There’s a story in the Bible (John 21:1-14) where Simon Peter and a couple buddies go fishing and catch, oh, NADA. The next morning, they’re near the shore when a guy calls out to them and asks how the fishing went. They ‘guy’, as it turns out, is Jesus. They don’t know this yet, but they admit to catching none. Jesus suggests they cast their nets over right then and lo and behold, their nets were so full they couldn’t haul them in.

Nice story. But I’m telling you, this is unrealistic for two very obvious reasons:
(a) Simon Peter and friends actually admit to catching no fish. Anyone who has ever gone fishing with a bunch of guys knows that the only thing bigger than their egos is the size of the lies they tell about the fish they caught.
(b) Jesus TOLD them where they’d catch the fish. In reality, the location of good fishing holes is a secret more highly guarded than the Coca-Cola recipe.

Nevertheless, we returned from a five day fishing trip in the Port Fourchon area of South Louisiana. In addition to the five extra pounds I packed on (this will be self-evident momentarily), the car was weighed down by the ice chest of 70 speckled trout and 30 redfish. Not. Even. Kidding. Take THAT, Simon Peter!

Typical day? Each morning, Ray, our fishing guide, would wake us around 5:30 a.m., but in all honesty, the smells of bacon, biscuits, grits, pancakes, eggs, and pain perdu that Plut was making would waft through the air vents and rouse us about 5:00. Around 6:15, we’d pack everything up on the boat. The Beloved with her LSU hat, sunscreen, sunglasses; Ray with the bait, rod & reel, ice chest full of beverages; me with my camera gear, hat, and book. We’d arrive at any number of secret fishing holes and fish for a couple hours before the gentle breeze, passing clouds, and the sound of casting, along with a full belly, would ease me into a slumber for a couple hours. I would maybe bait my hook. Or maybe let Ray do it. Catch a fish. Reel it in. Lose a couple. Bring another up and over into the boat. Ray would take it off. I linger long enough for him to bait my hook again. And repeat. Around 2:00 p.m., we’d head back to the barge where Plut would be cooking some huge lunch, as if we’d actually been doing WORK out there. Any variety of spaghetti and meatsauce, roast, chicken fricot, fried shrimp, crab, etc., etc. Then we’d make a plan to shower and nap for an hour before heading back out. Ray would nod his head in readiness, quite knowing that it would never happen. Inevitably, we’d shower and nap, but the nap would turn to more than a couple hours, and we’d wake up just in time to sit out on the porch, feed the seagulls, listen to Willie’s Place on XM, and walk the dogs before Plut cooked another meal. Well after that, it was time to sit out on the porch again, have an adult beverage, chat with Ray and Plut, watch the sun set, and wave at any number of boaters/fishermen coming to and fro the Gulf of Mexico. By 9:00 p.m., it was time for another shower to get the Deep Woods Off off, and turn on the TV for an hour before losing consciousness and repeating said day activities.

Not to mention, it was nice to be in an area other than The Great Flood of Houston, Texas. We actually saw the SUN for more than 10 minutes at a time. So much so, that we both got a bit of a sunburn. The dogs went with us and now they smell a bit like fish air. Guess who’s getting a bath tomorrow. They had a ton of fun, though. Especially because Plut kept giving them watermelon. There are some pictures below, but they don’t do the experience justice. One we’ll be repeating again in October–which will be, God willing, a third of the way through the first trimester. Yep, today is CD3.

The Barge
The Barge and the Porch, around sunset.

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Evening from the top deck.

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My morning siesta.

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The Beloved.

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A Passing Storm.

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Ray, Jen, Plut, Me.

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