Copyboy, page 14
Phil motioned for me to join her at the chart of the Lower Mississippi River that took up one of the walls in the marina office. The excitement had returned to her voice. Maybe it was the hurricane talk, but I liked to think the kiss in the truck that I had not planned had something to do with it. Acting on the spur of the moment was not something I normally did, but I was growing to like the feeling of the spur as well as the moment.
“This is what we’ll do,” she said. “We’ll take the little outboard to Pilottown, running just east of the main channel but close enough to catch a good current. We should get there in less than an hour.”
She traced the route on the chart with her finger.
“At Pilottown we’ll switch to He-Gene’s boat with the twin outboards. We’ll head straight to this spot.” She tapped the chart. “As Daddy sees it, somewhere around here is that perfect place you’re trying to find for Mr. Spiro.”
Phil had packed a small ditty bag with the only things we would need, she said — a handheld compass and a pair of binoculars. She would triangulate by using two buoys, which she pointed out on the chart. I didn’t understand the particular details, but didn’t want to question my river guide who had found her new sense of purpose. I concentrated on the chart.
“You want to know if I’m going to take you to the right place, don’t you?”
I nodded. Phil was all the way back on top of her game, reading my thoughts almost as soon as they came to me.
“I’m going to tell you all about where we’re going, but I want to be on the river alone with you when I do. Not with this loud bunch of yahoos in here.” She put her finger on the wall chart again. “Only my daddy and I know about this place that is so simple in its beauty.”
The same daddy earlier in the morning who had… but I dared not go there with Phil.
* * *
Buster walked behind us to the slips where the small boats were docked. He didn’t look too worse for wear after a long night of dancing and drinking beer.
“Does Captain Henri know you’re headin’ out this morning with that Betsy still shuffling her feet out there in the gulf?”
“Daddy’s already out a lot farther than we’re going.” Phil untied the outboard’s dock line.
“I knowed that, Miss Phil, but he’s on the Rooster with a good radio, and you’re fixin’ to ship out in this little scuttle with nothin’.”
“We’re only going to Pilottown, Buster, and then we’ll switch to He-Gene’s boat that has a good radio. We’ll be back soon, sure.” Phil’s accent ramped up when she talked to Buster.
“You knowed better than to tease dat river, Miss Phil.”
Buster got no response. He shrugged his shoulders and headed back to the marina office. It was evident that he also had experience in losing arguments with this strong-willed sailor.
Phil set the choke on the engine, squeezed the bulb on the fuel line, and yanked the starter cord. The old outboard smoked and chugged to life on the third pull. The small aluminum boat with its V-hull had two bulkhead seats. Phil sat in the rear on a flotation cushion, steering with one hand on the twist throttle. My seat was on a sun-cracked cushion in the middle of the boat. Between us were two orange life jackets covered in green mold. Mr. Spiro’s duffel bag rested on them. Phil stowed the ditty bag behind her seat, in a wooden box next to the gasoline tank.
As Phil slowed the boat to adjust the carburetor, I glanced back at the marina to see Buster on the dock waving in our direction with both arms. I motioned for Phil to turn around. She waved back at him.
“I do think old Buster is sweet on me.” She eased the throttle up to what I took to be full speed. Buster continued to wave to us until I could no longer see him.
The outboard engine, coupled with the downriver current, pushed the boat at a good clip. I wanted to turn to see the wind push Phil’s curls back and expose her perfect face, but she had a job for me. I was to be on lookout for any river flotsam that might pop up in front of the boat too late for Phil to see. She told me to throw out either hand and she would swerve that way.
Even though I had lived in Memphis all my life, I had never been out on the Mississippi River, unless you counted escorting a Miss Cotton Carnival contestant onto a barge while I was dressed in a silly rented tuxedo. Mr. Spiro, however, talked to me about the river on the days we caught a city bus downtown to Front Street and walked over to Mud Island, our favorite spot to watch the Mississippi roll by.
Mr. Spiro saw more than simply what was going on at the surface of the river. He would point out a dead tree with a huge root ball caught in the current heading toward an innocent-looking swirl of water. The tree would disappear, sucked down by a powerful whirlpool like it was a toothpick. We watched for the tree to pop up somewhere downriver — fifty yards or five hundred yards. Only the river knew where it would let go. He told of towboats with ten-thousand-horsepower diesel engines entering a bend in the river at the wrong angle in high water, and being pulled along helplessly like a toy in a bathtub until the river released it in its own good time. “Never fight the river, Messenger. The river will always win.”
“Some big trees sticking out up ahead,” I shouted back to Phil. My words tumbled out without stutters. I loved to shout when there was a proper time for it.
She eased back on the throttle and came about to get a better look.
“A long bar juts out there,” she said. “We’re about halfway to Pilottown. I’m going to pull in to that eddy for a minute.” Even not knowing much about the river, I had no doubts about Phil’s ability to handle a boat.
“That small log will anchor us if I can run up on it,” she said. “Hold on.”
She twisted the throttle and the bow of the boat came to rest perfectly on top of the smooth log. I stood to congratulate Phil on her tricky maneuver. Big mistake. The boat rocked to one side and the other as I fought to get my balance. I dropped hard to my knees to keep from dumping both of us into the river.
“Should have told you this kind of boat can flip to one side when the bow is out,” Phil said. “Are you okay?”
My khaki pants were ripped and blood trickled from a small cut on the side of my knee. Phil took her bandana from her back pocket.
“Tie this round your knee,” she said. “The cut doesn’t look all that deep.”
Phil scanned the river with her binoculars.
“Did you see Jimmy LaBue’s truck and fancy trailer when we pulled in at the marina?”
No. That was about the time my brain was going on its roller-coaster ride. I shook my head.
“He usually doesn’t put in at the Venice marina. Can’t imagine why he’s out on the river round here, unless he’s trying to give the fish a heart attack with those loud V-8s.”
She lowered the binoculars.
“So, what have you heard about Pilottown, Louisiana?”
“Only that it’s the t----own that He-Gene lives in.”
“Well, first, a person can’t live ‘in’ Pilottown. You kind of live ‘on’ it. Pilottown mostly sits on pilings above the river and wetlands. He-Gene is the only full-time resident now. Daddy said it once had a general store and even a barroom with dances on Friday nights, but the gulf is eating it away.”
Pilottown had a zip code, but no post office now. He-Gene not only worked for the Crescent River Port Pilots’ Association but also for the Louisiana Department of Wildlife and Fisheries, Phil said. He took care of the Pilottown generators and monitored radio traffic for the Coast Guard, the Bureau of Narcotics, and the Plaquemines Parish Sheriff’s Department.
“Your uncle sounds like he keeps busy,” I said.
“Everybody wonders exactly what all he does all day out there. He doesn’t tell us much, even the family, but I’ll say he knows what’s going on. He’s the sharpest man on the river… other than Daddy, of course.”
The boat twisted in the current but the bow stayed perched out of the water, resting on its log.
“So, how far from P----ilottown is this special place your daddy talked about?”
Phil scooted down to the floor of the boat, stretching out her legs. She tucked her flotation cushion behind her for a backrest and told me to do the same with mine.
“I’m going to tell you a beautiful story about where we’re going.”
She dabbed at the cut on my knee with the bandana.
“When daddy brought the Rooster Tale home almost ten years ago, he said he wanted to take me to a special place. Even though I could barely see over the wheel, he let me pilot the new boat all the way to the Southwest Pass, then he took over and told me to go to the foredeck to get ready to drop anchor.”
Lying next to Phil in the boat made it difficult for me to concentrate, so I closed my eyes and made myself hear every word as she spoke above the rush of the river.
“Daddy came to the bow and put his arm around me and told me to look at the horizon and then bring my eyes down slowly. When I did, I took the shimmer on the water to be the reflection of the low sun behind us, but then realized it was fish jumping. Beautiful little silvery fish. Mullet.”
“What k----ind of fish is that?”
“It’s a bait fish. Folks in Mississippi call them ‘Biloxi Bacon’ and tell silly mullet jokes, but I love the cute little things.”
I peeked and saw Phil’s eyes were closed, but she was smiling in a way I had never seen.
“Mullet are saltwater fish that aren’t sure they should be fooling round with the freshwater of the river, but Daddy said it called to them in a siren’s song they couldn’t resist. They knew in their heads they should be sticking to the saltwater plan that the good Lord had intended for them, but they just couldn’t say no in their crazy little mullet hearts.”
Phil sat up.
“I watched them fly out of the water, colliding in midair and doing somersaults. Daddy called it the ‘mullet dance.’ He said the longer we idled in the river, the higher the mullet would jump because the vibration of the Rooster’s engines made them curious and inspired them to explore even more. They jumped higher and higher.”
She leaned back on her cushion and looked at me.
“Daddy asked me what the shape of their jumps reminded me of. I had to think a minute, but then I saw it. The tail of a rooster.”
Phil drew the shape with her finger on the front of my shirt.
“As far as I know, I’m the only one who knows what Daddy meant by naming his boat the Rooster Tale. He saw fit to share his tale of the mullets only with me. Daddy said this one spot on Southwest Pass was the one place he had seen the mullet do their special dance.”
“But why—”
Phil knew my question before I could finish it.
“Don’t you see, Vic? The mouth of the river is where its freshwater meets the saltwater of the gulf. We’ll know the exact location of the mouth of the river when we see the mullet dance.”
Chapter 21
The intensity of her story and the flow of the river rushing through the patchwork of floating logs had put us both into a daydream. I took deep breaths of the Ivory soap in Phil’s hair. It took three blasts from a sea-going freighter struggling against the current in midchannel to get us thinking about moving downriver again.
Phil yanked the starter cord.
“All hands on deck. Next port of call: Pilottown,” she announced. “All ahead, full.” Phil changed moods with the swiftness that a swamp rabbit changed directions.
The cut on my knee had stopped bleeding. I untied the bandana to wash out the blood and noticed the pattern on the cloth was the fleur-de-lis.
Perfection. Light. Life.
* * *
Another freighter in the main channel came into view and then a third one soon after.
“I’ve never seen them bunched up like that,” Phil shouted above the noise of the outboard and the bow slapping the water. “They usually stay at least four or five miles apart. He-Gene must be having a time trying to get all his pilots on board.”
We skirted an outcropping of marshland. Phil dodged floating debris more out of instinct than from my directions. It was difficult for me to tell what was land and what was a thick layer of muck floating on top of the water. Small islands turned out to be only patches of river grass.
We crossed the wide mouth of a pass on our left, and for the first time I thought I could see far out into the Gulf of Mexico. I turned and pointed in that direction. Phil shook her head and pointed straight ahead.
A half dozen small white buildings on pilings rose out of the river — Pilottown. The structures hung above the river on a mishmash of uneven boardwalks. Several tall radio antennae whipped in the breeze like large river cattails. Behind the smaller buildings were larger ones that appeared to be abandoned, some with their roofs gone.
We saw an outboard boat heading away from Pilottown at high speed and then turn up into the river’s current. Phil, looking through her binoculars, said she recognized the operator as one of He-Gene’s pilots. She waved but couldn’t get his attention.
Phil eased back on the throttle as we approached the dock.
“Welcome to…”
I twisted on my cushion. Phil shook her head slowly.
“Something’s not right.” Her searching eyes revealed more than her words.
We pulled in to a slip next to the only boat bobbing up and down at the floating dock. Metal footlockers with different kinds of government insignias filled the deck of the boat. Smaller containers on top were lashed down with heavy yellow lines crisscrossing back and forth. Somebody and their belongings were on the move.
When you’re on the river in a boat, there’s always a wind, but now we were docked and the wind had a power of its own.
“Hey, Phil,” a man shouted from an overhead crosswalk. “Thank God you’re here.”
“What’s going on, He-Gene?” Phil shouted back.
“I radioed the marina, but they said I just missed you.” The ramshackle stairs swayed as He-Gene scrambled down to dock level with a large walkie-talkie in his hand.
“I have orders to evacuate.” He-Gene’s khaki shirt and pants were soaked with sweat. “Betsy has turned northwest in the gulf and is tracking straight for us. You and your friend need to head back to the marina immediately. I just sent my last pilot home.”
“Is that why all the freighters are stacked up?”
“Just sent the last one through. Coast Guard has closed the river.”
“Have you radioed the Rooster?”
“As soon as I heard. Henri is on his way back in to Venice. He told me to turn you around immediately.”
He-Gene and Phil discussed the situation like the river veterans they both were. Going back upriver, we should hug the west bank where the current was the weakest. He would radio both the Rooster and the marina before he shut off the generators and packed up the last of the radio equipment. Everybody would know we were accounted for and were headed back in.
“When are they expecting Betsy to come ashore?” Phil asked He-Gene, her question revealing more calmness than I was feeling.
“Not sure. Depends on how much the warmer waters of the gulf speed her up, but the fore-winds and storm surge will start later today.”
Static on He-Gene’s handheld receiver interrupted their conversation. He raised his hand and put the radio to his ear.
“The sheriff’s department just ordered Venice evacuated,” he said.
“Can we haul anything back for you?” Phil asked.
“Heavens no,” He-Gene said. “You don’t need added weight going upriver with that small outboard. I’ve got a few more things to do and then I’m closing it down. I’ll see you at the marina… or at the house.”
He-Gene looked at me for the first time. We had not been introduced.
“Sorry to spoil your plans, son, but we can’t mess with hurricanes out here, exposed as we are.” He climbed the stairs and looked back at Phil. “Henri said he would decide when he got in what he would do with the Rooster. He may want you to help him take it upriver, depending on how Betsy is tracking.”
He-Gene scrambled back up the flimsy set of stairs and was gone. Phil and I sat in the small boat. I waited for her to crank the outboard. She surveyed the tumbling sky in all directions.
“I feel the wind changing a little to more out of the southeast, but the sky’s not doing much yet,” she said. “I think I have a plan for our Mr. Spiro.”
“Getting back to the marina needs to be our only plan,” I said over the wind in a louder voice than normal. “I’m pretty sure that Mr. Spiro would say the same thing.”
Phil seemed to have a hard time listening when she was focused on what was in her head. She agreed that the trip to the end of the Southwest Pass was out of the question, but she said she had another idea. Both the Corps of Engineers and the Coast Guard designated Mile Marker 0 at Head of Passes as the official Mouth of the Mississippi River, even though it was miles from the Gulf of Mexico and from the dancing mullets. She explained that since we had to cross the main channel anyway to get over to the west bank, it wouldn’t take much time to go downriver a little ways where I could lay Mr. Spiro to rest.
I shook my head. “Since we can’t go to your father’s special place, we should head straight back like He-Gene told us to.”
Phil cranked the outboard and said, “Who’s the captain of this vessel?”
She twisted the throttle and we headed out into the river.
The rhythm of the bow slamming into the water brought back to me two sentences with their own rhythm that I remembered typing from the book:
