Thanksgiving During the Time of Covid-19
Looking at Michael, the words slide out of my mouth, “Should we go to Port Aransas next week? With all that is going on—should we?”
On a warm November night, Michael and I sit in the backyard drinking wine, and I worry. The call of being near the water is strong. Too strong. It is a magnet that is hard to resist. Am I doing the right thing? With the anxiety I feel, I hold my wine glass too tightly.
Michael is very logical and reassuring. The world of Port Aransas during autumn is not the world of Port Aransas in the summer. The island is virtually empty; if it isn’t, we will go in the opposite direction. And so, I continue planning, looking for a condo. Those I like are booked for the month. Then, serendipity drops me into the website of the Tarpon Inn. I have found my island escape.
The drive down to the Texas coast takes longer than I think it should, but then we dally—a tiny bit—and finally arrive at a line of cars waiting for the ferry that will whisk us across the Intracoastal to Port Aransas on Mustang Island. The sky is a brilliant blue, and a breeze blows in from the Gulf. Seagulls soar overhead.
I feel like I am going home.
Port Aransas
I first saw Port A as a teenager, and I wasn’t overly impressed. I only had eyes for the young man sitting next to me in the car. Little did I know at that time, I was sitting next to my lifelong soulmate. As an adult, we came back with a 40-foot Endeavor sailboat in tow. Port Aransas, I think, was our destiny.
This tiny town has always laid herself bare, daring you to love her—take her or leave her, she is what she is.
When I first stepped foot in Port Aransas, she was torn and tattered—a group of fishing shacks and small humble homes—nary a restaurant or anything else in sight. Only the beach. Today she is a hodgepodge; the sublime rubs shoulders with the ridiculous. The tattered. The torn. The unchanged. They stand side by side with an outstretched welcome, each beckoning the person standing before them to—CHOOSE ME!
With every hurricane it weathers, more and more of the old is lost. My biggest fear is that someday the sublime will win out, and the torn and tattered that is the soul of Port A will disappear. But as long as the century-old Tarpon Inn stands, I feel there is hope.
The Tarpon Inn
Instead of taking a left and heading for the Harbor Marina operated by the city of Port Aransas—where we docked our sailboat, Island Rose, for almost ten years—our car goes through the traffic light, taking us to the old Tarpon Inn. It was, and is to me still, the heart of Old Port A—the Tarpon Inn was here long before the city was established.
The first permanent settler of this area was a gentleman from Lancaster, England (I must remember to tell Norma and Ian), who established a sheep and cattle ranch, El Mar Rancho, in the mid-1800s. Then came the Civil War, drawing attention to the area. A little over 20 years after the last battle was fought, using lumber from the wartime barracks, construction began on a barracks to house individuals working on the south jetty of Aransas Pass.
After completing the jetty, the barracks were converted into a hotel—The Tarpon Inn. Destructive fires and hurricanes ensued, bringing about new owners and rebuilding. After the 1919 hurricane, the inn was sold to a gentleman who rebuilt it to resemble the original old barracks.
Michael and I stayed here decades ago when we were looking for the perfect sailboat. And once the City Marina became our home away from home, we would seek shelter on the old inn’s front porch while riding our bicycles in the rain. The beautiful, weathered building feels like an old friend.
Our Introduction to the FDR Suite
While checking-in, we discover that the FDR suite is on the second floor, directly over the lobby. Not realizing that this suite existed until last week when I stumbled on it while perusing the Tarpon Inn’s website, I have an inkling of what lies above me, but only an inkling.
Barely packing any clothes (this is the beach, after all), I do have a suitcase full of pillows, believing that pillows are a fair trade for the clothes I leave hanging in my closet. We also have wine, gin, appropriate glassware, a good frying pan, a good knife, ingredients for breakfast tacos, and too much charcuterie for nighttime snacks or dinner. I want to be here—not in different restaurants three times a day for 3-4 days.
It takes both of us making several trips from the car to the middle of the long porch, up the outside staircase, and along the upper balcony to reach our room. We throw everything inside without looking around so we can make the drive down to the JFK Causeway in time to get to Snoopy’s Pier (another place full of decades of memories)—before the crowds arrive.
A History Lesson
Back at the Tarpon Inn, I step inside the lobby and ask for extra blankets. Waiting for the blankets to appear, I look around and see a wall full of oval-shaped paper shells. The paper is translucent and doesn’t look like regular paper—perhaps parchment? And there is writing on almost all of the pieces—and they are old. I look closer.
Before I can turn around and ask the question, the reception clerk enlightens me. She points to a large tarpon on the wall above her (the trophy fish wears a mask, just like the rest of us) and explains the wall is filled with the largest scale of the tarpon fish. Each scale bears the names and dates of the men who caught the enormous fish. I learn that tarpon fish were so prolific here at one time that Port Aransas was known as Tarpon, Texas.
The young woman points to the framed tarpon scale on another wall that FDR signed and left in place during his fishing trip in May of 1937.
With a history lesson tucked under my belt, I take my extra blankets and begin the climb up the outside paint-worn staircase toward our temporary home for the next several days. Michael has already adapted, sitting in a white painted rocker on the upstairs balcony, rocking away, gazing at the old and the new Port A that spreads before him.
Franklin D. Roosevelt Suite
Opening the door, I am not sure exactly what to expect. Pictures on the Internet are not abundant, and the Tarpon Inn’s website is not overly informative about the rooms. I read reviews that the suite is large—but WOW! This place is enormous! And charming. The colors of summer at the seashore surround me—seafoam white, the pale blue of a hot summer sky, and the soft beige of dry sand.
Photos of old Port Aransas punctuate each wall.
The living area is huge, but then I walk into the master suite, and I think about waltzing with Michael (but Michael doesn’t waltz) around all the space in front of the king-sized bed. The kitchen is tiny but adequate—the bathroom, large. And to my surprise, there is a separate dining area. A private balcony—the only private balcony in the entire hotel—is right outside the bedroom. I open the set of French doors and let the November ocean breeze into my world.
I hate to unpack, but I hate to live out of a suitcase more, so I unpack. The “nice” clothes go from the hanging bag to the closet. When I open the closet door, I am confronted with something I haven’t seen in years. Graffiti! What is this? Writing covers the entire door, the door’s edge, and the doorframe inside.
Looking more closely, I begin to read. More history stands before me—just like the tarpon scales below. A group of GIRLZ had a big weekend here. In 2007 Marcy Matthews Ward Thomas celebrated her 76th birthday in this room. She was the daughter of Teddy Matthews, who took Franklin Roosevelt fishing! Someone else writes, Marry your best friend. I love this. I want a pen so I can become a part of the inn’s history.
Finally, turning back to the task at hand, I finish unpacking. Joining Michael on the front balcony, taking my place in a white rocker that is a twin to the one he sits in, we begin the chilling-out process of just being here. But first, he needs to hear the story of the graffiti door.
Thanksgiving Day in Port Aransas
When I wake, Michael is already sitting on our private balcony. The coffee is brewed. He hands me a cup, then he walks back into the kitchen, returning five minutes later with our bacon and egg breakfast tacos. I probably don’t need to eat one—lunch is not that far away, but I know Michael makes delicious breakfast tacos, and I can’t help myself.
We spend the morning doing absolutely nothing but sitting outside—going from the back balcony containing wicker chairs to the front balcony lined with rockers.
Our reservation for Thanksgiving dinner is at 11 am. It was the only time slot available when I made reservations last week, specifying I must be at an outside table. At 10 am, I decide it is time to think about getting ready for lunch. Taking a shower and putting on better clothes might be a good idea. When I step outside, dressed-up and ready to go, I realize that my mind must have been in a cloud when I packed for this trip.
I did not realize how warm the Gulf Coast weather would be today. It is HOT! Already melting, I begin to shed layers. Luckily, I don’t have to hurry. Roosevelt’s, the restaurant associated with the Tarpon Inn, is right below our private balcony. We can even see the table for two, already set, where we will eat, drink, and be merry.
Sand and Sea
After lunch, we crawl up to our room and onto our bed. Too much food—but not that much wine—has made a nap our only option. Maybe it was the turkey—and no dishes to wash.
Heading for the beach after our nap, we realize it is a walkable distance, and perhaps after our Thanksgiving lunch, we should be walking. But we don’t. Instead, we put the top down on the Mustang and wiggle our way toward the roaring surf. Because we have not purchased a beach parking permit, our choice of where to stop is limited, but eventually, we find the perfect spot.
I have bicycled by these sheltered picnic tables for decades but never stopped. I don’t think I realized their appeal. Apparently, most others don’t either—they are virtually empty. Today the beach is the draw, and tiny tots scamper and run while couples walk. Dogs chase frisbees deep into the crashing waves.
On this mellow and wonderful afternoon, we have no choice—we roost.
Black Friday in Port Aransas
I have never been one to shop on the day after Thanksgiving—perhaps I should care more about the bargains, but I never have. And shopping in the year of Covid-19 doesn’t sound like a good thing to do at all. So, we sit on the front porch balcony and watch Port Aransas wake to this utterly gorgeous day.
There is a dive of a breakfast place across from us. It looks like tar paper is the only thing that graces the outside—along with the appropriate signage. There is a constant stream of people, and they have outdoor tables. I tell Michael I want to have breakfast there.
He just looks at me.
Beyond the breakfast-dive is a newly decked out burger joint. The owners have a sense of humor. A giant white pelican has crashed into the roof. He lies there, upside down, yellow legs splayed. Feathers ruffled.
Further along, close to the harbor, are newer, shinier buildings. The last hurricane demolished much of the old and worn. These are almost fancy in comparison to what was.
Sitting. Looking. Just being. This is my favorite thing to do. There is something to be said about returning to favorite places. But seeing a large tanker sail by on the distant Intracoastal Waterway, the harbor calls our name. Eventually, we decide to leave our rockers behind and listen to the siren’s call.
I pull into an empty parking space fronting the Intracoastal and get out of the car. Michael immediately gets in the driver’s side.
“What are you doing?” I need to know this.
“I don’t like the way you parked,” he says.
Of course, he doesn’t like the way I parked. He does a better job. I look for a bench.
Activity on the Intracoastal
Sitting here, I wish for a big merchant ship to come by, and within minutes one glides into view. I take one picture, then another.
Looking at the last picture on my camera, I decide to let the Back Roads of Texas group on Facebook know that there are better ways to spend Black Friday than shopping. Within minutes people respond and say, “YES!” They’ve been here or want to be here. I’m astounded at the over 1,000 responses.
A young boy and his grandfather walk by, stopping to watch the fisherman in front of us. I hear the young boy ask if it is OK if he fishes alongside him. When the answer is, “Sure,” he is off like an arrow, returning with a rod and reel. He begins casting; his grandfather joins him. I tell Michael I want the young boy to catch a fish. He has gone from continuous casting to sitting on the rocks. The grandfather gives up and walks to a bench.
An hour passes, and still, there is no fish on the young boy’s hook. When I eventually look back, he is reeling in a pint-size catch—his smile is wide. I start to get up and ask if I can take his picture with his catch. Before I have the chance to leave the hard, wooden slats, the fish falls from the boy’s hook and into the rocky crevice where he stands. The expression of dismay on his face breaks my heart. Undaunted, he reaches into the depths with his hand. He then resorts to a fisherman’s net—never giving up.
Perhaps this is a lesson for all of us. Patience. Determination.
The morning is a parade of tankers, tugs, fishing boats, and pilot boats. We make a game of trying to guess where they came from—where they are going.
This day is a gift. I love being here. The Blue sky, the sun, and the cool breeze wafting across the water are more than I could have asked for. The ships, the boats, the boy—they are icing on the cake.
Gin from the Isle of Islay and an Extended Stay
Back at the inn, perched in our favorite spot on the front balcony, I announce that I intend to fix myself a martini—cocktail hour before an early dinner. I need to try my gift of The Botanist Gin from the Isle of Islay that I recently received. I did pack a martini glass for just this purpose—so I must.
Before walking across the street to the Tarpon Inn for an alfresco dinner, I stop off in the lobby and ask if it is possible to extend our stay another night. It isn’t a problem, and I’m grateful. The forecast for tomorrow is rain all across the Coastal Plains to the foot of the Texas Hills. I’d rather sit in a rocker and watch the rain all day than drive four hours with the windshield wipers swishing back and forth at full speed.
Rainy Saturday in Port Aransas
I wake to the sound of pouring rain and howling wind. Michael and I sit huddled on the back deck, sharing a blanket, sipping coffee. The rain abates. Then, it starts to pour—and never stops.
This is not the soft, gentle rain I imagined, and sitting outside is beginning to be an impossibility. I settle in with a good book for the duration.
Time to Say Goodbye
Sunday morning comes too soon, and by 8:30 we are in the car and on our way to the ferry. Leaving this early the ferry is half empty.
As we cross the Intracoastal to the mainland, a white pelican dares us to keep coming. Finally deciding we aren’t going to stop, he swims to safety, hiding behind old wooden posts sunk deep into the sand below the water.
Under rain-washed skies, we take the long way home, traveling from the Coastal Plains through rolling black-land farm country until finally, we reach the Texas Hills and home.
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