Shantyboat On The Bayous

Harlan Hubbard

• Publisher: The University Press of Kentucky
• Year: 2021
• Print ISBN:
  9780813117171
• eBook ISBN:
  9780813188379
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: North American History
• Index: History

Shantyboat

ON THE Bayous

I

Our shantyboating began on the Ohio River with no more thought of cruising into the bayou country of southern Louisiana than of navigating the upper Amazon. In fact, we undertook this venture with no definite intentions of any kind, except a vague notion of drifting downstream as natural as a piece of driftwood and as heedless of an ultimate destination. We went down to the river in the hope of realizing a long-cherished desire to live close to it, with nothing between us and the stream we loved.

I was a natural for a shantyboat life, having that strange inclination to live apart from the established system, to provide what was necessary—and little more than that—by the labor of my own hands; to live in the hard way, much out-of-doors and in something of a wilderness. The riverbank was the only vestige of a frontier accessible to me. Also, I was attracted to it as an artist, a painter of sorts. Over a long period of years I had been painting the Ohio River in various phases, and a shantyboat seemed the most fitting studio.

With this background it is to be wondered at that I did not take to the river sooner, but I was kept from it by real or imaginary hindrances until I married. This event usually puts an end to such unconventional aspirations as shantyboating; nor had Anna ever shown any tendencies in that direction. Had not the city in which she was librarian been situated on the Ohio River, and had I not been an occasional visitor to the library, she would no doubt have been content to spend the rest of her life on land, with no suspicion of the rich experience we were to share. Yet it was she who suggested, soon after we were married, that we build a shantyboat and live on the river. Perhaps she thought it best to get this notion out of my system at once. At any rate, she made an excellent shantyboat wife, and the river life, so limited in some respects and yet so free, brought out unsuspected capabilities and developed innate strains of character.

Neither of us knew what we were getting into when we went down to the riverbank that autumn and built our little shantyboat. It was an exciting and joyous experience from the beginning, but we soon learned that a river life demanded more than we had anticipated. You can’t move onto a boat from a house on land, even from one so informal as an artist’s studio, and feel at home right away. If shantyboaters are not born—as was the case with us—they must be made, and the process takes time. For two rich years our boat lay moored to the bank at the spot where she was built, while we became adapted to an amphibious existence and learned something of the ups and downs of shantyboating. Then, as we drifted away to begin the downstream voyage and saw the familiar landing merge into the endless shore, a new dimension of river life was opened to us. To navigate a heavy boat controlled only by arm power on the swift waters of winter is an exacting sport, hazardous at times, full of excitement and unexpected happenings. Drifting became a passion with us in the four winters of our trip down the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. During the quiet intervals of summer we were content to lay over at some rural landing with at least one foot on shore, where we made a garden and became for the time members of the farm community around us.

When at length New Orleans was reached, our shantyboat life was in full swing. The river had worked its change, and to live with flowing water beneath us seemed the natural and most desirable way. Our first New Orleans harbor, far enough upstream to be in the country, was in a quiet lagoon behind an abandoned levee. It was a relief to be out of the current for a time; yet the flooded Mississippi was still close to us, for we were moored just inside the narrow reef which had once been the top of a levee. Outside it, a few yards from our deck, the winter rains and melted snows of half the United States were silently rolling toward the sea.

These were sweet days. In the southern spring the air was soft and balmy, the sun warm. Mockingbirds and thrashers sang in the greening brush of our narrow island. Along the mainland rode the new levee where cows grazed on the greenest of grass. We sometimes rowed across the narrow lagoon in our johnboat, and each time, on climbing the slope, we were astonished to see a road, houses and fields all lying at a lower level than the water. Sometimes our errand was to the nearby country store and post office, or we roamed the countryside gathering greens and picking dewberries along the railroad embankment, much as we would have done in Kentucky, although there was so much here that was strange to us. A few times, leaving the dogs on the boat, we boarded a bus and rode to New Orleans to make our acquaintance with that unique city, delighted with the novel and exotic character of all that we saw.

Most of the time, however, we were content to remain on our small island. The shantyboat itself is like an island, a floating one, self-contained and ever the same through all the shifting scenes and circumstances of the voyage. We had not drifted far from our home port before we discovered how delightful and satisfying it is to travel and not be obliged to leave anything behind. All our wanted possessions were with us—tools, books, dogs, bicycle, scraps of material, summer and winter clothing, violin, viola, ’cello, and equipment for painting. In the beginning our favorite pursuits were somewhat neglected because we were occupied almost wholly with the novelty of living on water, with completing our boat and learning river ways. Now, after more than five years of river life, the days seemed unaccountably longer and nothing we wanted to do need be crowded out. This was due in part to the efficiency of our boat, which had become almost part of ourselves. The home-made gadgets had been worked out to a fine point and tested by use, everything on board had found its proper place, and order was maintained with little effort.

Even with this broad margin of leisure the hours were precious as ever and we were always doing something, even if it were nothing more than to sit in the sun and watch the river. It was warm enough now to eat our midday meal on deck, and we often lingered there to indulge in that time-consuming pleasure of reading aloud; though these hours were redeemed to some extent by the industrious listener, whose hands were busy at “knitting” a fish net or other shantyboat handicraft, or at catching up on some household chore which otherwise might be tedious, like mending or cracking and picking out nuts. We had frequent sessions with the ’cello and violin, playing duets or pieces we arranged for two strings. Often we played quartets, two parts at a time—an excellent way to study these works. I whittled wood blocks which we printed together, and I often set up my easel, a driftwood plank wedged between floor and ceiling.

During these happy days we were disturbed only by the thought that they could not long continue. Spring would all too soon give way to the heat of summer, the river would fall—it had already started down—the water would drain off the batture, as the strip just outside the levee is called, and we would be forced out into the open river, with no protection from wind and waves, with a muddy wilderness for a shore. Also, we knew that in time we would want to be on the move and see new shores. The difficulty was, which way to go? The Mississippi below New Orleans is no place for a shantyboat because its unbroken shores afford no protection from the waves of the many ocean ships which enter and leave the port. We thought of having our boat towed back up the river, but that would be a tame ending to a voyage which began with the exciting drift down with the river’s current. Of course, we might sell out and return overland to our starting place, after the tradition of flatboat days which made New Orleans the final port; but to give up shantyboating at this high point was unthinkable, and we had no intention of abandoning our boat just when it had reached its full development.

The course we finally decided to attempt became quite reasonable after due consideration, and it was such a logical solution of our problem that we wondered why there should ever have been any hesitation; yet to leave the river and go westward into the bayou country had at first seemed a wild and desperate move. It would mean a long voyage on the Intracoastal Waterway, which was a canal dug through an uninhabitable swamp, from all that we had ever heard of it, and not inviting or friendly to shantyboaters. The idea appealed to us only because it would allow the even rhythm of our shantyboating to continue. Our outlook changed completely, however, after one glimpse of the bayou country, the day I went to Barataria. Then we became enthusiastic about the voyage, and eager to reach those waters which promised so much.

II

It was from a road map that we got the idea of making a sortie to Barataria, which was marked as a small town on Bayou Barataria and only twenty miles from New Orleans. Thus by a single day’s trip we could have a look at one of the Bayous and also at the Intracoastal Waterway, which follows Bayou Barataria for a ways. We hoped that even this brief contact would make the bayou country real instead of imaginary and inform us whether or not the Intracoastal was feasible for shantyboat navigation.

We decided that I should make this trip alone, a circumstance rare enough to make any day memorable. Of course, I had frequently left Anna on the boat while I went exploring new shores at which we had landed, times when she preferred staying on board to clambering over the rough banks or through the woods in wind and rain. Happily for both of us, she never minded being alone. In fact, she liked it once in a while, for the chance it afforded to do little things for herself, to spread her work about the cabin or practice on the ’cello without having to stop, clear the deck, and cook a meal; though I never could see any reason why she shouldn’t do these things even when I was around. Such trivial circumstances make a difference, however. For instance, the dogs always went with me on scouting expeditions ashore, while on this trip to Barataria I would be entirely by myself. Skipper and Sambo had expected to go along and were all excited about it, but their hopefulness vanished when they saw me taking the bicycle from under the tarpaulin on the roof, where it was stored with the washtubs and a lot of stuff that wouldn’t fit inside the cabin.

I was sorry to disappoint the dogs, but once away from the boat I realized how good it was to be all alone, at least for a while. As I pedaled along the road behind the levee I was prepared for great adventures. Nothing exciting happened, however. I only went to Barataria and back again; but the sight of that strange low region where land and water are so close was enough for even so special a day as this.

I could have bicycled the whole way to Barataria and return, nearly eighty miles, but thinking to travel faster I took a city bus when I reached the outer end of its route, leaving the wheel in a gas station. The bus carried me down the west shore of the Mississippi, the side opposite to New Orleans. With the road map for a guide, I left the bus and started walking out the Barataria road, wishing I had the bicycle again; but an obliging driver picked me up and carried me all the way.

The road abruptly left the metropolitan district along the river and traversed low fields and woods. It was not long before houses were sighted ahead, not city buildings but small cottages set in the line of trees that marked the bayou. This was Barataria, whose very name suggests the meandering of currentless water through a flat country.

At first sight I knew that I had come upon a place unlike any I had ever seen. Though but a few miles away, there was nothing about it to remind me of the Mississippi.

The road followed the stream, a road on each side much of the way, connected at rather long intervals by low bridges. At the very first crossing, the road was blocked while the bridge swung open to let a fishing boat pass, a white trawler with a rakish mast. Though tempted to get out of the car right there, I stayed with my ride until the end of the road. Beyond lay a marshy prairie, too unstable for road or houses. The bayou kept on southward and I longed to follow it as it wound through the tall grass, to see it widen into desolate bays and not so far distant enter the open water of the Gulf of Mexico. But this day, being landbound, I strolled back along the road, following short lanes to the bayou, leaning over bridge rails to watch the water, the fishermen, sea birds and boats.

The little houses were strung along close to the water on both sides of the bayou, not compact enough to form a recognizable town, yet never so far apart that it might be called open country. I could not make out which way the houses faced. In most cases the apparent front was toward the road, but every house had a well-used path to the shore, ending in a dock or boathouse.

Though not far from New Orleans, Barataria might have been a remote settlement, it was so self-contained and showed so little influence of the city. The people were busy about their own affairs, and seemed to have no interest in outsiders. The common use of French astonished me. It was spoken by the men at work building a new trawler; women chatted in French over the fence, and children along the road shouted in a strange lingo. Barataria was in the land of the Cajun. One could tell that by the names on mail boxes, on boats, on the stores.

I was happy to see a place so thoroughly boat-minded. The store in which I bought some crackers and cheese for lunch was a combination country store and boat store. It faced the bayou and had a dock for waterborne customers. Everyone seemed to have a boat and to use it for going places. No one rowed, however; they paddled about in pirogues. I had never before had a good look at a pirogue. It is a little slip of a boat with barely enough freeboard to keep the water from coming over the side. The occupant sits midway on the bottom with no width to spare. Using a single short paddle, with knees sticking up to keep a sack of groceries or perhaps a youngster from falling overboard, he, or she, nonchalantly skims along the smooth water.

Another type of boat of which I saw many on Barataria was a skiff with an inboard engine. They were used by fishermen, and some were quite small, perhaps only twelve feet in length, with a tiny engine that popped along and steamed like a teakettle, having, it seems, no circulating cooling system. Some of the newer boats were “air-cools,” others were virtually speed boats with powerful marine engines. The bayou was a lively place with the many small boats coming and going, an occasional trawler or oyster lugger running up the bayou loaded, or stopped at a dock for supplies before continuing on its way to the outer waters.

Since the Intracoastal follows Bayou Barataria for several miles, I had a chance to see what sort of traffic used this route. The tows passed more frequently than they did on the rivers, but the tugs were smaller than river towboats. Yet I saw one big New Orleans tug with five barges. These were strung out in a line and the last one dragged the bank—a hazard on this part of the bayou which makes it impossible to maintain a dock. All boats must be pulled out or moored in slips cut into the bank. A cruising shantyboat would have to navigate the Intracoastal with caution. I did see some boats on which people lived, but they were moored in protected water. Nevertheless I saw no reason why we should not bring our shantyboat over this route, and the frequency of safe harbors in side canals and behind islands was reassuring.

With so much to be seen, the few hours I had to spend on Barataria passed quickly. In midafternoon I turned homeward, making the first stage of the trip in a bakery truck which was bound for the “front.” The driver was talkative and I learned some of the fine points of bread delivery. He was taking home a basket of crabs bought from a Cajun fisherman. “I don’t see how he can sell them so cheap,” he remarked.

Eager as I was to get back to the shantyboat, I interrupted the homeward ride on the bicycle to pick a cabbage head or two from one of the truck farms along the road. The sun had set when I came abreast of our landing and pushed the bicycle up the grassy slope of the levee. As always after an absence, however brief, the sight of the river was breath-taking. It was immense as infinity in the blue-gray mist which dimmed the far shore. Across the narrow lagoon the shantyboat would have been lost in the twilight except for candlelight flickering in the window. I called, “Yo-ho-oo.” The dogs began to yelp and oars thumped in the johnboat. Soon Anna was with me.

“How was it?” she asked.

“Wonderful,” I said, “It’s the place for us.”

A gentle rain fell that evening and the open fire gave warmth and cheer to our cabin. Instead of our usual reading aloud, I told of Bayou Barataria, of the fishermen, of pirogues and skiffs on the busy waterway, of the shores deep in the shade of live oaks, of the old cottages whose sides and roofs were weathered to a silvery gray which sparkled in the sun. As I recalled the place, its contrasts seemed more vivid—the light and shade on the road of white shells, the wispy grayness of Spanish moss, and the brilliant green of banana trees sh...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Halftitle
• Title
• Dedication
• Copyright
• Foreword
• Shantyboat on the Bayous