Living in Louisiana has opened up an amazing number of opportunities to spend time out on the water. Whether it’s a quick(ish) fishing trip or a day kayaking on Bayou St. John, we have more chances to cast out on the blue than we can handle. This wealth of water activity is a stark contrast to my upbringing in North Carolina’s Piedmont, where lake and river days were more of a planned occasion than a spur-of-the-moment outing.
My family was blessed with the experience of owning a speed boat while I was growing up, and during the summers, we would find any excuse to drive out to Jordan Lake and spend the entire day cruising the waves and soaking up way too much sun. The days began with my dad packing up all the requisite items to keep everyone entertained for a long excursion, and my mom would be in the kitchen making a giant Tupperware container of her “boat sandwiches.” The recipe for these was simple: whatever deli meat we had on hand, white bread, Hellman’s Mayonnaise (we’ve since converted to Blue Plate), and yellow mustard. These would then be cut and neatly arranged in rows, points facing up, awaiting consumption later in the day. I’ve been lucky to try some of the best restaurants in the world, and my wife (who joined us on a few of these trips to the lake) can attest that I still think those sandwiches my mom made were some of the best things ever.
When we got to the lake, my dad was always in charge of lowering the boat off the ramp into the water with his truck while my mom steered it toward the docks to pick him up afterward. From there, we were off to explore the vastness of Jordan Lake (though tiny by comparison with some of the bodies of water down here). Eventually, I would want to test my mettle and prove my worth as a man by going tubing while my dad drove the boat, which was no small feat of achievement. He drove that boat like a madman, hitting sharp curves and throwing me onto the wake of the boat in an attempt—I can only assume—to end my life. My knuckles, white with tension, would eventually release, and I would feel my grip on reality slip as I was thrown off the tube. I recall my mother, who was the lookout on such occasions, likened me to a skipping stone the way I bounced along the water’s surface before splashing into its depths. I’m grateful to say I survived these harrowing experiences and am a better man for it, only because I now know I can stare death in the face and be only mildly afraid.
The cocktail for this issue is my ode to that rite of passage I assume most kids who have dads with boats go through. It’s refreshing and fun and doesn’t take itself too seriously, like any good day on the water should be. Cheers!
Get There
