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Home Port
I was born in Helena, Arkansas. When I was ten, the family moved to El Paso, Texas. I loved the Chihuahuan Desert, the low humidity and the cool summer nights. I also loved the Delta and the River and the Blues. Far as I was concerned, I had two homes. Still do. When I hired on with Musky Towing in Memphis, Tennessee, they asked me to declare my home port. I said, never expecting to be taken seriously, “El Paso, Texas.” The HR guy asked, “There’s a river there?” “Oh, yes. Quite a famous one.” “Is it navigable?” “Yes, sir. By foot.” He shrugged and wrote it down. That meant that after 30 days on the boat the company was obliged to fly me to El Paso from wherever I got off the boat and from El Paso to catch the boat after my 15 days were up. It was like Christmas come early and often. One of my favorite parts of towboating was that for every day I worked I got a half a day off with pay. Other people worked all year to get a two-week vacation; we got one every time we turned around. Out of any 45 days, I got 15 of them off. Hell of a deal. It was the only way of life that made a lick of sense to me. I felt sorry for everyone else. I could work hard for a while and then play hard for a while, and the two did not get in the way of each other. No distractions. Almost. Every time the boat passed Memphis we got mail. The packages containing cookies, pictures, and promises from female friends in El Paso...Whew! I had smoke coming out of my ears. “Lord have mercy on this poor river rat because them women they ain’t got none!” Ah, but then...after 30 days, then! All the angels in Heaven would beam upon me. I’d hop on a Southwest Airlines jet in New Orleans. July or August...75% humidity. The next time I stepped outdoors, a couple of hours later, it was 15% humidity and the sun felt like a serenade instead of a sauna, a fiesta instead of a fireball, buena suerte instead of a blast furnace. Back then, a woman could meet you at the gate and greet you with gusto the moment you stepped inside the airport. After a two-week party, there’d be a phone call. “The boat’s where? St. Louis? Oh, Baton Rouge. Okay. I can find that.” One time the taxi from the airport to the Michoud Slip cost almost as much as the plane ticket from El Paso to New Orleans. Didn’t matter. If I got back to the boat with any money in my pocket, I figured I hadn’t done it right. All I needed was five cartons of cigarettes, several pair of White Mule work gloves, some t-shirts, cut-offs, deck shoes, and a favorite cap. And a guitar. And five or six red bandanas. Everything else was provided on the boat. I had two homes: the boat and an apartment in El Paso. Best of two wild worlds. In his book, The Healing Heart, Norman Cousins wrote about being in his cardiologist’s office. He couldn’t last very long at all on the treadmill, but he could play tennis for hours. Tennis required a lot more energy and stamina than the treadmill. What made the difference? Simple: he loved playing tennis. The treadmill was boring. I worked my tail off on the river. I’d walked away from jobs that were far easier. I loved being on the river. Even when my arms felt like noodles after hauling in 30 feet of wet two-inch line, even after pushing and pulling on ratchets and winches until I dang near passed out. (A cheater bar is an unforgiving dance partner, but that’s where I learned some of my best moves. I could tighten up like Archie Bell and the Drells. “I can dance just as good as I walk; trouble is I can’t walk!” I could hear James Brown: “Can I get just one more notch? Now dog it off!” The hardest workin man in tow business.) There was a time—only one time—that I could not even make it to my bunk; I fell asleep on the floor. But I loved it. The river is more of a wilderness now that it was in the heyday of the steamboats. Back then, there was a landing at every little town. When I was on the river, we would float through the woods for days at a time without the sights or insults of civilization. I could stand in the engine room, yell as loud as I could, and not be able to hear myself. I could go out on the head of the tow, the length of three football fields, lay in a coiled up line and hear nothing but the water lapping against the rakes of the lead barges—even the frequent strain of the barges wrestling with the rigging sounded peaceful, like an iron lullaby. Making maybe 4 or 5 miles per hour going up river. Nice little breeze. A lazy person has to find a job he loves. Earl Nightingale said that it’s easy to get ahead these days because so few are really trying. The secret is to go after the passion instead of the paycheck. I got good at towboating because I wanted to, because nothing else even made sense. I am not a hard worker by nature, but I put extraordinary energy into the things and people I love. I made first mate on my fifth trip. I was steering on my seventh trip. There were guys who had been out there all their working lives and never even been considered for mate because to them it was just a job. Big clue. Big lesson. I’m not knocking ambition; it’s probably a good thing for some folks, but I’m saying that passion is also a productive—certainly more fun—approach. I’m guessing that the reason so few are really trying is that so few honor themselves with a job that is personally rewarding. “My goals are to put food on the table and to someday be able to afford a decent funeral.” That just sounds boring as hell. Being responsible is all well and good, but I have to agree with Shakespeare: To your own self be true. That’s the ticket. Then it must—not might, but must—follow, as the day follows the night, that you cannot be false to anyone. We spend more time traveling than arriving, don’t we? As Cervantes said in Don Quixote, “The road is better than the inn.” If a person is not enjoying the journey, there’s something sick, sad, and screwed up going on. Time to reevaluate. When I got the phone call for my second trip on the Muskrat Sally I was thrilled that they’d called me back! I was now a bona fide River Man. I was also drunker than three boiled owls. It was an accident: someone spiked my margaritas with tequila. I made a mental note to pay closer attention in the future. After 45 minutes of sleep, my amigas and amigos poured me onto an airplane in El Paso. The flight attendant steered me to a seat. I gave her two dollars (that’s how long ago it was) for a little bottle of Kahlua and put on the headphones. Moe Bandy was singing “Hank Williams, You Wrote My Life.” It was the first time I ever lost my voice. I could not speak above a whisper. On the river, you need to be able to make yourself heard. Luckily, there are hand signals for “all gone,” “clear the long wall,” “clear the short wall,” “lick ahead,” and so forth. There’s also a hand signal for some other deckhand who’s making fun of you for not being able to talk. |