Post Hurricane Emily, and the heat has descended on us like a sick smelly old blanket, causing all life to slow down to a sticky, oozing molasses pace. The seawater is boiling, and the last vestiges of swell and wave are depressingly gone, replaced by a vast expanse of flatness across the Gulf. Water quality is off the scale bad, as tons of raw sewage has found its way down the Rio San Juan to the Rio Grande from distant Mexican towns like Monterrey following torrential rains and floods, courtesy of the remnants of Emily. The sewage plume has discharged from the Rio Grande into the Gulf of Mexico at Boca Chica, now transported by wind and current along our beaches where thousands flock to escape the oppressive heat, playing unsuspectingly in the water, always aware that sharks populate the ocean out here, but never realizing that tiny organisms like Enterococcus pose a far greater risk, lying in wait with huge bacterial teeth….waiting….waiting…..
My son has spied a feces or two merrily bobbing along in the swash zone, waiting to be deposited like nuclear sea beans on the shoreline, waiting for some unsuspecting jogger or beachstroller to run through it. He hasn’t got much time to look for that sort of thing right now because he’s working for the Murphies as a deckhand aboard the Hardbottom. He’s baiting hooks and removing fish for pinche fresas from Monterrey who don’t tip worth a shit.
The other day as we were watching “The Endless Summer” he told me about Wesley and Sara breaking up.
Wesley is just about one of the hottest young surfers on the coast, carving the waves to pieces, catching giant air, and pushing it to the extreme. Sara, his girlfriend is my sons girlfriends cousin. Wesley and Sara have been together for maybe six months or so, but in young adult time, that’s forever.
Wesley broke it off last week. Hooked up with somebody new. Sara was devastated, stopped eating and spent a night or two in the hospital according to my son, who’s pretty sick of the story himself right now. Said it’s wasting his time.
Of course the gossip lines are buzzing. Sara moved back to San Benito, where she continued to be devastated, as rumors flew from both camps. She and Wesley had held a joint bank account, which Sara, although devastated, had the presence of mind to totally loot after the breakup. This in turn devastated Wesley, who had been saving his money as a deckhand aboard an offshore sport fishing boat so that he could make the summers ritual trip to Mexico to get a fix of waves in places with names like Pasquales, Tikla and Punta Mita during this time, which is the flattest time of our season. So threats were made, names were called, and the trauma continued.
Last night my son told me that Wesley and Sara had hooked back up, and that it was on again. Oh, and by the way they’re going to go to Mexico to celebrate.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Profiles in Cowardice
" Do we operate under a system of equal justice under law?
Or is there one system for the average citizen and another for the high and mighty? "
~ Senator Ted Kennedy, 1973
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Gored Again
We finally got everything buttoned down for the Hurricane that almost isn’t. The aforementioned, Emily scheduled to make landfall down south in a few hours. It’s windy here, and squalls are moving in. Yesterday we secured the lab, the buccaneer and Scott and Bonnies house down the street.
Today we woke up pretty tired, but I checked the web for the various forecasts, including Gores. Gore used to be our neighbor here, but moved about a year ago close to the jetties where he can teach surfing lessons and tend his webcams up on the pavilions in Isla Blanca. The guys a genuine dick, and usually lasts in one spot no more than than about two years. He came from Seaside, up by Houston, and I’ll bet his own bad karma ran him out of there too. So now he’s down here, along with his wife and hapless kids, making…I mean, riding waves. I keep threatening my friend Sean, who lives up there, to send Gore back, but Sean promises to buy him a house down here to keep him away.
Anyway, I checked his site, and as I was scrolling down, there was about a two hundred and fifty word tirade lambasting the Cameron County Parks system for it’s “unpermitted solid waste landfill”. He figures that the seaweed that gets pushed up against the dunes is full of trash, which constitutes a dump. I figure that he’s just being a jerk and is still pissed because the county won’t hire him to be a lifeguard, so he’s just getting a few sabots in, burning another bridge. Holy shit, he certainly doesn’t expect to make friends and influence people with rhetoric like this. Maybe he sees himself as some sort of modern day Don Quixote, but I tell you, I’ve tried that route, and it gets you nothing but an enlarged asshole.
We drove over to the lab, and of course the park is closed off. Totally. But since they all know us, we got the insiders treatment, and went through the back gate. After filling up about ten bags of ice from the labs ice machine, we left, checking the surf at the jetties. It’s already up to about ten or twelve feet, and the wind is blowing over 35 knots or so. On the way out, I ran into JV the assistant director of the parks.
I snickered and said “Hey, what about that Gore?” JV bristled and told me; “We gave that guy free run of the park…allowed him to put up his webcams on the beach, gave him permits to run his business…and this is the way he treats us”. He went on to say; “It started when this kid drowned, and Gore gave an interview to the local paper criticizing the county judge…said something like “how can he sleep at night, knowing people are dying on his beaches?” then he denied saying that, but wouldn’t send a letter to the paper, so…we had to cut our ties with him…it’s a shame it didn’t work out…”. I told JV; “yeah, the guys a surfer, and a damned good one…but he’s a shithead of a person, and doesn’t have a clue about what surfing really is…”
The conversation drifted off to the tasks at hand, and we all got back to work, but I couldn’t help muse over the fact that one of Gores biggest supporters is the Princess Ecstroment…another true shithead. The owner of the local tow boat franchise, this guy would sue his own mother for the ugly abortion that turned out to be him. A real piece of work. People like he and Gore are always beset by their own self created troubles, and yet the irony is that they never realize that they’re the cause, the root of the trouble. It’s always someone else’s fault. Pathetic representations and poor excuses of adulthood.
We’re finishing last minute preparations and waiting on the storm. Winds are now up over forty, blowing to fifty. Maybe this squall will blow bad rubbish like these folks out to sea, and make some substantial progress in cleaning up a couple pieces of unpermitted solid waste
Today we woke up pretty tired, but I checked the web for the various forecasts, including Gores. Gore used to be our neighbor here, but moved about a year ago close to the jetties where he can teach surfing lessons and tend his webcams up on the pavilions in Isla Blanca. The guys a genuine dick, and usually lasts in one spot no more than than about two years. He came from Seaside, up by Houston, and I’ll bet his own bad karma ran him out of there too. So now he’s down here, along with his wife and hapless kids, making…I mean, riding waves. I keep threatening my friend Sean, who lives up there, to send Gore back, but Sean promises to buy him a house down here to keep him away.
Anyway, I checked his site, and as I was scrolling down, there was about a two hundred and fifty word tirade lambasting the Cameron County Parks system for it’s “unpermitted solid waste landfill”. He figures that the seaweed that gets pushed up against the dunes is full of trash, which constitutes a dump. I figure that he’s just being a jerk and is still pissed because the county won’t hire him to be a lifeguard, so he’s just getting a few sabots in, burning another bridge. Holy shit, he certainly doesn’t expect to make friends and influence people with rhetoric like this. Maybe he sees himself as some sort of modern day Don Quixote, but I tell you, I’ve tried that route, and it gets you nothing but an enlarged asshole.
We drove over to the lab, and of course the park is closed off. Totally. But since they all know us, we got the insiders treatment, and went through the back gate. After filling up about ten bags of ice from the labs ice machine, we left, checking the surf at the jetties. It’s already up to about ten or twelve feet, and the wind is blowing over 35 knots or so. On the way out, I ran into JV the assistant director of the parks.
I snickered and said “Hey, what about that Gore?” JV bristled and told me; “We gave that guy free run of the park…allowed him to put up his webcams on the beach, gave him permits to run his business…and this is the way he treats us”. He went on to say; “It started when this kid drowned, and Gore gave an interview to the local paper criticizing the county judge…said something like “how can he sleep at night, knowing people are dying on his beaches?” then he denied saying that, but wouldn’t send a letter to the paper, so…we had to cut our ties with him…it’s a shame it didn’t work out…”. I told JV; “yeah, the guys a surfer, and a damned good one…but he’s a shithead of a person, and doesn’t have a clue about what surfing really is…”
The conversation drifted off to the tasks at hand, and we all got back to work, but I couldn’t help muse over the fact that one of Gores biggest supporters is the Princess Ecstroment…another true shithead. The owner of the local tow boat franchise, this guy would sue his own mother for the ugly abortion that turned out to be him. A real piece of work. People like he and Gore are always beset by their own self created troubles, and yet the irony is that they never realize that they’re the cause, the root of the trouble. It’s always someone else’s fault. Pathetic representations and poor excuses of adulthood.
We’re finishing last minute preparations and waiting on the storm. Winds are now up over forty, blowing to fifty. Maybe this squall will blow bad rubbish like these folks out to sea, and make some substantial progress in cleaning up a couple pieces of unpermitted solid waste
Monday, July 18, 2005
Blowin' Like a Bandit
`Cause out there in the Gulf
The wind's blowin' like a bandit
I'm talkin' `bout a hurricane
and your riggin will not stand it
-Guy Clark
The wind's blowin' like a bandit
I'm talkin' `bout a hurricane
and your riggin will not stand it
-Guy Clark
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Fourth of July: Never Moon the Game Warden
Fourth of July we went over to Port Isabel, over to the marina to go out on Sandras 35 foot Chris-Craft cruiser to watch the fireworks. We had run into Sandra and her Sister Judy about a week ago over at the Palm Street Pier and had many beers and fried oysters with them, and during the course of things, had conspired to accompany them out on the bay for the fourth. We were packing a big pizza for the kids, but no alcohol, because it’s a war zone out on the water this time of the year. Every agency is out in full force trying to drum up a little revenue, and I certainly wasn’t going to let them shake me down, not to mention the fact that the kids were along, so their well being was of course my first concern.
Sandras Chris-Craft looks like a cigarette boat, long and mean, twin 350 Chevy engines, an interior of white rolled naugahide topped off by a racy looking bimini, and a small cockpit capable of holding about 10 adults comfortably, A real cherry 1980’s vintage cruiser. Mark says Sandra wants to sell it, get about 35 grand or so, but I reckon it’s not worth half that. Age and deterioration are beginning to set in, just like it is on all of us. Personally, I'm a little saltier and more barnacle encrusted with each passing season.
Getting across the causeway was a bit of a challenge, people were already driving erratically, like amateur stunt drivers after a long day of drinking and sun on the beach, and my traffic temper was beginning to flare. I felt obliged to cut off some stupid fuck towing an ancient eighteen foot tri-hulled boat with an aging sears seahorse engine when he started to weave in and out of traffic like a damn Ferrari or something, causing a wake of chaos behind him. I found myself hoping that my subtle demolition derby driving would cause one of his paper thin 12” trailer tires to burst, throwing the hulk and its tow driver over the rail of the causeway and into the whitecapped waters far below, where it would promptly sink to the bottom, alleviating us of another brainless fuck and his giant motorized nunchuck. But, he managed to sneak by, heading for some unknown destination.
We finally got over to the Anchor Marina around seven thirty or so, and were the last to load up. There was a temporary shortage of life jackets, so we dug around and got enough for us and the kids prior to taking off. We crossed the rail, and came aboard to a cockpit brimming with about 15 adults, some obviously "three sheets to the wind". Mark was behind the wheel, drinking a mountain dew, and his kid was below already attacking the food. Marks brother in law, Rick, a stereotype trailer trash ape, replete with sleeveless tshirt, redneck mullet haircut, ever present cigarette dangling from the corner of the mouth, and tall boy bud light in hand, was already belligerent and overconfident….a classic picture of white-trashism. He shouted to Mark that we had the proper number of PFD’s, and with no further hesitation, we untied the dock lines, and headed over to Thompkins channel.
Just outside of our channel, the port engine starts to run hot, Mark switchs it off, and we creep along about 10 knots or so heading towards the island, through a choppy brown bay as the sun makes its departure from the world. Disco music blaring from the radio, and the din of empty beer cans and bottles and loud laughing drunks make me think twice about my decision to go along. We make the turn east of the causeway and head up Thomkins. I turn around, and behind us is Sol Mate, all decked out for the fourth, banners and flags flying, a picture of class and civility.
We find a spot near the fireworks barge and ran the bow of the cruiser up on the spoil bank. Around nine fifteen the show begins, an awesome display lasting about a half hour or so. Big booming, thumping pyrotechnics, lighting sky, water and boat in a surreal kaleidoscopic glow. The drunks aboard grow dim and background, although at one point, Rick comes back from the front deck to get a bunch of Evian water bottles to clean up a spill of red wine on the white fibergalss foredeck.
I become temprarily lost, introspectively mulling over the idea of freedom, contemplating the meaning and implications of a word so broad in scope that I sometimes am unsure of what exactly it means.
The fireworks die out in the sky, and all that remains are the smoke trails. I am rousted from my musing by the shouts and screams of drunken revelers, most of them unfortunately, aboard our boat. Mark fires up the Chris-Craft, and grinds off of the shallow spoil bank, heading west towards Port Isabel. About midway to the causeway opening, I see the flashing red and blue lights reflected in the helm console, I tell Mark….”Hey, we’re gettin’ pulled over”.....
Next thing I know, a kid TPWD game warden climbs aboard, over the transom. The kid says “I’m making a courtesy check, could I see your lifejackets?” We oblige, but there’s only sixteen for the eighteen persons aboard. He writes a routine citation, worth about a hundred fifty dollars or so, pretty minor, and I figure we’re pretty lucky with all of these drunk people aboard, and god knows what other violations the boat holds, but apparently Rick doesn’t think so, and begins to lip off to the guy in true trailer trash style. Mark keeps his cool and as the Captain of this vessel, advises the officer to finish his job and once done, depart.
The warden eventually slides back to his boat, and we continue towards home, the mood a bit more somber, but I can sense hostility among the drunks on the fantail, hot like the overheated engine we shut down earlier . I hear various curses and taunts being directed loudly, hurled like empty beercans over the side toward the TPWD skiff, still on our stern. The all of the sudden, the lights come back on, and I glance over to starboard, and now there’s THREE MORE TPWD SKIFFS ALONGSIDE!
Lots of TPWD guys clad in bulbous orange life jackets, cowboy hats, gray cop suits, hands on holstered guns. "Pull over" one of them shouts authoritatively. Damn, Walker Texas Ranger couldn'tve made a better appearance. Now I'm thinking; "Shit, we're really in trouble.
I hear somebody sarcastically say to Rick; "well, if you hadn’t mooned the goddamn warden, we wouldn’t be getting pulled over again". Mooned the fucking warden? What did he expect to happen? Dumbass. Fuckstick.
Chaos, shouts of “pull over now!”, TPWD guys with hands on their guns, and I’m thinking, “jeez now we’re really in trouble”. Mark says; “nah….I’m heading back to the dock”…TPWD lets us go saying; "OK, let him go to the dock”…we creep toward the channel marker 17, flanked by four TPWD game warden skiffs, all with lights flashing. A bit much…but we haven’t even seen the best yet. As we turn into the fingers, overhead a helicopter hovers, turning on the midnight sun light, illuminating the entire harbor. I see three Port Isabel constabulary waiting on the dock too. All the while, Rick has sequestered himself in the head, not coming out at all, but I still hear muffled curses emanating from behind the closed door, just below my perch on the control deck.
We tie up, and Rick pops out of the head and oozes towards the starboard rail. It looks like for a moment, he's gonna bail, make a run for it, but TPW and the cops are too thick, so they sit him down on the bow, but he's still acting like a dick. Now TPW is riled up too, and an old fat possum cop gets in Marks face and accuses him of lipping off, cussing out his guys…he starts asking a lot of detailed personal questions, and Mark decides it’s time to call his lawyer.
The cops let us go, told us we obviously weren’t involved, but they handcuff three of the most noxious drunks, as well as Mark, hauling them all off to the PI jail. Dee, the girls and I go over there and meet with Marks lawyer, a true expatriate who lives on a 26 foot Hunter there at Anchor Marina, a refugee waiting the inevitable collapse of society. Society doesn't collapse this night though, and we finally leave around two AM, when it seems that there's nothing else we can do.
Fourth of July is always a busy time on the Bay. Every agency is out in force, and besides sunburns and hangovers, a lot of people go home with other souvenirs of the coast, a little mordida for the man, and maybe if they’re real ill-behaved a short visit to the graybar hotel courtesy of the local cops. By morning the next day, Mark and the drunks were free men again returning to the sanctity of the harbor. The game wardens had dispersed, the night cops had gone home to bed, and life had pretty much returned to normal.
Sandras Chris-Craft looks like a cigarette boat, long and mean, twin 350 Chevy engines, an interior of white rolled naugahide topped off by a racy looking bimini, and a small cockpit capable of holding about 10 adults comfortably, A real cherry 1980’s vintage cruiser. Mark says Sandra wants to sell it, get about 35 grand or so, but I reckon it’s not worth half that. Age and deterioration are beginning to set in, just like it is on all of us. Personally, I'm a little saltier and more barnacle encrusted with each passing season.
Getting across the causeway was a bit of a challenge, people were already driving erratically, like amateur stunt drivers after a long day of drinking and sun on the beach, and my traffic temper was beginning to flare. I felt obliged to cut off some stupid fuck towing an ancient eighteen foot tri-hulled boat with an aging sears seahorse engine when he started to weave in and out of traffic like a damn Ferrari or something, causing a wake of chaos behind him. I found myself hoping that my subtle demolition derby driving would cause one of his paper thin 12” trailer tires to burst, throwing the hulk and its tow driver over the rail of the causeway and into the whitecapped waters far below, where it would promptly sink to the bottom, alleviating us of another brainless fuck and his giant motorized nunchuck. But, he managed to sneak by, heading for some unknown destination.
We finally got over to the Anchor Marina around seven thirty or so, and were the last to load up. There was a temporary shortage of life jackets, so we dug around and got enough for us and the kids prior to taking off. We crossed the rail, and came aboard to a cockpit brimming with about 15 adults, some obviously "three sheets to the wind". Mark was behind the wheel, drinking a mountain dew, and his kid was below already attacking the food. Marks brother in law, Rick, a stereotype trailer trash ape, replete with sleeveless tshirt, redneck mullet haircut, ever present cigarette dangling from the corner of the mouth, and tall boy bud light in hand, was already belligerent and overconfident….a classic picture of white-trashism. He shouted to Mark that we had the proper number of PFD’s, and with no further hesitation, we untied the dock lines, and headed over to Thompkins channel.
Just outside of our channel, the port engine starts to run hot, Mark switchs it off, and we creep along about 10 knots or so heading towards the island, through a choppy brown bay as the sun makes its departure from the world. Disco music blaring from the radio, and the din of empty beer cans and bottles and loud laughing drunks make me think twice about my decision to go along. We make the turn east of the causeway and head up Thomkins. I turn around, and behind us is Sol Mate, all decked out for the fourth, banners and flags flying, a picture of class and civility.
We find a spot near the fireworks barge and ran the bow of the cruiser up on the spoil bank. Around nine fifteen the show begins, an awesome display lasting about a half hour or so. Big booming, thumping pyrotechnics, lighting sky, water and boat in a surreal kaleidoscopic glow. The drunks aboard grow dim and background, although at one point, Rick comes back from the front deck to get a bunch of Evian water bottles to clean up a spill of red wine on the white fibergalss foredeck.
I become temprarily lost, introspectively mulling over the idea of freedom, contemplating the meaning and implications of a word so broad in scope that I sometimes am unsure of what exactly it means.
The fireworks die out in the sky, and all that remains are the smoke trails. I am rousted from my musing by the shouts and screams of drunken revelers, most of them unfortunately, aboard our boat. Mark fires up the Chris-Craft, and grinds off of the shallow spoil bank, heading west towards Port Isabel. About midway to the causeway opening, I see the flashing red and blue lights reflected in the helm console, I tell Mark….”Hey, we’re gettin’ pulled over”.....
Next thing I know, a kid TPWD game warden climbs aboard, over the transom. The kid says “I’m making a courtesy check, could I see your lifejackets?” We oblige, but there’s only sixteen for the eighteen persons aboard. He writes a routine citation, worth about a hundred fifty dollars or so, pretty minor, and I figure we’re pretty lucky with all of these drunk people aboard, and god knows what other violations the boat holds, but apparently Rick doesn’t think so, and begins to lip off to the guy in true trailer trash style. Mark keeps his cool and as the Captain of this vessel, advises the officer to finish his job and once done, depart.
The warden eventually slides back to his boat, and we continue towards home, the mood a bit more somber, but I can sense hostility among the drunks on the fantail, hot like the overheated engine we shut down earlier . I hear various curses and taunts being directed loudly, hurled like empty beercans over the side toward the TPWD skiff, still on our stern. The all of the sudden, the lights come back on, and I glance over to starboard, and now there’s THREE MORE TPWD SKIFFS ALONGSIDE!
Lots of TPWD guys clad in bulbous orange life jackets, cowboy hats, gray cop suits, hands on holstered guns. "Pull over" one of them shouts authoritatively. Damn, Walker Texas Ranger couldn'tve made a better appearance. Now I'm thinking; "Shit, we're really in trouble.
I hear somebody sarcastically say to Rick; "well, if you hadn’t mooned the goddamn warden, we wouldn’t be getting pulled over again". Mooned the fucking warden? What did he expect to happen? Dumbass. Fuckstick.
Chaos, shouts of “pull over now!”, TPWD guys with hands on their guns, and I’m thinking, “jeez now we’re really in trouble”. Mark says; “nah….I’m heading back to the dock”…TPWD lets us go saying; "OK, let him go to the dock”…we creep toward the channel marker 17, flanked by four TPWD game warden skiffs, all with lights flashing. A bit much…but we haven’t even seen the best yet. As we turn into the fingers, overhead a helicopter hovers, turning on the midnight sun light, illuminating the entire harbor. I see three Port Isabel constabulary waiting on the dock too. All the while, Rick has sequestered himself in the head, not coming out at all, but I still hear muffled curses emanating from behind the closed door, just below my perch on the control deck.
We tie up, and Rick pops out of the head and oozes towards the starboard rail. It looks like for a moment, he's gonna bail, make a run for it, but TPW and the cops are too thick, so they sit him down on the bow, but he's still acting like a dick. Now TPW is riled up too, and an old fat possum cop gets in Marks face and accuses him of lipping off, cussing out his guys…he starts asking a lot of detailed personal questions, and Mark decides it’s time to call his lawyer.
The cops let us go, told us we obviously weren’t involved, but they handcuff three of the most noxious drunks, as well as Mark, hauling them all off to the PI jail. Dee, the girls and I go over there and meet with Marks lawyer, a true expatriate who lives on a 26 foot Hunter there at Anchor Marina, a refugee waiting the inevitable collapse of society. Society doesn't collapse this night though, and we finally leave around two AM, when it seems that there's nothing else we can do.
Fourth of July is always a busy time on the Bay. Every agency is out in force, and besides sunburns and hangovers, a lot of people go home with other souvenirs of the coast, a little mordida for the man, and maybe if they’re real ill-behaved a short visit to the graybar hotel courtesy of the local cops. By morning the next day, Mark and the drunks were free men again returning to the sanctity of the harbor. The game wardens had dispersed, the night cops had gone home to bed, and life had pretty much returned to normal.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Monday, July 04, 2005
Hunters' Gift
All kinds of people surf out here. They come from all over the valley, from as far away as the desert area of Rio Grande City to slide the waves that are best in the Gulf of Mexico. Waves that more resemble those of California than the typical mushburgers of the shallow Gulf.
But even then, we go through extended periods of flat, especially during the summetime, times when the waters go placid and blue, not even a hint of ripple over the expansive Gulf. Ironically, it's this time of the year that tropical weather moves through the broiling waters, stirring waves that sometimes get to be world class.
During this indecisive time of waves-no waves local surfers often travel south, to the west coast of Mexico. It was during one of my Southern sabbaticals that I first met Hunter. I was going through a pretty wicked divorce (who doesn't in this day and age, it's considered cliche not to now I think), I had just returned from Mexico, and was enjoying a late spring swell on the beach during spring break, when I ended up over at the Tequila Sunset having a few cuba libres with Hunter, talking waves, surf spots and of all things, farming.
Hunter is the son of a successful farmer over in Willacy county, and that's his life. Farming and surfing. He ended up getting married not long after we met, and we only saw one another on certain swells, and occasionally in other settings, like once when I was giving a rotary club presentation for the Watermasters office, who I was working for at the time. Among surfers though, there's always a bond that transcends friendship. It's the bond of the tribe, something that excludes non surfers, people of the land, and friendships just picks up again no matter the time passage.
In 2001 after September 11th Hunter put together the first Kids Fourth of July Surf Challange in order to give local children the opportunity to focus on something healthy, something other than the turmoil of that terrible day. The contest was free entry, with prizes donated by local businesses, and trophies were given to all kids who participated. Hunter and his wife gave freely of themselves, attacking the event with a passion, and the event has flourished. Donations are accepted, and they are given to needy local causes. Last year, a family who was devistated by an auto accident, this year a local spinal chord injury victim.
About 150 kids participated in the event on Saturday, including the twins. More than a story of success, more than just an event this is about one mans vision and persistence, and the desire to provide something for the kids and community that Hunter loves. He doesn't ask for anything, doesn't look for any kind of recognition for himself. In his low key get-it-done way, he simply does something....something good.
As I write this there's a tropical storm in the Gulf, and more on the way from deep down south. We'll soon have waves, hopefully big clean sets, peeling far offshore, crashing on the beach, ending their long journey from exotic places. I'll more than likely see friends from long ago, people I rarely get to see this time of year. I hope Hunter will be able to take a break from plowing and cultivating cotton and join us. He deserves it.
But even then, we go through extended periods of flat, especially during the summetime, times when the waters go placid and blue, not even a hint of ripple over the expansive Gulf. Ironically, it's this time of the year that tropical weather moves through the broiling waters, stirring waves that sometimes get to be world class.
During this indecisive time of waves-no waves local surfers often travel south, to the west coast of Mexico. It was during one of my Southern sabbaticals that I first met Hunter. I was going through a pretty wicked divorce (who doesn't in this day and age, it's considered cliche not to now I think), I had just returned from Mexico, and was enjoying a late spring swell on the beach during spring break, when I ended up over at the Tequila Sunset having a few cuba libres with Hunter, talking waves, surf spots and of all things, farming.
Hunter is the son of a successful farmer over in Willacy county, and that's his life. Farming and surfing. He ended up getting married not long after we met, and we only saw one another on certain swells, and occasionally in other settings, like once when I was giving a rotary club presentation for the Watermasters office, who I was working for at the time. Among surfers though, there's always a bond that transcends friendship. It's the bond of the tribe, something that excludes non surfers, people of the land, and friendships just picks up again no matter the time passage.
In 2001 after September 11th Hunter put together the first Kids Fourth of July Surf Challange in order to give local children the opportunity to focus on something healthy, something other than the turmoil of that terrible day. The contest was free entry, with prizes donated by local businesses, and trophies were given to all kids who participated. Hunter and his wife gave freely of themselves, attacking the event with a passion, and the event has flourished. Donations are accepted, and they are given to needy local causes. Last year, a family who was devistated by an auto accident, this year a local spinal chord injury victim.
About 150 kids participated in the event on Saturday, including the twins. More than a story of success, more than just an event this is about one mans vision and persistence, and the desire to provide something for the kids and community that Hunter loves. He doesn't ask for anything, doesn't look for any kind of recognition for himself. In his low key get-it-done way, he simply does something....something good.
As I write this there's a tropical storm in the Gulf, and more on the way from deep down south. We'll soon have waves, hopefully big clean sets, peeling far offshore, crashing on the beach, ending their long journey from exotic places. I'll more than likely see friends from long ago, people I rarely get to see this time of year. I hope Hunter will be able to take a break from plowing and cultivating cotton and join us. He deserves it.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Mack the Knife
About a month ago there was a derelict houseboat at the marina over by the buccaneer. Big old flat-bottomed nasty thing, corroded outdrive units encrusted in a six inch thick layer of barnacles and oysters, sitting forlornly against the dock. I had a brief wondering from sanity, probably driven by the heat and humidity and thought about offering a few bucks for it and starting a restoration job, maybe turning it into a bit of rental property, or better yet a poor mans getaway condo, anchored out in the bay, up by Three Islands or somewhere. Sanity soon returned though, and I decided against it. It’s hard enough maintaining any vessel, let alone another project.
Someone else bought it, but it turns out the guy was a major con artist who mostly paid his way with hot checks, including one for the houseboat. By the time the local authorities caught on to him, he had convinced a property owner to let him tie up the scow over in the shallow water area of the Port Isabel fingers. This area is notoriously shallow, and even skinny draft bay boats can hardly access it except on big high tides. It’s been a constant battle with the City, the Corps of Engineers and the owners to try and get this spot dredged deeper, but to no avail.
That’s because the local dredger is a pirate too. The problem is, no one around here ever wants to do things according to the regulations. And in my experience, almost all coastal communities are like that, so it’s not just Port Isabel. BK the local dredger was just shut down over on the Island for dumping dredge material into an area of sensitive dune vegetation where he promised he wouldn’t. Sea oats, sea purslane and beach croton, with its pretty yellow flowers all now under a blanket of sand, mud and rubble. Now BK has to obtain a five hundred dollar permit so that he can legally bury sensitive beach vegetation. BK moans the fact that the Army Corps of Engineers makes it so hard for him to obtain permits to do anything. “They’re picking on me” he says.
All coastal communities are a tidal gathering of pirates, bandits and thieves – individuals on the endangered species list. I finally got the complete story of the guy who bought the boat, told to me by my friend Mark who owns the Marina. Mark is the quintessential optimist ready to help out anybody in need. So he gave a job to someone he met in church, in Sunday school who wanted to learn to be a draftsman, but who really wanted a construction company of his own. But what he really wanted was a derelict houseboat that he could make payments on, using hot checks. When they closed down CRC marine across the harbor, the boat showed up, and Mark warned him about it, but he made an outside deal with the owner, paying in rubber checks. When his rubber check writing extended to almost all facets of the community, he fled town and the houseboat sunk at the dock over on the shallow side, creating an oil slick and alerting the Coast Guard, Texas General Land Office and others dedicated to preserving the quality of the coastal waters. They were all waiting ready to pounce, collect some revenue to line their own pockets with, but there was nobody to pay the bill.
So the owner of the condo commissions the infamous Yamaha John, better know as “Mack the knife” to handle the problem. He figures, “hey, out of sight…out of mind, at least the fucker ain’t in my backyard anymore”.
Dirty deeds…done dirt cheap. You only hire Mack the knife if you need to creatively take care of a problem without an obvious legal solution. Like right now, the City of South Padre Island is in a quandary about what to do for an upcoming event where they need the use of a boat ramp that’s currently silted in. This event involves the media, local and national, ESPN and lots of potential revenue. But first, the ramp needs to be dredged, the whole thing depends on that. The organizers have been screwing around, figuring ways to make money off of the thing, so now, there’s insufficient time to obtain the necessary legal permits. They’ll probably hire Mack the knife to do a bit of midnight dredging. Most likely, he’ll drive an old boat on a trailer with a big old powerful hulk of an outboard engine down to the ramp in the middle of the night, back the whole thing down into the water and begin work, shoving and revving the motor in and out of gear, while still attached to the trailer, progressively backing deeper and deeper as the prop wash cut gets deeper and wider, throwing a churning, boiling plume of sediment visible all the way across the bay, extending to the shores of Port Isabel, slick in the moonlight, scouring out the shallow area so that the boats can get in and out. Problem solved.
Mack the knife decides to take the old girl out into the Laguna Madre somewhere and just let nature take its course. Maybe up around Three Islands, an area that’s becoming a repository of homeless boats, in fact, I’ll bet Mack the knifes handiwork is already part of this area, which reminds me of a marine-mafia graveyard. Anyway, he has some of his cronies pump the boat out, getting it to finally float again, and starts to pull it out of the fingers, edging towards the open shallow lagoon, when to nobodies surprise, out pop the agencies like a bunch of flies on cowshit. Swarming all over Mack the knife, they demand to know where he’s taking the boat. Mack thinks fast, and tells them he’s just towing it over to Southpoint Marina.
The constabulary calls Southpoint, who of course doesn’t know anything at all about it. Out come the handcuffs, and they take old Mackie off to the graybar hotel, leaving the boat on a sandbar just outside the channel entrance where we always bring Le Menagerie in and out of the Bay to our slip in the deepwater part of the fingers. A mute testament to how things are done in coastal communities. An effigy to the individuals, pirates, thieves and scoundrels, who I would much rather see inherit the coast, rather than regulators, bureaucrats and politicians, who are the true pirates, thieves and scoundrels. I hope the houseboat gets left there as a monument to this dying breed, till it eventually falls apart, claimed by the tides, wind and salt, but I know it won’t.
Someone else bought it, but it turns out the guy was a major con artist who mostly paid his way with hot checks, including one for the houseboat. By the time the local authorities caught on to him, he had convinced a property owner to let him tie up the scow over in the shallow water area of the Port Isabel fingers. This area is notoriously shallow, and even skinny draft bay boats can hardly access it except on big high tides. It’s been a constant battle with the City, the Corps of Engineers and the owners to try and get this spot dredged deeper, but to no avail.
That’s because the local dredger is a pirate too. The problem is, no one around here ever wants to do things according to the regulations. And in my experience, almost all coastal communities are like that, so it’s not just Port Isabel. BK the local dredger was just shut down over on the Island for dumping dredge material into an area of sensitive dune vegetation where he promised he wouldn’t. Sea oats, sea purslane and beach croton, with its pretty yellow flowers all now under a blanket of sand, mud and rubble. Now BK has to obtain a five hundred dollar permit so that he can legally bury sensitive beach vegetation. BK moans the fact that the Army Corps of Engineers makes it so hard for him to obtain permits to do anything. “They’re picking on me” he says.
All coastal communities are a tidal gathering of pirates, bandits and thieves – individuals on the endangered species list. I finally got the complete story of the guy who bought the boat, told to me by my friend Mark who owns the Marina. Mark is the quintessential optimist ready to help out anybody in need. So he gave a job to someone he met in church, in Sunday school who wanted to learn to be a draftsman, but who really wanted a construction company of his own. But what he really wanted was a derelict houseboat that he could make payments on, using hot checks. When they closed down CRC marine across the harbor, the boat showed up, and Mark warned him about it, but he made an outside deal with the owner, paying in rubber checks. When his rubber check writing extended to almost all facets of the community, he fled town and the houseboat sunk at the dock over on the shallow side, creating an oil slick and alerting the Coast Guard, Texas General Land Office and others dedicated to preserving the quality of the coastal waters. They were all waiting ready to pounce, collect some revenue to line their own pockets with, but there was nobody to pay the bill.
So the owner of the condo commissions the infamous Yamaha John, better know as “Mack the knife” to handle the problem. He figures, “hey, out of sight…out of mind, at least the fucker ain’t in my backyard anymore”.
Dirty deeds…done dirt cheap. You only hire Mack the knife if you need to creatively take care of a problem without an obvious legal solution. Like right now, the City of South Padre Island is in a quandary about what to do for an upcoming event where they need the use of a boat ramp that’s currently silted in. This event involves the media, local and national, ESPN and lots of potential revenue. But first, the ramp needs to be dredged, the whole thing depends on that. The organizers have been screwing around, figuring ways to make money off of the thing, so now, there’s insufficient time to obtain the necessary legal permits. They’ll probably hire Mack the knife to do a bit of midnight dredging. Most likely, he’ll drive an old boat on a trailer with a big old powerful hulk of an outboard engine down to the ramp in the middle of the night, back the whole thing down into the water and begin work, shoving and revving the motor in and out of gear, while still attached to the trailer, progressively backing deeper and deeper as the prop wash cut gets deeper and wider, throwing a churning, boiling plume of sediment visible all the way across the bay, extending to the shores of Port Isabel, slick in the moonlight, scouring out the shallow area so that the boats can get in and out. Problem solved.
Mack the knife decides to take the old girl out into the Laguna Madre somewhere and just let nature take its course. Maybe up around Three Islands, an area that’s becoming a repository of homeless boats, in fact, I’ll bet Mack the knifes handiwork is already part of this area, which reminds me of a marine-mafia graveyard. Anyway, he has some of his cronies pump the boat out, getting it to finally float again, and starts to pull it out of the fingers, edging towards the open shallow lagoon, when to nobodies surprise, out pop the agencies like a bunch of flies on cowshit. Swarming all over Mack the knife, they demand to know where he’s taking the boat. Mack thinks fast, and tells them he’s just towing it over to Southpoint Marina.
The constabulary calls Southpoint, who of course doesn’t know anything at all about it. Out come the handcuffs, and they take old Mackie off to the graybar hotel, leaving the boat on a sandbar just outside the channel entrance where we always bring Le Menagerie in and out of the Bay to our slip in the deepwater part of the fingers. A mute testament to how things are done in coastal communities. An effigy to the individuals, pirates, thieves and scoundrels, who I would much rather see inherit the coast, rather than regulators, bureaucrats and politicians, who are the true pirates, thieves and scoundrels. I hope the houseboat gets left there as a monument to this dying breed, till it eventually falls apart, claimed by the tides, wind and salt, but I know it won’t.
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