the lobby is decorated for Christmas. The best parties aren’t even on the streets during Mardi Gras. The best parties in New Orleans, the shindigs you’d be lucky to attend, the one’s you’re truly missing out on are in the kitchens and backyards where friends and loved ones gather because it’s Saturday and the fish were biting.

Before I started writing I dabbled a bit, badly, with film and during my year at home I launched a YouTube channel to document our fishing trips and embarrassing as it is to admit that I tried to be a YouTuber and failed that Delacroix fishing trip was caught on video so...