Black Friday Memories

The Gulf Coast of Texas is a thread that has been woven into the fabric of our lives since Michael and I first started dating.  We even spent our honeymoon here. Can I remember everything?  If so, can I remember it in chronological order? Probably not. Instead it is a kaleidoscope of family and friends and adventures and misadventures and dinners and surf and sand and kids and grandkids and cities and fishing villages and anchorages and docks and barrier islands and wide bays and patience and education and…love and laughter.

Port Aransas

I peer through the glass doors, beyond the balcony, toward the Gulf; another gorgeously-pristine, beautiful day.

“What do you want to do today?” Michael asks as I sit beside him on the couch.

It is Black Friday. We are supposed to shop. When Mom was alive, it was our Friday ritual, together. Now I say, “I don’t care.”

Michael wants to visit the City Marina, walk the docks—our home away from home for ten years—filled with a million-and-a-half wonderful memories. 

Dressed as appropriately as I can be for a day of what-I-am-not-sure, hair perfectly coiffed (for naught), we take the elevator down to the car and head toward the large jetty that borders the ship channel—more memories—under an umbrella of gray. True to form, Port A starts each day with a beautiful cloudless sky and then, more often than not, she gathers clouds to her bosom in order to obscure the sun.

As we drive down the packed sand beach I see a touch of blue and white.  I’m hopeful. Michael tells me not to be. I think he is personally wishing for the forecasted fog and  drizzle. He is a duck at heart. Turning left toward town and the Marina, the wind pushes the clouds away and the sun warms us through the window. I win!

A seagull soars overhead and defiles the window on the passenger side. “Oh,yuk!”

“At least the top wasn’t down and it didn’t splat on your head.”

I should be thankful for that?

I should be thankful.

Port A Marina

The marina harbor has barely changed and we pull into the familiar parking spot of old. Out of the car, Michael immediately heads down the dock, leaving me to wander along behind.  Island Rose’s home berth was near the end of the dock, and walking I remember unloading the car, weighed down with at least a week’s worth of groceries and beer and wine, then trundling noisily down this long expanse of uneven weathered wood.  Mike always fussed and said I overdid. He did not like the hauling part.  I didn’t mind. In fact, it made me happy.

Island Rose Memories

I find Michael at the end of a short pier, his back to me, looking at a sailboat—Island Rose.  I can only imagine the expression on his face. Memories flood through me. Laughter and stress and worry and laughter and relief and joy and laughter and escape from work. And friends and family and blue days and gray days and high wind and intense heat and sweat and cocktails in the cockpit. Thanksgivings when we crowded nine people and one baby in the main cabin for a traditional turkey dinner with homemade bread and everything that would be on a dining room table in a home that didn’t move.

And I want to laugh and cry and climb aboard and just be here one more time. I can’t help but wonder if the diamond-shaped leaded glass doors are still used for the companionway entrance and if the deep-green and frosted leaded glass cabinet doors are still in the galley, and the oriental rug on the floor of the main cabin and the custom upholstery and the pictures secured to the walls, and I’m sure they are not.

And I am sad.

I look closely at what is, and I can see that Island Rose needs me. Needs us. Her topsides are wearing away, her hull is chalked and neglected, the teak trim peels and flakes exposing the weathered wood underneath. It looks like her days of adventuring are over for she is tethered to her berth with electric cords and TV cable wires and water hoses, all tied neatly to the lines on her port side, and I am sad for her. For me. Michael tells me, “She is old—almost thirty-four. It is time for her to retire.”

Port A Harbor

We leave Island Rose and continue on our journey, bumping into seabirds and fisherman, and Polyanna—the huge fishing boat that faithfully goes out to sea and comes back, her hold laden with shrimp. Today the dreaded sign SOLD OUT keeps all prospective customers away without the captain having to say a word.

We watch as a hungry pelican waits patiently to be thrown a scrap of fish by a vacationing fisherman. He traps the soaring scrap in his large beak and carries it to the end of the jetty where he enjoys his feast in peace.  Looking at me, he turns his back, fluffing his wings, and lets the wind dry his feathers. He looks at me again and I say, “I just want a profile picture of you.”  He poses. I snap. Capturing the brief moment I decide I want more.  

“Michael, make him move.”

He walks toward the big bird saying, “Shoo.  Shoo.”

The pelican takes flight. He is a giant. It is wonderful.

As we meander around the harbor I come face to face with another Thanksgiving memory—our alfresco celebrations under the pavilion beside the water. I loved those days. I must have been a wee bit crazy as I remember shopping at the local HEB, hauling groceries to the car,  hauling the same groceries to Island Rose, cooking everything in that tiny (well outfitted) galley, hauling the food and the dishes down the dock, through the parking lot and over the grass only to have to do the reverse when we were finished–and then do all of those dishes by hand.  Paper plates were/are something I do not believe in. As I recall I never thought it a problem in the least; it was just something wonderful we were able to do—when the weather cooperated.

Corpus Christi

Back in the car we get in line for the ferry ride across the Intercoastal, and after forty minutes of waiting and five minutes traversing the water we are on our way to Corpus Christi. We are only interested in the water and the marina today and stop at the edge of the breakwater, watching as a sail boat heads toward the bay, wishing I were a guest on board.

Snoopy’s

Our stomachs growl and Snoopy’s Pier located across the long causeway in Flower Bluff, calls our name.  Snoopy’s has grown by leaps and bounds since we first walked through its doors so many years ago. Busier than ever, it is a rustic goldmine for the owners. Arriving after 1:30 p.m. we have lucked out. In a lot full of cars we find one parking space near the door. We are second in line to place our order, and we snag the last outside table available. However, it is a long long time before they call our name to pick up our order, which is a trio of fried seafood with crispy edges and tender centers. When we finally bite into it we are rewarded with crunchy deliciousness. So worth the wait.

11/26/2016 6:05:31 PM