Thick flora speckled the watered landscape like lace. The sun bounced off the lush greens and yellows and blues, creating a seamless border with the horizon; one could scarcely tell where the land ended and sky began.
“If it looks like we’re going to hit or run over something it’s because we are going to hit it. So…don’t panic”, Captain Trey casually drawled as we began to pick up speed.
We had, of course, received the “don’t fall off the boat/don’t drop your cell phone” spiel before we left the dock. But the Maple Girls, myself included, exchanged wide-eyed glances and nervous half-smiles at this new intel.
“Alright, girls, here we go!”, Captain hollered. I could scarcely hear him as we moved out of the narrow inlets. The propeller whirled and I squealed with excitement.
We careened around a corner and drifted; the water splashing over the sides of the flat-bottom boat and the wind whipping my hair into a dreaded frenzy. I couldn’t stop smiling.
We were out on the bayou.
Up until this point our time in NOLA had been spent two feet firmly on the ground; perusing the Garden District, dancing about the jazz clubs on Frenchman Street, dining at Commander’s Palace, beignets at Café du Monde. Amazing NOLA haunts for first-timers.
But this. This was high-speed, waiver-signing danger.
Captain Trey was a delight. When he wasn’t sharing stories of the aged alligators that lived in the inlets and the folks that made the shoreline home, he was eliciting shrieks and squeals from the six of us with his speed-demon driving. He had the self-proclaimed best spots for hanging with the ‘gators and was determined to get us up close and personal with some of his favorites. And he sure did.
After a few large reptile sightings and more adrenaline-pumping action, we settled into a little nook where juvenile alligators were known to congregate. Another boat was with us at this point, its passengers and respective Captain’s all exchanging pleasantries and bayou tales.
Both boats were stopped, insomuch as a propeller boat can stop, and all were scouting the murky, flora-filled water for ‘gator babes. I stood up and side shuffled towards the edge of the boat thinking I might be able to help spot a little reptile or two. I was overly cautious about both my person and my cell phone, which I had in my front pocket primed for photo taking.
Now, you know I am all about living in the moment, taking mental photos, etc. But truth be told, I really wanted a photo of a baby alligator. They’re just so stinkin’ cute.
So, almost too cautiously, I removed my phone from my pocket and continued on with my self-imposed look out post.
And before I knew it, my phone was no longer in my hand.
“Oh, FUCK!” The words were out of my mouth before I could register what happened.
Captain Trey was immediately on alert, as were the passengers on both boats, given the volume and panic and ambiguity in my cry.
“I dropped my phone in the bayouuuu!!!” I screeched, likely louder than my initial expletive exclamation.
Captain Trey got to the drop spot as I peered over the side of the boat. Miraculously, I spotted my phone: perched straight up in between the leaves of a sizable invasive water plant. I was at once both shocked and relieved. Instinctively I went to snag it out of the clutches of the swamp…
“Noooooo! I’ll get it!”
And get it he did. Phone newly in hand, I triumphantly raised my arm to show-off the recovered screen; passengers on both boats cheered and laughed, clearly having enjoyed the 30 seconds of absolute ridiculousness.
According to the Captain, the bayou waters have claimed countless passenger possessions on his watch, particularly cell phones. And until that fateful day, none had ever been recovered.
Kelly: 1; Bayou: 0.
Until next time.
