Two friends live in seclusion on a rustic Bayou houseboat.

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The morning mist from the Atchafalaya mingled graciously with the sweet fragrance rising from the chicory-laced coffee. “Well Injun, looks like another day in Paradise”. “Whatever you say, white-man. I’m going fishing”. So saying, Duane picks up line, pole, and bait, climbs down to his canoe, and pushes off, saying, “I‘ll be back with a mess of Patassa for supper.

Chester James Pruitt and Duane Lafourche have been friends since third grade, when Chet first called Duane, ”Injun”, and Duane snaped back with, ”Who you callin’ Injun, white-eyes”? Both laughed. Sixty-some years passed, and they still enjoy each other’s company. Maybe that’s because each is so often given to wondering, “What if”. They lost interest in reaching agreement long-ago. Good-hearted “What if” wondering was enough.

While Duane pursues Patassa, Chet shuffles through his bundle of the Times-Picayune. He has them mailed to Rosedale where Duane’s cousin, Lamont, picks them up, along with other supplies, and delivers it all by pirogue to the houseboat.

Lamont really never understood why two old guys would want to live in a shabby dump of houseboat lost in the boondocks of damn near impenetrable bayou. Not Lamont! He had plans for Baton Rouge, just as soon as he graduated community college.

Old folks know things young folks will only understand later.

Chet and Duane retired at the same time - the same year they moved into the houseboat they had planned on moving into for a long time. It suited them, fine.

Duane found the houseboat on one of his many canoe trips through the Bayou. It was abandoned, unmoored, and in need of repair. It seemed perfect for the sort of life Chet and Duane had talked about since the days they shared a dorm-room at Rice.

They drifted apart after college. Duane moved to Rosedale and got a job as a Park Ranger. Chet stayed in New Orleans working at a PR firm. Despite years absorbed by work, wives and children, they still got together from time-to-time. When they did, the talk always included their old daydream of a simple life of reflection and musing on a houseboat floating on the bayou.

Now, both were widowers, their children grown and gone, themselves retired, and with this houseboat in the offing - daydream would become reality.

Neither man thought repair was a serious problem. They were both in their mid-sixties and still vigorous. Best of all, the houseboat was so far back in the backwaters that paperwork and legal niceties were completely unnecessary. Everything needed for repair work, and two weeks of supplies were brought in by Lamont’s pirogue.

By spring they were onboard and operating.

The houseboat was the rough old-fashioned sort, all wood except for corrugated steel roof, about 6 x 36 feet, including cabin, porch, and an extension beyond the porch that served as a ramp-like deck.

The cabin had windows on two sides, plus one more and a door that opened onto the porch. There was no glass in the windows. Each window opening could be left open or closed by top-hinged shutters attached to ropes at the bottom of each opening. Usually they were left open to act as awnings against the Sun and light rain. During storms they were tied-down tight. The cabin was used for storage and sleep, mostly storage.

Duane spent his days exploring the swamp. He longed to connect somehow - maybe by just roaming the dark waters of the bayou - with the ancient ways of his vaguely understood Choctaw heritage. Chet just wanted the solitude. He spent most days ruminating, writing and wondering “What if”. Come evening, they would sit together on the front deck, carefully pack fresh tobacco in their pipes, sip a little bourbon, and wonder about . . . almost anything.

The embers in the little grill were faintly glowing. The Sun was setting, and the rain still falling. Duane pushed back his plate of Patassa skeletons. Chet puffed on his pipe. “Any fresh nonsense in that last bundle of Picayune kindling”? Well, says Chet, “That’s one of the paper’s several values. Ever when the lies aren’t entertaining, and the true stories aren’t interesting, you can still use the pages for wrapping stuff and starting fires. But, since you ask, there were more than usual incredulous my-oh-my stories about flooding and levees overflowing. The overflow water brought by the spring rain always seems to take them by complete surprise”.

Duane adds, “White man never did learn how to live with nature”.

Chet and Duane have no worries about rising water because their houseboat rises and falls along with the water. Anchors on either side keep them from floating away. They have none of the worries that trouble so many others along the Gulf coast every spring. “It’s amazing why so little thought is given to such predictable annual problems”. “Yeah, we talked about that many times. “Well today I did more than talk. I started writing about it - sort of a white-paper. I’m gonna title it: A Solution That Holds Water”. Duane is interested. They spend the rest of the evening kicking around the possibilities and details of Chet’s idea.

Next morning Chet starts typing. Duane pushes off into the rising water.

Chet does his writing on a laptop. He brought it with him on his first inspection of the houseboat. He wanted to see if he could get digital service in this remote place. To his surprise, he could. It came through without difficulty from towers in Rosedale. Duane had little interest in the outside world.

Chet liked the lonely life, too, but he still wanted to tap the wider world when needed. He also traded email with his eldest daughter in Baton Rouge. Jenene worried about her dad and his pal out there alone in swampy wilderness. She was relieved with each weekly report. She also printed out her dad’s writings, saving and cataloging them in boxes.

By the end of the day Chet had a brief overview page. Tomorrow he’d look for backup material to download from the internet. While writing, Chet realized this canal idea could solve two other seasonal problems as well - drought in the southwest and wildfires in California.

He wondered what Duane might question or add to his notion.

They’d chew on the possibilities after supper.

-A SOLUTION THAT HOLDS WATER -

Every year the southeastern states of the Gulf coast flood. The southwestern states suffer drought. The problem isn’t too much water, or too little water, the problem is too little, water, in the wrong place. The solution is a system of canals that will channel water to where it is needed, and away from where it is not. Does that sound like an impossibly large project? Yes, it does, but it is not impossible. It is empirically possible.

A model for just such a project already exists: The Interstate Highway System. When President Eisenhower first proposed the Interstate System it was viewed by many as a great idea with small chance of being completed anytime soon. Now it is taken for granted, as though it was always there. If we start now an Interstate Canal System may soon be seen in much the same way.

The benefits will extend beyond flood and drought control.

A great system of canals will dramatically change commercial transportation. A boat with a truck-sized engine will haul a lot more trailers, at less cost than a land-bound truck. Recreational travel might also be part of the system. Both would help offset the cost of construction and maintenance for the individual States. Eventually these fees, or tolls, would pay for the whole thing. Agriculture would be more reliable and productive. Arid land would become open to farming. Billions would be saved in life and property. Insurance costs would go down, and Americans across the nation would be grateful to the wise leaders who would make this idea of an Interstate Canal System a reality. The next question for those who agree will be “what can be done to get stated”? Talk to as many people as you can: civic groups, city, state and federal representatives, Internet users, and any other group you think might be interested and able to help. Great projects begin with small steps. Feel free to add to, or alter, what we’ve written. All that is required for success is will-power and effort.

- by Chester James Pruitt & Duane Lafourche -

Chet was hoping Duane would agree to put his name on the piece. Suppertime came and passed. Duane didn’t return.

Nothing to worry about. Duane was often gone for days at a time. Before leaving he did say he was going to check-in on Big Jake. He probably stayed too long to get back before nightfall. Duane was comfortable making camp in the wetlands, sort of an Injun thing.

Duane was very proud of his Choctaw legacy.

Big Jake was something of a research project for Duane and a frequent topic of discussion the last few months. The biggest alligator on record was fifteen feet, nine inches. Duane was convinced Big Jake was over twenty-two feet. Chet had never seen Big Jake except for photos on Duane’s cellphone. While generally dismissive of the white man’s ways, Duane did have a grudging appreciation for some of the technology. He usually kept the phone in his backpack

Chet thought they might develop Duane’s notes and photos into an article that would interest Nature, or some similar sort of magazine. Duane liked the idea of organizing his research. He didn’t want to publish it. Too many outsiders poking around looking for a glimpse of the monster ‘gator could ruin their idyllic hideaway in this remote part of the Atchafalaya Basin. Besides that, they hadn’t yet thought of a way to get verifiable measurements.

Big Jake’s lagoon was twenty-some miles upriver from the houseboat. Duane might be away for several days. Looking around, Chet noticed Duane’s cellphone on the charger. “Oh well, there’ll be no photos from this trip. The charger reminded him they were running low on gas for the generator. Then he thought, “No matter, Lamont will be here with replacement supplies in a couple of days”.

Chet returned to mulling his whitepaper. “Maybe the title was inappropriately catchy, too much like something a PR guy would say. Maybe I should’ve called it FIRE & RAIN - That is the two problems I’m trying to solve. Then I might follow with a sub-title like, Annual Problems with Plausible Solutions. Yeah, yeah, much better, more of an academic tone. The opening page should be expository, more like a thoughtful review of the current situation. Then I could close with a ‘page-turner’ promise of real solutions . . . Maybe FIRE & RAIN will confuse people, make them think it’s about the song? I don’t know. I’ll do a re-write tomorrow, maybe Duane will be back by then. He’s always a good sounding-board. Sure wish he’d hadn’t forgotten his phone”.

Tomorrow came. Duane didn’t. He didn’t come the next day either.

Chet was getting a little worried.

Lamont showed up with supplies. He asked where his cousin was. Chet explained. Lamont shrugged it off, “Duane’s been wanderin’ ‘round that damned swamp for most of his life. Thinks he’s an Indian. Well so am I, but I don’t make such a big deal ‘bout it”. Chet let the statement go. Lamont poled the empty pirogue away, leaving Chet to his thoughts.

Days passed, then weeks. No Duane. Chet never got back to his paper. He couldn’t concentrate. Something was wrong. Duane had never been away more than a few days.

“What could have happened. If only he’d taken his cellphone”.

Two weeks later, Lamont came with supplies. Still, no Duane. Lamont says what most people would think, “He’s dead. It was bound to happen one day. You should come back with me to Rosedale”. Chet wasn’t ready to accept that. He continued to hope.

Months passed. Eventually Jenene got word of Duane’s disappearance. She emailed her Dad to please come home. She had a room at the back of her house. He could live there. It was pleasant and private. It had French doors that opened onto a lush verdant backyard - almost like the greenery in the bayou. He could be comfortable there. He could spend time with his grandchildren. “Please think about it”.

Chet did think about it. A month later he packed up his few belongings and sorrowfully departed with Lamont for Rosedale. He left a note for Duane, just in case.

Chet settled into life at his daughter’s home though he wasn’t content.

Jenene had set up a desk for his writing. He never used it. He never wrote again. The Fire & Rain paper was never completed. He enjoyed his Grandchildren, they liked listening to their Grandpa’s stories about the “Injun”, Duane Lafourche, and houseboat life in the bayou.

Chet’s thoughts often turned to what might have happened to Duane. Chet consoled himself, a little, with the thought that if Duane could have chosen how he would die, being absorbed by his beloved bayou would have been his choice.

Chet died two years later at seventy-eight, quietly, in his sleep. He’d lived almost thirteen years on the houseboat and two more with Jenene’s family.

Jenene carefully preserved all her Father’s writings. She intends to do something with them - someday.

The bayou abides in quiescent mystery.

By K. L. Shipley

Website: https://www.eclecticessays.com