Freebird!
Eddie Nesbit could not carry a tune under the best of circumstances but with only the uncaring wind to hear him bellow, emulating Ronnie Van Zant was not the hardest task. Above the hearty drone of the 351 Ford motor pushing him up the mighty Mississippi in an old Ski Nautique, Eddie and the late Van Zant sang their hearts out in praise of the also deceased Duane Allman. His hands tapped the steering wheel in increasing ferocity, lamenting the world they could not chai-e-ain-e-ain-e-ainge.
"Won't you flyyyy hiiiiigh...Freeeeeebird, yeah!" The impossible flurry of the triple-lead guitars took over for an eternity. Nesbit rocked his head, taking in the notes as if he was hearing the old tune for the first time all over again.
Kentucky bluegrass weed had a firm grip on his mind. Its haze filtered the sunny world around him; his senses alight in the incessant sun. With the roar of the powerful ski boat chained to the whimsy of his hands' orders, very little boat traffic around, most of his trip behind him and the tunes cranked wide open, life was extremely good for Eddie. His travel had gone without the slightest hiccup. The boat was a dream to pilot. He had money, weed and a sixer in the cooler. The width of the river gave him great latitude in avoiding traffic. Even when barge traffic made its way near him, the tiny boat weaved around such vessels with ease. Though a mere speck in the water of America's mightiest waterway, Eddie Nesbit felt omnipotent on the sunny day.
He waved casually at the occasional SeaDoo or Bombardier jumping wakes behind him every so often. He nodded and held up a flippant hand to old men in john boats chasing flatheads and gave giddy thumbs-up to sun-roofed pontoons laden with shirtless old men and their wives and daughters taking time to get some tan lines to take home after a day in the sun. The occasional cabin cruisers would pass him as would pricey bass boats, usually helmed by a pair of serious looking anglers wearing khaki fishing vests festooned with endorsed patches and permanent albino patches around their eyes and temples from fighting the glare from the water's surface with only the finest Ray-Bans. Acknowledging other nautical souls was a mere courtesy. Though enjoying himself immensely, Eddie Nesbit was not on a social call.
He was many miles below Robinsonville, Mississippi and far above Helena, Arkansas, ecstatic to be far from Baton Rouge and Natchez, where the traffic was heavy and the Coast Guard was on the prowl. He hated stopping in Helena for gas with Robinsonville not that much further, but the Nautique was a thirsty bastard. There were still game wardens and the Coast Guard around, but he dismissed the threat. It was the sheriffs of parishes and counties adjacent to him that posed the main problem. If someone had tipped someone off about a certain Nautique running dope up the mighty Mississippi, ostensibly to avoid a random traffic stop, local lawdogs had only to keep a boat hanging out in the channel awaiting him. One certainty about the river run, the only directions were was only upriver and downriver.
Eddie was no fool. Foolhardy in some small indiscretions- namely having a dugout that started in Baton Rouge fully packed with sensemilla and was now nearly empty. There was a snub-nosed five-shot .38 stashed under the dashboard next to the dugout. Both could be flipped overboard discretely and both would sink if he caught some Johnny Law in a skiff eyeballing him. The sixer was two short and surrounding by a great many cans of normal soft drinks, bottled waters and sandwich makings.
For three days and nights, Eddie had lived on two packs of lunchmeat, a huge bag of trail mix, a loaf of bread, and a Lay's Chips variety pack and the drinks. He camped on the numerous sand bars when his eyes grew heavy in the waning sun, sleeping on a mat on the soft sand. In the throes of a mid-August drought throughout the South, he left the tent and other camping gear he normally took with him on the upriver run behind. Rain was a forgotten notion.
It was clear sailing. Taking in the sun, waving at the baby dolls in string bikinis riding by toasting him with beer cans. Seeing the odd flash of a whitetail's ass as it rushed into the tree line, maybe a gator lying with its snaggle-tooth smile on a sandbar. Ducks aplenty, fish jumping, maybe a beaver slapping the water before diving deep. Towboats with an impossible number of barges tied to them meandered with loads of coal and grain heaped high upon them with deck hands clad in orange work vests wandering the decks and giving him a nod.
Here and there, the river would pile up a fresh sandbar teeming with skipjacks boiling in panic as a school of predators approached them, the eons-old cycle of kill and be killed, eat and be eaten...at least until one died and was eaten anyway...played out in endless sandbar microcosms all around him. Especially in the morning as the rising sun glared from the shiny scales as the little fish went about their day.
The occasional giant carp would slap at water as they eased along their day. There had been a tremendous gar hovering near a finger-slough near Vicksburg when he awoke that morning, easily a six-footer and maybe closer to seven. A first glance he mistook it for a gator as it meandered down the length of a sandbar.
Seeing the big gar reminded him of some of the folks he worked for as a younger man. Fresh from Ohatchee, Alabama then, making his way in New Orleans as a roofer, he worked alongside many Creoles, black folks, roughnecks, Latinos, and country boys. Those folks would catch a big gar such as the one he saw, or even a goo or buffalo, skin it and drop it in a pot of crab boil. When the meat had cooked away from the bone, they would pick the spicy flesh from the bottom of the pot, roll it into their hushpuppy batter and fry up lil walnut-sized fritters. Dip them in remoulade sauce, and man, they were some fine eating. And all from a big trash fish that folks in other parts of the country would toss on the bank in disgust.
They coulda fed Pete Fontenot at least half of his usual breakfast on that six-footer. Eddie smirked. One of his superiors was a big boy, easily tipping over three-twenty. And that was not because he was a defensive tackle.
Or maybe a family of ten. The fat bastard...
He was making great time. Looking at his watch, Eddie looked at the map he had folded to where his position was noted and pinned to the windshield.
Almost noon! Hot damn!
Having made the run numerous times, certain landmarks and river markers told him where he was, but the river was forever changing its banks. With the mile markers and other signs, he had a good idea of his location and how much further to go. Assuming his rendezvous went as scheduled, he would be back in New Orleans by eight that night.
Just in time to catch Bonnie Raitt with Laura over at Tipitina's tonight! Eddie hunkered over a Bic's flame and caught up the tip of a Marlboro Light aflame. He was smitten with a doe-eyed Colorado transplant named Laura Arresco. Sweet girl, kind of an earth mother type, but forgiving of his more redneck attitude toward the beast in the field and the bird in the air and the tree on the ground. She was tall, laid back and prone to say, "right on," to anything she agreed with in spirit. She accepted his travels and did not push his buttons about what he did. Of course, had she, Eddie was more than qualified at lying.
