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John N. Felsher's Other Adventures
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Old wooden boat launched many
good memories over the years
good memories over the years
Eric Holbrook shows off a large redfish he caught in 1981. My
dad, Hank Felsher, build the wooden boat shown. We stretched
a tarpaulin over the open back of the boat when we camped in it.
dad, Hank Felsher, build the wooden boat shown. We stretched
a tarpaulin over the open back of the boat when we camped in it.
Perhaps in a Viking fantasy, Dad built an 18-foot wooden boat in our
tiny backyard, despite numerous divorce threats from my mother.
Since construction took nearly three years, perhaps that’s what he
planned all along! Mom’s threats proved unfounded. She preferred to
keep him around to slowly torture him for decades.
Eventually, Dad attached an 85-horsepower outboard on the transom.
It hit a top speed of about 35 miles per hour, pretty fast for the late 1960s.
A couple years later, we decided to camp in the boat during duck
season. We trailered it about 50 miles to the south end of Lake Borgne
southeast of New Orleans and headed across the Louisiana marshes.
Back then, few people posted marshland. We could hunt anywhere we
pleased and seldom saw other hunters in the vicinity. On Day One, we
cruised, looking for ducks before deciding which ponds to hunt. Then, we
anchored the boat and launched pirogues. We hunted that afternoon and
the next morning after spending the night in the boat.
On our first excursion, we suffered horribly from a lack of preparation.
In the flooded marshes, we couldn’t build a cook fire and didn’t yet own a
Coleman camp stove. We subsisted on cold sandwiches and snacks.
My father claimed the “captain’s cabin” in the bow, which he designed
to accommodate one man just his size. My two brothers and I divided up
the open deck in the stern. Only nine years old at the time, I slept
crosswise just aft of Dad’s cabin. For most of the night, my teen-aged
brothers wrestled over one prime space between two gasoline tanks, a
space barely big enough to fit one person.
With little else to do after wolfing down cold, soggy sandwiches, we
went to sleep at about 7 p.m., or at least made an attempt. Without a
cover, we watched hundreds of shooting stars meet their fiery fate in an
immeasurably clear sky. We also suffered awfully from ravenous
mosquitoes. By morning, dew soaked everything.
Over time, and several boat modifications later, we improved
arrangements. We stretched a tarpaulin over the open back to keep most
bugs and rain away. We put gasoline tanks and other gear ashore for the
night to increase room. We eventually bought a small battery-powered
television to fill long winter night hours. We cooked meals on a gas stove
and learned that air mattresses made sleeping more comfortable than hard
wooden decks. Eventually, we grew rather comfortable in our floating
“camp.”
We didn’t always kill limits, but we always enjoyed ourselves, even
when things didn’t go according to plan. At night, we fished for anything
that might bite under lantern lights. Sometimes, on warm afternoons, we
dove for wild oysters at low tide and grilled them on the stove. We always
brought home something, either fish or fowl, never lacking for memories.
My brothers drifted off into their own worlds, leaving my father and me
to carry out the tradition alone for several more years. Sometimes, I
brought a friend. Sometimes, I just enjoyed the exclusive company of my
dad.
During many weekends, my best friend, Eric Holbrook, accompanied
us. On one particularly stormy, freezing weekend, I prepared to erect the
frame support for the tarpaulin. It consisted of wooden stakes clamped
together. With Dad snugly tucked into his one-man cabin, I permitted Eric
to choose the side of the boat he preferred. After he did, I clamped
together the frame.
Driving rain filled a great bulge in the tarpaulin that evening. By about
2 a.m., it could no longer support the water weight. One side collapsed --
splashing Eric with about 50 gallons of icy water! Talk about a wake-up
call. He sputtered a few choice words, foreshadowing his eventual career
in the U.S. Navy.
The following weekend, we faced similar conditions. This time, though,
Eric opted for the other side of the boat. No problem, I simply reversed the
clamps on the tarpaulin frame, achieving the same result -- and same
reaction on the opposite side of the boat! Again, I remained dry. For two
decades, Eric complained about his bad luck!
Eventually, failing health prevented Dad from hunting any longer. His
legs could no longer carry him through spongy marshes that he loved so
much. He stayed in the boat fishing as I roamed the wetlands looking for
ducks.
A dedicated bait fisherman, Dad seldom threw lures in salt water. More
than anything, he loved to catch redfish with shrimp on the bottom. On one
occasion, Eric and I tapped into a school of redfish swarming through the
bayou where we anchored for the night. With no limits in those days, we
filled an ice chest with spot-tails as Dad slumbered. By about 4 a.m.,
we realized that only about four shrimp remained and that we needed to
“wake up” in about an hour to hunt.
After breakfast, Eric and I quickly paddled toward our blinds.
Delighted, Dad discovered that the ravenous redfish pod still poured
through the bayou with menacing fury. Threading a whole shrimp on each
of two hooks, he quickly landed two reds and repeated his success,
predicting a most enjoyable fishing day ahead.
Then, disaster struck! After two casts, he noticed that the bait
mysteriously disappeared during the night. He also suspiciously eyed his
brand new, but now sputtering, Coleman lantern that reeked of salt water
and bottom ooze as if it took a plunge off the boat just a few hours earlier.
At this point, Dad sputtered some choice sounds of his own, remembering a
vocabulary he learned in the Navy during World War II.
About 11 years after the first camping trip, I took my last camping trip
with Dad on a cold January weekend, although I didn’t realize it at the time.
With the last shot of the season, I downed a brilliant greenhead mallard, a
rarity for those salty marshes. It culminated a magnificent trip. Silently, we
both knew it, although neither wanted to believe it, but we had reached the
end of an era.
I ventured to college a few months later and then obeyed as the Air
Force sent me to diverse places for the next 12 years. I journeyed home
occasionally and we swapped stories, but Dad and I never hunted ducks
again.
I never knew better times than those weekends in the marshes and I
may never again. Nobody will as times changed. About the time our era
ended, the era of “free” marshes also disappeared into a quagmire of
posted signs, fees, confusing regulations and discourteous people.
Retired for many years now, the old boat sorrowfully rotted away in a
thicket behind my oldest brother’s house until Hurricane Katrina washed the
pile of decayed debris away in 2005. Perhaps, children may eventually
discover a piece of that old, decaying pile of plywood and metal and say, “If
only this old boat could talk, I bet it could tell some stories.” Indeed, it could.
tiny backyard, despite numerous divorce threats from my mother.
Since construction took nearly three years, perhaps that’s what he
planned all along! Mom’s threats proved unfounded. She preferred to
keep him around to slowly torture him for decades.
Eventually, Dad attached an 85-horsepower outboard on the transom.
It hit a top speed of about 35 miles per hour, pretty fast for the late 1960s.
A couple years later, we decided to camp in the boat during duck
season. We trailered it about 50 miles to the south end of Lake Borgne
southeast of New Orleans and headed across the Louisiana marshes.
Back then, few people posted marshland. We could hunt anywhere we
pleased and seldom saw other hunters in the vicinity. On Day One, we
cruised, looking for ducks before deciding which ponds to hunt. Then, we
anchored the boat and launched pirogues. We hunted that afternoon and
the next morning after spending the night in the boat.
On our first excursion, we suffered horribly from a lack of preparation.
In the flooded marshes, we couldn’t build a cook fire and didn’t yet own a
Coleman camp stove. We subsisted on cold sandwiches and snacks.
My father claimed the “captain’s cabin” in the bow, which he designed
to accommodate one man just his size. My two brothers and I divided up
the open deck in the stern. Only nine years old at the time, I slept
crosswise just aft of Dad’s cabin. For most of the night, my teen-aged
brothers wrestled over one prime space between two gasoline tanks, a
space barely big enough to fit one person.
With little else to do after wolfing down cold, soggy sandwiches, we
went to sleep at about 7 p.m., or at least made an attempt. Without a
cover, we watched hundreds of shooting stars meet their fiery fate in an
immeasurably clear sky. We also suffered awfully from ravenous
mosquitoes. By morning, dew soaked everything.
Over time, and several boat modifications later, we improved
arrangements. We stretched a tarpaulin over the open back to keep most
bugs and rain away. We put gasoline tanks and other gear ashore for the
night to increase room. We eventually bought a small battery-powered
television to fill long winter night hours. We cooked meals on a gas stove
and learned that air mattresses made sleeping more comfortable than hard
wooden decks. Eventually, we grew rather comfortable in our floating
“camp.”
We didn’t always kill limits, but we always enjoyed ourselves, even
when things didn’t go according to plan. At night, we fished for anything
that might bite under lantern lights. Sometimes, on warm afternoons, we
dove for wild oysters at low tide and grilled them on the stove. We always
brought home something, either fish or fowl, never lacking for memories.
My brothers drifted off into their own worlds, leaving my father and me
to carry out the tradition alone for several more years. Sometimes, I
brought a friend. Sometimes, I just enjoyed the exclusive company of my
dad.
During many weekends, my best friend, Eric Holbrook, accompanied
us. On one particularly stormy, freezing weekend, I prepared to erect the
frame support for the tarpaulin. It consisted of wooden stakes clamped
together. With Dad snugly tucked into his one-man cabin, I permitted Eric
to choose the side of the boat he preferred. After he did, I clamped
together the frame.
Driving rain filled a great bulge in the tarpaulin that evening. By about
2 a.m., it could no longer support the water weight. One side collapsed --
splashing Eric with about 50 gallons of icy water! Talk about a wake-up
call. He sputtered a few choice words, foreshadowing his eventual career
in the U.S. Navy.
The following weekend, we faced similar conditions. This time, though,
Eric opted for the other side of the boat. No problem, I simply reversed the
clamps on the tarpaulin frame, achieving the same result -- and same
reaction on the opposite side of the boat! Again, I remained dry. For two
decades, Eric complained about his bad luck!
Eventually, failing health prevented Dad from hunting any longer. His
legs could no longer carry him through spongy marshes that he loved so
much. He stayed in the boat fishing as I roamed the wetlands looking for
ducks.
A dedicated bait fisherman, Dad seldom threw lures in salt water. More
than anything, he loved to catch redfish with shrimp on the bottom. On one
occasion, Eric and I tapped into a school of redfish swarming through the
bayou where we anchored for the night. With no limits in those days, we
filled an ice chest with spot-tails as Dad slumbered. By about 4 a.m.,
we realized that only about four shrimp remained and that we needed to
“wake up” in about an hour to hunt.
After breakfast, Eric and I quickly paddled toward our blinds.
Delighted, Dad discovered that the ravenous redfish pod still poured
through the bayou with menacing fury. Threading a whole shrimp on each
of two hooks, he quickly landed two reds and repeated his success,
predicting a most enjoyable fishing day ahead.
Then, disaster struck! After two casts, he noticed that the bait
mysteriously disappeared during the night. He also suspiciously eyed his
brand new, but now sputtering, Coleman lantern that reeked of salt water
and bottom ooze as if it took a plunge off the boat just a few hours earlier.
At this point, Dad sputtered some choice sounds of his own, remembering a
vocabulary he learned in the Navy during World War II.
About 11 years after the first camping trip, I took my last camping trip
with Dad on a cold January weekend, although I didn’t realize it at the time.
With the last shot of the season, I downed a brilliant greenhead mallard, a
rarity for those salty marshes. It culminated a magnificent trip. Silently, we
both knew it, although neither wanted to believe it, but we had reached the
end of an era.
I ventured to college a few months later and then obeyed as the Air
Force sent me to diverse places for the next 12 years. I journeyed home
occasionally and we swapped stories, but Dad and I never hunted ducks
again.
I never knew better times than those weekends in the marshes and I
may never again. Nobody will as times changed. About the time our era
ended, the era of “free” marshes also disappeared into a quagmire of
posted signs, fees, confusing regulations and discourteous people.
Retired for many years now, the old boat sorrowfully rotted away in a
thicket behind my oldest brother’s house until Hurricane Katrina washed the
pile of decayed debris away in 2005. Perhaps, children may eventually
discover a piece of that old, decaying pile of plywood and metal and say, “If
only this old boat could talk, I bet it could tell some stories.” Indeed, it could.