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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.
Today, the old boat sorrowfully rots in a thicket behind my oldest
brother’s house. Eventually, children may discover the decaying pile of
plywood and metal, saying, “If this old boat could talk, I bet it could tell some
stories.” Indeed, it could.
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.
Today, the old boat sorrowfully rots in a thicket behind my oldest
brother’s house. Eventually, children may discover the decaying pile of
plywood and metal, saying, “If this old boat could talk, I bet it could tell some
stories.” Indeed, it could.