"Man, we thought we were hallucinating," Now Don huffed from behind. He was catching up, splashing through the sandbar, carrying a sleeping bag on each shoulder. "We couldn't believe it. You know how it goes out here. You might see the odd chick out here now and then. You know ... like last year. Maybe a coupla wives who come out to fish, splash around a little in the evening. Work on the tan while the ole-man fishes. But these don't look like no wives. No way. So we idled pretty close to 'em. They were actually catching fish and started waving us off, like they were pissed. Like we'd scare the school away, mess up the fishing. They were serious about it, man, waving and screaming. So we backed off. But let me tell ya man, all that waving with those microscopic bikinis? Some serious bouncin', some delicious bouncin'. It was heavenly."
"Ummmm-UMMMM!" It was On-the-Ball, the only single one left amongst us. He was peering through some binoculars he'd yanked out of the duffel bag he was carrying, splashing along and mumbling. "MAMA-MAMA! he sighed. " FOXY-FOXY!!" he whistled while waving hack at the babe with the yellow tanga and long brown hair, smiling, waving and wiggling from the second floor of the floating condo.
We splashed ashore and about ten tents had been set up already. A driftwood fire was smoking and smoldering, a grill over it with sausage and redfish fillets, about ten aluminum chairs set up around it. But only one chair was occupied ... and it looked like ... a female? Impossible.
"Who's that?" I asked Bob who finally huffed ashore carrying some gear. "I mean, I thought it was no ole ladies out here? Shoot, I'd a brought Shirley if I'd known. She'd a come. The kids were all out this weekend."
"That's no ole lady." Bob smirked as he shuffled past, rum fumes pumping up from his lungs. "She's urine, podnuh. All mine ... the perfect woman." He grinned and jogged up to his tent, opened the flap and threw in his stuff.
Bob's always talking in riddles. And I was in no mood for subtleties, so I let it slide. "What's with the chick?" I asked Chris and Don who'd just come up behind, lugging their gear.
"Come see," they chuckled. "She's Bob's date for the weekend. The perfect woman ... here." Chris handed me a Bud. I popped it open and chugged.
As I got closer, the chick looked oddly stiff, even a weird color. Good Lord, I thought, what kind of broad did Bob dig up this time? Then it hit me: she was an inflatable doll.
"Got her in the quarter last weekend after the bachelor party," Bob said as he patted her head. "Y'all left early, right after we left Pat O's. Remember? So Chris and I walked over to Bourbon Street. Sat in Papa Joe's for a while, for ole times sake. Then we walked in one of those sex shops. She was beckoning from the wall. Just look at this mouth!" He groaned while squeezing her cheeks. "She's a goddess! A goddess, I tell ya! I fell for her." He started smooching her.
Bob was already looped, as anyone could tell. His eyes where rheumy, face red. He whacked her on the side of the head and stumbled off through the sand to his tent.
I went over and sat her back down. She was a slutty-looking thing. Red round mouth, opened in an O. Arms outstretched. A dog collar. A pink haltertop with "The Perfect Woman" emblazoned in bold red across her tits.
Geezuz, I thought. These people are shameless. Still, it's impossible not to be horny right after a hunt. Sure, we come home tired, dirty, and bedraggled--but always with a carnal gleam in the eye. Ask the wives. And there's good reason for it. For 99 percent of our species's history apres-hunt was nookie time. The brutes came in from the hunt bragging and blustering about who killed the most or the biggest. The women sat around, smiling coyly, but sizing up the kill. The best hunter was naturally the best provider. So he got the best poon-tang. Nothing's changed. They do the same thing now, except the hunt takes place in an office or boardroom, and the kill is a paycheck. Who are we kidding?
"Over here!" Chris was calling me from the shore where he was struggling with an ice-chest. "Gimme a hand."
I walked over. "What the hell ya got in here? Man, it's heavy." And he opened the lid. "Oh-yeah! Man-o-man! Are they salty?"
He'd picked up a sack from an oyster boat at the marina this morning like we'd wanted. They'd been iced down for three hours by now. The oyster knife was in the box, so I grabbed one with my bare hands and pried it open. No sauce. No lemon. No nothing . . . sluuurp-"UMMMM!" Nothing but the fabulous taste of the raw salty gulf. "Man, these are good! I mean good salty, salty, salty-and cold! Let's get 'em up there."
"Told ya I wasn't gonna buy them unless they were salty," Chris smirked as we huffed it up to beach towards the chairs. "The guy let me taste them first. But I was pretty sure they'd be good. All that south wind lately."
Rule of thumb for Louisiana oysters: eat them after a few days of southerly winds, if possible. South (and east) winds push the salty Gulf waters into the estuaries where oysters grow. A few days of that and you're guaranteed salty oysters, at Acme and Felix's in the French Quarter, or, of course, straight from the boats themselves, like in our case.
I've met exactly one male in Louisiana who isn't fond of raw oysters. About half the women love them. Food snots talk about caviar as some "erotic" or "sensual" dining experience. And maybe it is. They say good caviar tastes like a "breath of fresh clean ocean air." I guess it's like wine. The best ones taste like nothing; flavor and price are inversely proportional with wine as well as caviar. But not with oysters, and we'll take raw oysters any day-the fatter, colder and saltier the better.
"Let's go," I huffed. Chris was adjusting his grip. "Got it? Let's go." I couldn't get them over to the tents fast enough. "There." And we dropped the ice chest next to the pile of driftwood. I dug a glove out of my dive bag, reached in for another oyster, and popped it open with a quick twist of the knife. It was actually steaming-in reverse, I mean. Vapor was issuing from it because the oyster was ice-cold and the air hot and humid.
"Tom! Come over. Check out the oysters."
Pelayo dug out another oyster knife and half the sack vanished in half an hour. A nice little pile of oyster shells grew next to the driftwood. Not an ounce of any kind of cocktail sauce was used to mask their marvelous salty flavor.
"Another beer?" Tom asked as he went for the cooler.
"Naw ... not right now. Think I'm gonna ... yyyAAWWWNN!- think I'm gonna conk out." It was getting that time. Almost two in the afternoon. We'd been up since 4 A.M. lugging tanks and gear around, then fighting the waves, the current, the fish-a six-pack on an empty stomach. Now a half-gallon of raw oysters percolating in the gut. Yep, time for a nap.
But not in the tent, too hot. It wasn't set up anyway, a tarp was, and a nice breeze was blowing. I walked over, set up my cot in its shade, spread my sleeping bag on top and plopped down ... that's nice. Better than a bed at home. The breeze was heavenly, the gentle lapping of the surf fifty yards away a soothing lullaby. I drifted off in seconds-then back again as somebody let fly with a bray of laughter from nearby ... then another ... and another ... more of the gang meeting the Perfect Woman.
I didn't mind, actually. I was drifting off again in seconds. Their outbursts granted me more time to savor the delicious sensation-those thirty seconds of bliss before you conk out into sweet oblivion. And here I was succumbing with a Gulf breeze caressing my face and the soft serenade of the surf.
No beating a nap. Just ask us Cubans. Sadly, for many of us the traditional siesta was another of those things Fidel stole. This country's not right for it, but you'd still be amazed by how many people in Louisiana sneak away for an hour or so after lunch, especially in summer. Not that it necessarily means getting in a bed, or even a recliner chair. Office cubicles, so touted as increasing productivity in the workplace, if properly provisioned, make ideal sanctuaries for post-lunch siestas. Let the lunch include a margarita because of a co-worker's birthday, promotion, or retirement and it's a clincher.
A nap lets you actually feel the sleep, especially out here in the breeze, with the waves ... it lets you savor the slumber. It's a lighter form of sleep, with more vivid dreams that you remember.
"UH!" I jerked sideways and fell off the cot as the laughter erupted all around me. "What the?" Looking back, Don was cackling and holding a stingray by the tail.
You crazy bastard!" I wheezed.
"We cut it off, man. We cut the spine off ... see?" He wiggled the creature at me again. Yep, no spine on its tail. "Sounded like you were having an erotic dream man ... wanted to help." At least ten guys were still stumbling around in the sand holding their sides. "Look at this sucker's mouth ... looks good, hunh?" Don roared.
A stingray's mouth does have a certain labial or anal look to it. Though most dive guides say the mouth looks a lot like a human mouth, indeed like a smiling human mouth, a smiling female mouth. Leave it to this bunch of degenerates to find it erotic. But I wasn't in the mood for these idiots right now. I usually wake up from a nap in a foul mood, especially with a quasi-hangover. So I got up, ran past the cackling gauntlet to the surf and dove in, as much to get away from those assholes as to wake up.
The water felt delightful-not hot like it'll be by next month, not cold like during Easter. A black skimmer was working the shoreline. These crazy birds suffer from a hideous underbite, like Springsteen. Their bottom beak protrudes about an inch past the top one. They stick it in the water and just fly along, literally "skimming" the shallow backwash from the surf in search of a tidbit. If the beak touches a fish-blip-they flip it in the air and gulp it down.
Always seemed like a terribly inefficient method of eating to me, unlike that of the brown pelicans out behind me. They stop in mid-air over a pod of mullet rippling the surface. They cup up and dangle their feet almost like a decoying mallard. Then they point their heads down, sweep the wings back-swoop, splash! Right before they hit, they twist their heads and open their beaks, smacking the water atop a swell, and get upright in seconds, with a mullet jerking around in their elastic pouches. Then they tilt their heads back, bob it a couple times-gulp-gulp, and down goes the fish.
These terns are pretty good too. Kreek-kreeek, their constant, noisy cries sound like the proverbial fingernails on a blackboard. They wheel, flap, and hover over the waves, always peering down. Whoops, one stops and hovers for a second. Alta! You can almost see his face light up. SMACK! he hits the water, always with a belly-buster. But terns don't submerge like the pelican. They grab the shiner on the very surface, then flap back into the air in a split second, the little morsel wriggling in their beaks. Terns are after smaller fare than pelicans, little menhadden, glass minnows, or anchovies, or just bits of them, brought to the surface by feeding speckled trout or Spanish mackerel.
"Fishing the birds" is a summer staple along the Louisiana coast. Find some terns smacking the water, head over, and start casting under them. It's one of the surest ways to catch trout down here. Which reminded me-something was causing all these little swirls and eruptions under these terns. I splashed ashore.
"Chris, Rick!" I yelled. "See those birds? Something's ripping up the baitfish out there-trout or Spanish!"
I grabbed a light-action spinning rod, and the three of us waded out, casting plastic coca hoes around the little swirls and splashes atop the swells. Every now and then a fish would leap completely out of the water. "Looks like Spanish mackerel!" Rick yelled, just as his reel started singing.
"Yeah, that ain't no trout." I said. "Lookit him go . . ." and wham! just then my lure stopped in mid crank. I lifted the rod high and rared back. "They're HERE!" And another Spanish went on a spool-sizzling run. I held the rod high, letting the little silver rocket run, savoring every sizzling second. And speaking of sizzling, wait till we get his fresh white fillets, drizzled in lime juice and sprinkled with garlic powder and creole seasoning into some sizzling butter atop the fire tonight.
I tightened the drag a bit to slow him down. These fish are unreal. With their savage strikes, frantic runs, and sheer linestripping power, any two-pound mackerel shames any fourpound. speckled trout. It's no contest.
"Trout over here!" Rick was shouting as he lifted his rod with one arm and lunged with his landing net with the other.
Soon we had five people wading and casting. The action stayed hot for a half hour or so, about half trout and half Spanish, with a few ladyfish and jacks mixed in. Then the school moved on.
So I hobbled back under the tarp and dug in Don's cooler for a cold Bud.
Don walked over. "Man, right after you fell asleep I was wading to the boat to get the grill," he chuckled, "and so I look down and this freakin' stingray is right in fronta me! Another step and he mighta got me. I came back, got the gig and wacked him. Then we saw you squirming around over there on your cot and Pelayo got this great idea and I said, `why not?".
"Very funny ... good move. How 'bout the afternoon dive?" I said, then guzzled again.
"I know Chris, Bob, and I are going ... y'all up for another one?"
"Damn right we are ... let's go. Y'all brought our extra tanks, hunh?
"Yeah, sure, they're still in the boat. One of 'em almost broke my ankle when we went aground on the `Born to Run' run-but we got 'em. And oh ... check this out."
Don was digging something out of his shorts pocket. "A few of those chicks were walking the beach while you were sleeping," he mumbled. "Shoulda seen that shit. They'd been fishing again, having trouble with the spool on one of the reels, huge tangle. We went over and helped them out." He held out a business card of some type. "Bananarama," it said. It showed a drawing of a lovely lass with dreamy eyes peeling a banana; in the corner was a phone number.
"Escort service?" I asked.
"Exactly," Bob snorted from behind. He was dripping, blowing his nose, just in from the water. "Shoulda seen these broads. They're gorgeous man. Like the ones in Rick's Cabaret, not the ones at the Shobar or Papa-Joe's. I mean, these ain't no bowwows. High-caliber shit, my man. Those service companies know how to take care of their customers, all right. You know that 'customer-focus' bullshit we keep hearing about in sales meetings? Well, whoever owns or rents that houseboat takes it seriously."
"And guess what?" Don whispered. He moved in close, a weird look on his face. "They invited us over tonight."
"Good God," I snorted.
"Yeah!" His face was aglow. "Invited us aboard. They have a chef out there, open bar ... everything. Just like your brother said, but for some reason he's not real hip on going."
"I'm game!" I quipped.
"Same here!" Bob laughed.
Pelayo and Paul had just walked up. "We'll be out there tonight, alright. They say most of their clients are leaving this evening. They've been out here three days. Say they're tired."
"Oh, they're tired all right." Don quipped. "Tired of kneeling in front of old, potbellied yokels with snakeskin cowboy boots and Rolexes."
"Yeah, sure." On-the-Ball said. "Now they're ready for more debonair types," he smirked. "Casanova types. I don't know, man," he shrugged, "but they sure seemed friendly. Maybe they think we're rich or something. Well, y'all ready for another dive? Let's go, it's almost four o'clock."
The Gulf was much friendlier for the afternoon dive. We roared over the gentle swells at a good thirty-five miles per hour, heading towards shallower rigs about ten miles northeast of the island. Pelayo, Paul, Tom, and I led the way in Pelayo's boat. Chris, Don, and Bob were blazing alongside in Don's boat. Then they angled in close, like on another "hey-hey-hey" run. Don't tell me they're into the rum already, I thought.
Instead they pointed towards a set of rigs to our left, waved, and veered off. We waved back and nodded. "Pompano rigs," Paul said. "Don and Chris nailed a pile of them last year right there. Remember? Guess they're hoping for a repeat."
Amazing how often that happens to us. We've been at this for fifteen years now and keep a log. It's almost scary how it shows the same species of fish on the same dates at the same rigs year after year af
ter year. We even started naming the rigs after fish. "Pompano rigs, cobia rigs, mangrove rigs, and the ever-popular hammerhead rigs."
We were definitely pumped. Conditions looked ideal. The morning dive had taken the edge off for me. I couldn't wait to get down there, but Tom looked worried; his dive hadn't gone as smoothly. And now, for some reason, he kept bringing up sharks. I was almost sorry for subjecting him to the Routine. It seemed to have affected him, even after we laughed it off.
On the island while I'd been snoozing under the tarp he'd been wade fishing with Glen, hearing about the shark that grabbed his stringer of trout while he was wade fishing last year. Probably bullshit. Glen probably forgot to tie the damn stringer and it slipped off. But to hear him tell it, he was almost dragged to his doom, pumping and clawing frantically as the sixteen-foot hammerhead tried to drag him to a watery grave.
Lots of speculation about that story. Like most of us, Glen's in sales. But he's one of those that's always at the top. He's got more bullshit than Joe Isuzu. And he was fishing alone during the famous shark incident, so no one saw it. But we sure heard about it, and it was enough to scare a little curiosity into one of us in particular.
"Forget sharks!" Pelayo finally blurted at Tom, who kept asking about them. "They won't bother you! It's all bullshit! We were bull- shittin' ya this morning ... geezum! How many times we gotta tell ya?" He glanced at me, nodding and rolling his eyes. "Just watch out for the triggerfish-vicious little bastards."
Tom turned away with a bent smile. "Triggerfish?" he muttered. He looked at me with a feeble smile, shrugged, and turned his gaze back to the dolphins frolicking off the bow. Dolphins do it every time-especially for beginners. You see those dark gray shapes, those fins poking out of the water ...
"Cut him some slack." I barked at Pelayo. "Shit, remember when we started diving?" I turned to Tom smirking. "We were scared shitless. Remember?" I turned back to Pelayo. "We were asking Buzzy and Floyd the same questions-almost word for word. But they were more patient."
The Helldivers' Rodeo: A Deadly, X-Treme, Scuba-Diving, Spearfishing, Adventure Amid the Off Shore Oil Platforms in the Murky Waters of the Gulf of Mexico Page 15