Richard Jernigan -> RE: It’s hotter than (Aug. 5 2021 21:41:11)
|
The conjunction of whisky and camping can lead to unforeseen consequences. When I was nine or ten years old I went with a group of older male relatives to South Padre Island. In those days nobody lived there. The only way to get there was by boat. We went in a flotilla of wooden skiffs, some rowed, others with little putt-putt outboards. Established custom dictated that the only supplies brought along were coffee, salt, cornmeal for breading fish to fry, bacon, a few bottles of Bourbon and Scotch, and some 5-gallon cans of fresh water. There was no fresh water at all on the island. We pitched camp, and broke out eight-foot seins with poles at each end. On the bay side the water was shallow and calm, with patches of grassy seaweed. You seined for grass shrimp to bait trotlines. Nobody ate grass shrimp. A trotline is a line of poles stuck in the bottom in shallow water, spaced 20 or 30 feet apart. A line is strung along the tops of the poles, shorter lines with baited hooks hang down from it into the water. Floats are attached to the baited lines, leaving a little slack in them above the water surface. The next morning we had bacon, cornmeal hushpuppies and coffee for breakfast, then boarded boats to run the trotlines. The fish weren't biting. We came up with only a half dozen small fish to feed a crew of ten. The fish shortage persisted for a couple of days. Though there was a strong ethic against complaining, people began to comment on our bad luck. There were feral razorback hogs on the island. How they made a living is still beyond me, but they seemed to make out okay. Around the driftwood campfire one night, while some whisky was being drunk, my father's younger brother began to talk about how good some barbecued pork ribs would be. We weren't going hungry, but bacon, hushpuppies, a mouthful or two of fried fish, and water were getting monotonous. Nobody took Uncle Cecil's pork talk seriously. In fact, a few teased him a little. After maybe three glasses of whisky Cecil decided it was time to silence the scoffers by taking action. When I saw him go into his tent and come back out with his pistol I knew what was up and asked whether I could go along. He said I could, as long as I promised to do as I was told. It was a bright moonlit night. It didn't take long to find where the herd of hogs had bunked down. We approached from the west, against the sea breeze, and laid down behind a low sand dune at fairly close range. Like the rest of the men in the group, Cecil was an expert shot. He drew his Colt Peacemaker, chambered for the powerful .45 Long Colt cartridge, took aim at a promising shoat, and nailed it with one shot. Our satisfaction didn't last long. We had not foreseen the hogs' reaction to our killing one of their offspring. They didn't like it. They had no trouble figuring out where we were and charged. Hogs are very dangerous. A single boar can kill a person. A whole herd of enraged pigs will strike fear deeply in the boldest of hunters. There were no trees to climb on Padre Island. We took off running as fast as we could. We were barefoot. The entire island is nothing but sand. It is much easier to walk barefoot in loose sand than it is while shod. Even though we could see patches of goat head stickers in the bright moonlight we didn't swerve to avoid them. A serious defect in our strategy was that in our shock and surprise, we didn't think of running anywhere except back to camp. At least we shouted warnings as we approached. Presently the whole group were standing shoulder deep in the bay, watching as the hogs finished energetically destroying the camp. Grandpa was a pillar of the church. He never swore. But that night he turned to my uncle and said, "Cecil, what the hell were you thinking?" RNJ
|
|
|
|