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It may have been one of the hottest days of the summer, that June morning. Typical for down here in the deep south of Louisiana. My father pulled off the main highway onto a dirt road which seemed to go nowhere. As the car came to a stop at a dead end, we all climbed out. The smell of the air caught us by surprise. It wasn't a foul smell, just very distinct. We grabbed the groceries and followed my father single file up the wharf, like a small platoon of little soldiers. "Watch your step," he said across his shoulder. As we made our way down the plank, we came to a stop. There she was, the B JOYFUL, a 40-foot Drift-A-Cruise houseboat, standing proud in her dock. I remember being in awe of how big she looked.
As Dad unlocked the gate to enter her deck, I felt a streak of fear shoot thru me. I was nervous about taking that first step to board her. (Not that it was dangerous, but the child in me wanted to make sure I ended up on the boat and not in the water.) All went well, however, and, once inside, my little brother, sister and I explored every nook and cranny we could find. She was spectacular in every sense of the word, with her two sofas in the back, a real bathroom (not a bucket), another sofa across from the kitchen table, and a huge L-shaped sofa in the front next to where the captain, my dad, would navigate this majestic vessel. I also remember the big "black hole" where her anchor was stored when not in use. For a child, that was a scary place.
The engines started with a loud roar, which caught me off guard. We watched Dad as he untied the ropes from the pier and then returned to his position behind the wheel. He gently backed her out. When the sun hit her decks, it gave off a blinding glare. As the engines revved up, the B JOYFUL glided on the water, cutting a path that was the start of an adventure of a lifetime. She seemed to possess the Tchefuncte. By the first day's end, my siblings and I felt that this mysterious river was ours. We knew that when Dad made that first turn to the left, a drawbridge awaited our signal to open. No matter where we were on the boat, the minute we felt the shift of her body in the water, the race began. Who would get to dad first and have the privilege of blowing the horn three times to signal the draw man? I'm not sure which was more exciting, actually blowing the horn or waiting for the bridge's response to ours. With the return sound of three shorts blows from the bridge, we sat anxiously waiting at the entrance. The B JOYFUL reminded me of a racehorse, anticipating the opening of the gate. She sat there steady, with engines humming; you could feel the excitement as the bridge cracked and groaned and then, very slowly, started to swing its span gently outward. That was the signal to race back up to the top deck, so we could get as close as possible to the bridge. I'm not sure what we thought we'd find up there, but from day one, it became our ritual. My dad would cautiously maneuver our weekend home through the small passageway to the other side. Then, that all-too-familiar sound would echo in our ears, the short horn blows signaling we were through the gate, followed by the bridge's reply. Once on the other side of the bridge, the engines would explode with power, and we were on our way.
There were many nights, however, when the bridge stood there lifeless as we sat for a long time waiting to return to our dock. "Why isn't it opening?" one of us would ask. My dad would answer in a perturbed voice, "I think the draw man is sleeping." (Sometimes he did throw in some . well, let's just say colorful words!) But no matter how long we had to wait, we always got through.
Life on the water
We spent every weekend consumed by the activities entailed in owning and enjoying this vessel. She became more than just a boat to us; she was our second home. Life moved at a slower pace during this time, enabling us to fully enjoy what Mother Nature had to offer. There were days we spent anchored at the mouth of the river, jumping from her decks or paddling the dingy to a little strip of beach. The nights were just as memorable, under the star-lit sky. In the darkness, the appearance of the water took on a whole different demeanor. You didn't know what could be lurking in the water at night! My siblings and I never wanted to venture outside the cabin for fear that the Boggy Creek monster would snatch us off the side of the boat. But the rise of the sun and the smell of eggs and bacon that came forward from the galley signaled that a new day's adventure had begun.
These simple things filled our hearts with joy. Our father had given us the gift of a lifetime. If he had not had his love of the water, we would never have had the opportunity to experience it ourselves.
During this time, I first felt that mystical connection with the water that words can never fully explain, a connection that would change my life forever. Each time I was on the water, I experienced a calming effect that engulfed every part of my being. The world seemed so sedated and tranquil as the wind blew gently against my face and I watched the sun dance on the waves. I was in my own little world, and nothing else mattered. Last but not least was the smell that tied everything together. I can't describe that unique aroma, except to say it was the combination of the sun, wind and water all rolled into one. For me, the sense of smell is the strongest of the seven senses. Not only does it identify a certain essence, it can emerge as an invisible bridge between you and your memories.
Revisiting the river and the B JOYFUL
Last summer, my son had a baseball game in Madisonville, where these memories began. My father, who takes pride in watching his grandson play, rode with me. We arrived an hour early, so Dad and I took a ride on the worn, water-beaten road that leads to the mouth of the river, the place we had anchored the B JOYFUL under a blanket of stars many, many times during those hot summer nights.
The first thing that caught my eye was the little strip of beach. It looked so much smaller! I could still see the image of three small children splashing around at the water's edge, conquering their own little island. As children, we had rowed the little green dingy to that exact spot.
Dad and I opened the car doors and that distinct smell overwhelmed us. At the same time, as if we had rehearsed it, we looked at each other and said, "Do you remember . ?" That stretch of the Tchefuncte held so many memories that we couldn't stop asking the question, "Do you remember . ?"
As I stood there next to him, not as a little girl, but as a grown woman, I felt a bond between us that would never be broken. It made me feel warm inside to realize that not only did I cherish all these memories, but that they had made an impact on my dad's life as well. Somewhere inside his heart, he held a hidden spot, never before revealed, where he kept them. There was never any discussion about our feelings, but I could sense by our unspoken words that we had connected in our thoughts.
Every story has an ending, and this one makes me sad. Last year, my sister found our majestic houseboat, still on her original river, but in a different marina. This time, though, she wasn't sitting high on those waves. Her chrome railings were twisted and rusty, with sections missing. Her decks were covered with scum and mold. You couldn't even tell that they were once as white as snow. Some of the windows were gone, and her back end was almost completely submerged where she sat in her final resting place. Ropes secured her tightly in the dock, which seemed useless at this point, since she was already resting on the soft, muddy bottom. Her name had once been written in big, bold, black letters along her side; now, all that was left was a half-faded B, followed by what once were an F and L. It was painful and sad to see her in that condition. My heart felt heavy.
Once she had glided gracefully over the water, standing tall and erect, as two adults and three small children roamed her decks. Each night, as the water gently lapped against her hull, you could almost feel her sense of accomplishment. She had done her job for the day, keeping her family safe; it was time to rest for whatever adventure awaited us the next day. Now, she lay motionless. All I could do was stand there and stare at her in disbelief that she wasn't the majestic boat I remembered. I thought that if she had feelings, she might be embarrassed and ashamed about the conclusion of her life. I wanted to say to her, "It's OK, Miss B JOYFUL . you did your job and did it well."
To this day, when I remember the happy times, and then think of how it has ended for her, tears come to my eyes. I still feel the little girl inside of me, yearning to go back to those days when my kinship with the water began . with the B JOYFUL, the Tchefuncte River, and my dad.
Copyright © 2002 L&M Publishing, L.L.C. All rights reserved.
