We woke up on Friday morning, and we weren't in Nawleans.
We were in the back of Windsurfing Sports in Seabrook, just a few miles away from Texas City, harness in question back in our possession. But, since it turned out that the owner, Charlie, had a few things to teach us in the way of promoting kiteboarding, and he also had some incredible deals on equipment. Plus, he let us plug in to the back of his shop. Plus, it was windy at kiteboard beach.
Ever since the escape of the Purple Beast kite, when over $1,200 just floated away in the wind, BP had been pondering the kayak situation. That is, whether or not we should have one. Well, as the Fates wove their intricate web, it just so happened that Charlie had a great used kayak for sale...a twin to the kayak that had served as valiant steed to save the 11.0. So we acquired another sport, as well as a rescue vehicle, and Brant set about constructing a rack to top the trailer.
The latest addition to T.E.R.T.
That evening we headed out to kite beach at the dike, and BP put the kayak to use in Rescue Mission No. 1, paddling out to give a local, Derek, a hand with his downed kite in the dusk.
Another breakthrough occurred in my kiting progress over the weekened...I put out and came back to the same beach, even upwind a bit, and also got my first little floater jump. STOKE.
With the blessing of electricity (and therefore a/c), we got a bunch of work done and rig maintenance completed.
And we met Bevin.
Bevin and The B in the boat house.
Via Windsurfing Sports where she works, we found out that Bevin was a wakeboarder, about as stoked on the sport as anyone we'd ever met. She got into it back in the day when skurfers were all that showed up on the water, and just in the last year transitioned to a directional board which she is in love with. Her cool cat dad Neal had a boat, (and the spirit of a teenager), and so we hooked up with them to see what wakeboarding in a city renowned for its wind would be like.
Neal on the water.
Turns out it is awesome.
Meeting for dawn patrol, we went to the indoor marina to set out on the water. The indoor marina is a spectacle in itself...a huge hangar of a building which houses 250 boats stacked four high. A gargantuan fork lift (with 25' solid steel forks) plucks the requested boat from its stall, drives it down the length of the building, down a ramp, and sets it gently in the water. Call ahead and they'll have your boat waiting for you at the dock, gassed up and ready to go. When you get in from your session, the mightY fork raises the boat from the brackish water, sets it on padded runners outside for you to rinse it off, then replaces the craft on its shelf. Every boat in there looked brand new as a result of this treatment.
The Fork Lift on Steroids.
Pushing 60mph like it ain't no thing, Neal throttled the boat across the bay and up into Clear Creek. The houses that lined the shore are incredible, huge palaces of brick, stucco, stone, with vast expanses of green leading right down to the water's edge, and of course their own private dock. He slowed as we approached a marina at the mouth of the creek, and the party began.
Bevin on the glass.
All the banks were lined with gorgeous foliage, shading much of the creek throughout the day. The scene was from a picture book, with the sun rising in warm gold tones across the water. The glassy, perfectly mirror water.
There were no other boats out, and barely a ripple on the water. The warm, glassy water. Needless to say, it was an epic morning. Thanks so much to Bevin and Neal for such a gift.
We call him Slick.
Aryn surface 360.
Following the epic morning, the day turned a bit sour. Our phone stopped working, so we had to get an immediate replacement. Now, my history with GTE is sordid, but luck was smiling on us today, for instead of the usual GTE hassle, we met Susan Moore at the Webster Wireless office. She was an angel. She pulled strings to make good on the warantee in a unique fashion, since we were on the road, and we walked out of her office with a working new phone.
However, it did put us back a few hours, but we were still hopeful to make it to New Orleans by nightfall. NOT. We tried, but stopped just shy of midnight at, where else, WalMart. But the magnet that is Texas, that kept us in her grips for over a month, had finally allowed us to escape. Or maybe we charged over the border when she wasn't looking.
Regardless, we're now in that blend of French/Creole/Deep South—that enigma of a state where they do not have counties but rather parishes, where they eat alligators on sticks instead of hot dogs, where you can buy multi-colored shots in test tubes at walk-up windows on a street named after hard alcohol—Louisiana.
