Larry’s Pillow

It is the morning after the day before, and I feel a tad like I may have overdone the celebration yesterday—not necessarily the drinking and eating—but the doing. As soon as I open my eyes to the world, Michael tells me we need to get ready to leave. It is then my duty to tell him we can’t—not yet. As quickly as I can, I tell him why we can’t leave immediately. “OK. But first, I have to go into Corpus and buy Joanne the lighthouse pillow I saw in a shop downtown. She needs it for Larry’s new office. And the store doesn’t open until ten.”

“Larry hates pillows,” Michael reminds me.

Well, yes, he does, I think, but he also hates cloth napkins, napkin rings, Tupperware, and stemmed glasses—and Joanne loves those things.

Joanne told me about the nautical décor in Larry’s office and the lighthouse border she chose. I think she needs this pillow. If Larry hates it, I can make it work for us, I’m sure. Michael loves lighthouses.

When Larry’s pillow is safely tucked away in the forward berth, awaiting its new home, Michael unties Island Rose’s lines from the dock. He then efficiently backs us out of our temporary home in the Corpus Christi City Marina, and we make our way toward the open waters of the bay—destination Rockport.

Rockport

It is late afternoon when we motor into the harbor and tie up at another temporary berth for tonight. Finally, we have nothing to do, and it is time to relax and enjoy the quiet and peaceful, funky charm of one of our favorite coastal hideaways—until we need to prepare dinner. The smoked sausage we bought in Hallettsville is finally on the menu, and Michael’s duty is to man the small grill attached to the railing on the stern of Island Rose.

Dinner on Board

While Michael grills the sausage and two ears of corn, I fix a turnip and carrot slaw. This is a culinary experiment I stumbled on in one of my annual Best of Gourmet cookbooks –I hope it works. I’ve never had raw turnips before, but I’m willing to try anything once.

Later we sit at the small table in the cockpit, enjoying our humble feast. I pop a piece of spicy sausage into my mouth—delicious. We need to stop in Hallettsville again. Soon. The corn tastes like the summer sun, and the carrot and turnip slaw is a lovely counterpoint to the entire meal. Fixing this dinner was so easy—perhaps it is because Michael did most of the cooking!

Before clearing the dishes, we watch soaring seagulls and diving pelicans entertain us with their antics as we sip the remainder of our wine. When the galley is finally clean with everything back in place, Michael proposes we hop on our bicycles one more time and see what lies beyond the shops and buildings bordering the harbor. We head for what we consider to be the real Rockport—the Rockport that is not here for the benefit of the tourists. 

Following our noses, we aren’t sure where we will wind up, but eventually, we find ourselves pedaling down tiny residential streets that I love. Never knowing what we will discover, we are charmed—the sublime sits right next door to the ridiculous. There are no codes. No restrictions. The sameness of city life seems boring by contrast.  

Destination Fulton

This morning after breakfast at the almost sixty-year-old Duck Inn restaurant in Rockport, we are back on our bicycles, pedaling down the coast highway to the small town of Fulton. Today we have a specific destination—it is too long a walk from Island Rose but a perfect four-mile bike ride—the century-old Fulton Mansion.

Memories

We cycle past the hotel where we spent our honeymoon; it does seem appropriate to see this place now, exactly thirty years later. Back then, it was new and fresh and clean—it still doesn’t look too bad. As I recall, I thought the hotel was perfect.

Memories swirl…

We were dirt poor, and all Michael and I wanted was to get married and be together. It was the era of Viet Nam, and both of us hoped that war would never be a part of his future—his draft number was very low—so he enlisted. The recruiter said that was the only way for him to stay stateside—at least for a year.

From the day we were married, we had two short weeks to be together before the military whisked him away to basic training in the heat and swamps of southern Louisiana. With the mosquitos buzzing and muck and filth everywhere, they showed him how to survive hell, teaching him to shoot and hike and wade through mud and swamps filled with slimy creatures and still keep going. Michael learned how to fight his way through pain and exhaustion—how to survive. Meanwhile, I stayed in San Antonio, watching the nightly news with war correspondents reporting on battles being fought in Viet Nam. I worried. The jarring sound of loud guns fired in the background broke the peace of the room where I sat. I worried some more.

I continue following Michael down the narrow lane.

Fulton

The two-lane road that serves as a highway along Aransas Bay, aka Fulton Beach Road, has always fascinated me. It is full of twisted old oak trees knurled and bent from years of incessant winds blowing in from the Gulf. I always think of tortured determination and a will to survive when I see their trunks leaning away from the bay and their leafy branches looking like a woman’s hair blowing in the wind. Normally, we are zipping along in our enclosed bubble of air-conditioned comfort. Now I feel like I am really here—a part of the scene.

As we continue bicycling, I realize that two wheels are good for seeing the world up close and personal, but my bottom is telling me that four-wheeled transport with soft seats is more comfortable. Suddenly I realize that what I need is a little red Miata slowly cruising along the road with the top down!  I wonder…

Fulton Mansion

I’ve been curious about the interior and the story of the man who built this old architectural treasure ever since I first saw the Fulton Mansion years ago. I imagined George Fulton bringing his family here from the citified East Coast to make his fortune, even picturing his wife’s stunned reaction when she stepped off the train, out of the car, or whatever mode of transportation was available back then to what surely must have been a backwater area. I know the first words out of her mouth were, “GEORGE! What were you thinking?” 

Today I discover I was wrong on all counts.

George Fulton

I’m fascinated to learn that George Fulton came to Texas as a young single man—either seeking adventure or to receive a sizeable land grant for enlisting in the army—our docent isn’t sure which; the Texas army was giving away land to those who helped defeat Santa Anna during the Texas Revolution. Fulton organized a volunteer unit of 60 men to accompany him on his mission to help the Texans fight for their independence. They made their way to New Orleans from Indiana via a flatboat on the Wabash, Ohio, and Mississippi rivers and then trekked overland to Texas. 

When Fulton arrived, he learned that one’s best-laid plans don’t always work out. The war with Mexico was over, and he was standing on land belonging to a newly established country. Still, Fulton joined the Army of the Republic of Texas for a six-month tour of duty anyway, receiving a commission as a second lieutenant. For his services, he was granted 1,280 acres of land.

Fulton met his wife Harriet, who was a native Texas girl, through her father, politician Henry Smith—George Fulton’s friend. (Smith would later become the first American governor of Texas.) After living on the Coastal Plains for several years, Fulton moved his family east to Baltimore for more promising opportunities, not returning to Texas until the death of Harriet’s father. Along with Harriet’s inheritance, Fulton’s business savvy, and his ingenuity as an inventor, they eventually owned 25,000 acres of land, building a cattle, ranching, packing, and shipping empire.

The Mansion

They also built a mansion, naming it Oakhurst.

The Fulton Mansion is a four-story wonder. Along with intricate plasterwork used for deep crown moldings, Italian tile floors, ornate brass window fittings, and beautiful plumbing fixtures, the mansion was built boasting the comforts of the day—gas lighting and flush-toilets. However, when George Fulton died at the age of eighty-three, Oakhurst, with its beauty and modern conveniences, was not enough to keep his wife Harriet in the house. After her husband’s death, she closed the door and never returned.

The Shrimp Fleet

After our tour of the sublime, Michael suggests we check out the humble and walk the docks of Fulton’s small harbor. He loves the water—he loves boats of all kinds. I love the docks; of course, we must cross the street and step foot in the other world of Fulton.

As we trod the weather-worn wood and see the rag-tag jumble of the Vietnamese shrimp fleet, I am reminded of how hard some individuals have to work to survive. And I discovered recently that shrimpers can’t cast their nets in the sea every day; there are seasons and rules and restrictions. These fishermen of the Gulf Coast crustaceans can be on the water for a bare two months in the spring and three-and-a-half months during the fall. It is even a more difficult life money-wise than I thought.

Back in Rockport

Two hours later, we are pedaling the streets of Rockport, and I’m thirsty! So is Michael.  I tell him that I am now hooked on bottled Lipton tea, and we need to find some quick. This is deja vu—another convenience store, another slice of shade, another cement curb, and two large cups of ice.

Before returning to Island Rose, we bike through a public beach area and explore the fringes of a bird sanctuary that rings the bay. Michael disrupts the equilibrium of our newly found feathered friends as he leads me around the preserve. The birds must have nests somewhere close by because they begin chasing Michael in earnest—finally resorting to dive bombing tactics—at least they drop no bombs. 🙂

Port Aransas

In the early afternoon, we point the bow of Island Rose toward Port Aransas with plans to meet Joanne and Larry for dinner at a local restaurant. They arrive shortly after we do on their sailboat, Lagniappe, docking nearby.  By 5 pm, Rodney and Katrina drive up in a miniature pick-up, and the six of us are piled into the center cockpit of Island Rose, having another happy hour—this is getting to be a habit! 

Eventually, hunger overtakes us, and we are ready to head to the other side of the harbor and wash down our wine with a 99-cent Margarita and piles of crab nachos. A discussion ensues on how best to get there. Since we are the only couple with two wheels, bicycles are out. 

“We can walk,” I suggest. I get a chorus of boos.

Someone else suggests that we dinghy across the harbor. Katrina says, “We can take the truck.”

Four wheels win! This will be interesting; it is barely a two-person truck. How are six people going to fit? We solve the problem by relegating our husbands to the open-air cargo bed while Joanne and I plan to sit in the cab with Katrina.  We giggle like teenagers trying to squeeze into the front and still give Katrina enough room to shift gears. I think walking might have been easier but not half as much fun!

Strains from a rockabilly band waft across the parking lot as we make our way up the steps of Tortuga Flats for dinner and drinks. We laugh and drink and eat until we can’t hold our eyes open anymore—which for the six of us is only 10 o’clock. I’m thankful now for Katrina and the truck.

The Birding Center

There seems to be a definite rhythm to this trip, and it is breakfast, then bikes. It is incredible how many different things you see when you are on two wheels instead of four or even two feet. Michael sees signs directing us to a birding center, so, to satisfy his curiosity, that is where we head. Strangely enough, the signs for the birding center and the city garbage recycling center direct us down the same path. I’m not too sure about this.  

We discover that the birding center is a salt marsh in the middle of Mustang Island on the fringes of Port Aransas. The city (state?) built a wooden walkway and large observation tower in the middle of the marsh for those who want to observe nature a bit longer than a quick ten-minute hello.  

We get off our bikes and begin walking down the trail. The instant Michael steps onto the wooden walkway, mosquitoes swarm all over him! They attack in clumps. He quickly backs out of their path, pulls out a pocket-size Deep Woods Off from some hidden pocket, and begins spraying me in the face, on my arms, legs, everywhere. He is the one that is under attack!! A mosquito hasn’t touched me—yet—and now it probably never will, thanks to the quick-thinking gallantry of my sweet husband.

When we finally make it all the way out on the wooden walkway, we see mud ducks, other ducks—all kinds of ducks, birds, crabs, turtles, little fish, big fish, and—an alligator! I feel like I have come face to face with evil! There is nothing kind, or sweet, or appealing about his appearance!

An Alligator

The gator lay in the water still as death; the only part of him I see is eighteen inches of a grotesque-looking head which is covered in mud and slime. Every once in a while, his scaly skin shows through, and his open eyes look like copper marbles, glinting in the sunlight. This creature gives a whole new meaning to the term beady eyes. 

A Waiting Game

This alien-looking creature is only four feet away from where we stand, and we wait for him to move. Michael and I both want to know how big he is; we are willing to remain here as long as it takes. A distant truck door slams shut; the loud clang echoing across the marsh causes him to blink—only blink.

The gator is more patient than we are—he doesn’t move. At all. I try jumping up and down, landing on the wooden deck with only a dull thud. The gator doesn’t react, but every fish in the neighborhood jumps. Michael laughs.

I continue my jumping routine—after my third jump and clunky thud, the gator goes underwater. Apparently, I have sufficiently disturbed his morning of ennui enough to make him want to get out of here and away from this crazy lady who jumps for no reason. Figuring he is gone for good, Michael and I start to leave, only to have him appear twelve inches from our feet.

What do alligators think when they are aggravated or irritated? Do they get mad? We don’t wait to find out the answer to that question—I really do value my toes quite visible in my sandal shod feet. And we still don’t know how big he is.  

A Deep Water Sail

Back on Island Rose, we decide to take her into the Gulf before sailing to Donnell Point to meet Joanne and Larry for our last night out. I know that the water on the open sea is beautiful, and I am ready for the pristine blue of the Gulf, leaving the gray-green waters of the Intracoastal behind. 

When we began this small adventure, the winds were mild, and I thought it would be a perfect day for a deep-water cruise. WRONG! I am down below preparing lunch when we sail into the open waters of the roiling, rolling Gulf of Mexico. It must be yesterday’s high winds that are causing these four-foot seas to attack from all directions. I am thankful that we haven’t eaten lunch yet because I am so nauseous I’m not sure I could successfully keep food of any type in my tummy.

We need to turn back.

I climb the companionway stairs to the cockpit to break the news to Michael. He is sitting behind the wheel, happy as a clam with a big smile on his face. He loves the waves, and he is having fun! How do I ask him to turn back? 

I find a way. 

To say he is annoyed is a bit of an understatement. Not only have I broken up his party of one, but I can also tell he sees visions of his retirement in the Caribbean dissolve before his eyes. My middle name becomes—GUILT. Six hours later, Michael finally talks to me—lectures me, really.

“You should know better than to stay below during rolling seas. Fresh air would have cured you.”

“But—I was fixing your lunch!” I tell him. That doesn’t work either.

Endings

Back where our July vacation began, at Donnell Point, we anchor out one last time before returning to our home port. After climbing aboard Lagniappe for happy hour and dinner with Joanne and Larry, I give her the lighthouse pillow.

She tells me, “I love the pillow!”  

“What pillow?” Larry asks. She discreetly hands me a check for $60. 

The wind has died to a bare breeze this morning as we haul anchor and begin our journey across Corpus Christi Bay toward Ponte Vedra. Our bay crossing is gentle and quiet—almost dull—with only sea birds for company.

In the evening, we sit on the aft deck of Island Rose in our low-to-the-ground beach chairs, drinking wine and watching the sunset.

“This is what serenity feels like,” I say.

Michael looks wistfully at the water and replies, “I wish we could retire and just go sailing.”