One of my favorite Louisiana memories is an afternoon I spent with my dog Chewie in Port Fourchon. It was the summer of 2008, and we were visiting a friend as I relocated to Daytona Beach to finish my master’s thesis. It was a particularly hot, sultry August afternoon, and seeking relief from the heat, the two of us hopped in my car and headed to the nearest beach. Once there, we frolicked in the dunes, Chewie chasing birds, rolling in stinky stuff, and wallowing a pocket of water left by an earlier high tide while I trailed behind her enjoying her playful spirit and the cool, onshore breeze.
This day would turn out to be a close second.
After a good night’s sleep, it was off to meet the same friends I’d visited a month before*. I arrived a bit early, which provided the opportunity to explore the helibase**. Located on the south end of the South LaFourche Airport, it consisted of two buildings framing a concrete apron, the hangar-office structure to the south I was visiting, and an oil company’s passenger terminal to the west. My heart lifted as I heard a helicopter approach, an S-92, royal blue with red and white trim which grew closer then alighted on the helipad a short distance away. As the aircraft taxied in, I could see faces in the windows; and, once it had parked and its rotors had wound to a stop, the faces became disembarking passengers. They looked tired, worn from their time on the rig, but perked up as they hopped on the golf cart and rode to the terminal. That is when it hit me: these were the people I’d worked to keep safe all those years, and their going home to their families tonight was the fruit of my travails.
My eyes were a bit misty as I headed back inside.
We ate lunch one town over. The trip there was a hoot: as we wound along the oaks, magnolias, houseboats, trawlers, and various buildings that lined the bayou roads, I was treated to a narrative of local legends and colorful histories of local landmarks. After about fifteen minutes we pulled onto a large concrete tarmac, the structures lining it so unassuming that I thought it was an intermediate stop. But this was the place, and once inside I understood why. The interior walls overflowed with vibrant paintings, shadow boxes, and recovered wood mosaics available on consignment from local artists. Our meals were generous, large platters heaped with crab for the boys an equally large salad for me. Conversation was filled with rich, fascinating stories of offshore flying, bayou life, and Napoleonic law.
The adventure continued on the ride back to the hangar. As we made our way north, work boats bobbing on the other side of a low seawall, my guide caught sight of a small trailer parked in front of a line of small clapboard houses. We turned in, and soon I was enjoying a coconut cream shave ice, served to me by a toothy-smiled gent. The back story was charming: the proprietor was a cognitively-challenged native son who one day as a young adult asked his mom to help him set up a sweet tea stand in the front yard. The locals, wanting to encourage his self-reliance, frequented it whenever it was open. Over the years it grew from a table to a food-truck-style trailer with full menu of shave ice and ice creams.
My belly full of good food and my mind filled with tales of derring-do, I headed back to my nest for a nap.
More soon!
* http://www.hollybrunelle.com/?p=256 (Louisienne)
**For those not familiar, oil companies use helicopters to ferry their workers to offshore rigs.
Note: Louisiana Law includes Spanish and French influences: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Law_of_Louisiana