Day 3-Mustang Island to Galveston

Here comes the hard part.  How do I share all of these places and feelings in a concise, impactful way?  I can’t. 

Each of the places I went (even the hell holes) is mine now. I have to share as much as I can remember.  This won’t work any other way.  Thus, the posts are gonna get really long from here on in.  I’ll do my best to keep it snappy but I ain’t leavin’ anything out.  And so, day 3 from Mustang Island.

Port Aransas and Aransas Pass is really cool. If I sound surprised it’s because before this trip, I’m not sure I knew that they existed.  I’ve lived here almost all of 40 years and I’d never been on most of the coastal Texas roads.  There is real value in a survey trip like this.  Not because you compare one place to another but because you can build a mental mosaic of the region.  Each place, cool or not, becomes an attribute in the personality of the region.  The Gulf coast is everything I thought it would be but I really didn’t know shit about it.

This realization was born on day 1 and by day 3, had really taken root.

Meanwhile, back on Mustang Island…Waking up close to a beach is fantastic.  Before you even open your eyes you know where you are.  The gentle swoosh of wind and waves bring you to consciousness.  It is almost impossible to be in a bad mood when you wake up close to a beach (unless you spent the entire October night (back in 92) in the cab of a two-seater truck with three other people…after digging your buddy’s monte carlo out of the sand 5 times because he just HAD to take out that porta potty...Hell is actually cold by the way, not hot…but that’s a story for another time).  This lovely April evening (and morning), however, was restful and cozy.

Up before dawn.  Up before the seagulls.  Off to take a hot, solitary shower (meaning I was the only one in the bathroom).  Back to camp to eat and pack.  As I walked back to camp, the seagulls saw me.  They said “Oh cool.  Its that asshole with the hot dogs for bait…get him!!!!!”

I began dodging birds and packing gear. Took an hour and a half and I was on the road.

Instead of going back over to Corpus, I decided to stay on the coast and go north.  I ended up in Port Aransas on an unexpected ferry.  It was pretty small and the ride was so fast that I didn’t even really have time to snap pictures.

Image from Maritime-executive.com

On the way over there was a biker in front of me.  Now I saw all kinds of bikers on this trip. From old to young, cruisers to sportbikes to adventure bikes.  One of my favorites was the biker that shared this ferry ride with me.  I only saw her on the bike.  She looked to be in her late teens or early twenties.  Beat up sport bike (which is what you ride when you are that age), a helmet with a plastic green mohawk and silver chains on her belt.  The effect was very cyberpunk.  It made me thing of a character out of one of William Gibson's books.  She is how I looked on the inside when I was that age.

I didn't get the chance to talk to her but I was really interested in the type of biker she was.  It wasn’t an attraction thing.  It’s just rare that you see someone else wearing your personality.

I need to mention the water at this point.  Jade green and clear.  I had to tear my eyes away from the bay and watch the road.  I’m just not used to seeing Texas coast with water this color up against it.  I’ve never really heard anyone talk about this place and it’s beautiful.

I cruised off the ferry and rode up the Aransas Pass main drag. 

  

One of my favorite non-Texas towns is Atchison, Kansas.  Its on the Missouri river which separates Kansas and Missouri.  I could spend pages on Atchison.  My family is from the area and almost every one of them has lived there at some time or another.  My mom was born there and recently moved back.  Towns that remind me of Atchison are instantly on my ‘cool list’.  Aransas Pass reminded me very much of Atchison

It was about two hours past dawn at this point so the light was pretty good.  Still the shady quality of the sun’s low angle and a few well-placed clouds gave the town a kind of sleepy beauty.  The streets were quiet and I felt like I was getting to see an unusually calm version of this town.  Its small, but there was a vibrancy to it that I knew would hit later in the morning.  I was sorry that I couldn’t stay and soak it in. 

I’ll be back to Aransas Pass someday.  It seemed to fit very well.

Up 35 past Rockport and over the LBJ Causeway

LBJ Causeway by JohnnyFulton

I stopped on the north side of the Causeway for gas.  There was a sign for Goose Island State Park.   It was only a few miles away so it seemed like a good place to stop for breakfast.  The problem with using back roads is that its hard to tell how much farther you really have to go.  If you change roads every hour or so, distance signs don’t do you much good and its easy to fool yourself into thinking that you are much further along than you actually are.  Thus, thinking that I was actually making good time (I wasn't), it was totally time to have powdered donuts and Starbucks Frappacino at a State Park.  Why not?  

Checked in at the gate and rolled through.  This is really a boat ramp state park BUT some of the roads through and around the park are really cool.  Lots of shade from big networking live oaks and pretty green undergrowth of Chinese Laurel and wildflowers.  Thinking back, it reminds me a hell of a lot of John Pennekamp state park on Key Largo but we’ll get to that later.

The Camphost told me of a really good breakfast spot by the bay.  I sat among the bluebonnets and ate the least healthy breakfast of the trip.  

The bay was quiet, the breeze was nice and there was no one around.  Walking around the park, I noticed this lonely canal with several houses on it.  This was right up against the state park.  I would like to live here for awhile someday.

After Goose Island (there were no Geese and the damn thing seemed pretty connected to the mainland to me) it was really just country roads up to Freeport.  Most of the roads were just cut through farmland.  The only remarkable places were the river bridges.  Each creek whether it was big or small had the same jade green semi-clear water as the Guadalupe river.  It was a nice change from our chocolate milk bayous around here.

Freeport.  Ah Freeport, you confusing motherfucker.  

I got kind of lost in Freeport.  My sense of direction is not great, my phone was throwing a tantrum and the street signs were designed by a schizophrenic meth-addled monkey.  After 30 really angry minutes, I found the bloody bridge to Surfside.  Finally, back on the coast.

My mother and father-in-law rented a beach house for July and they asked me to take a look at it.  Took a little while to find it but I was pretty impressed.  Many of the houses along this part of the coast are pretty damn big.  Big and painted in pastel colors.  I took a break and walked around the house.  I had planned on taking a picture of a bare slab and sending to my father in law with the caption “How will this sleep 18 people” but I couldn’t find a slab.  Oh well, I was crazy late anyways.  Back on the road.

I had been really looking forward to this part.  I love coming at familiar towns from unfamiliar directions. 

I would get to ride the whole length of the Bluewater highway up into Galveston.  This is the road that connects the Surfside and Galveston barrier islands.  I made my way north up to lands end.

The San Luis toll bridge was one of my favorite bridges along the trip.  First of all, it is a beautiful ride.  You can see both the Gulf side and the Bay side.  The sand is a khaki brown and sometimes, you can actually see the scary ass currents that swirl around this treacherous bitch.  Dozens of people die in this pass every year.  The rip currents and undertow are really strong.  On a cloudy day though, the water looks pretty and harmless. I wouldn't let my kids swim anywhere near here.

The bridge goes over the north shore of the San Luis cut.  There are always 4x4 trucks under the bridge.  The people that fish here are hardcore and they often pull in 30lb+ fish of several different species (including sharks). 

I rode over the bridge onto Galveston island.  One thing is for certain...The southernmost tip of Galveston island is about to be a swanky sumbitch.

There are dozens of multimillion dollar homes in various stages of completion all along the coast.

I’m glad to see it and surprised that it hasn’t happened before now. This section of coast and the Northern Florida coast have a primitive, open water quality that is hard to explain.  The scrubby coastline and (usually) calm waters are very conducive to Pirate fantasies.  When I was younger, I used to have this great image of a group of Karankawas (Native American tribe indigenous to the Texas Gulf coast) standing on the beach, arguing over which cut of ‘Long Pig’ they would get when the Pirates rowed ashore.

Up through Jamaica Beach into very familiar territory.  Past the State Park and into Galveston proper.  Much to my surprise, I didn't ride the seawall all the way to the Strand harborside.  Instead, I took a shortcut down 61^st and across Broadway.  I’ve driven the Seawall literally hundreds of times and people don’t always exhibit the best driving habits.  I was pretty tired at this point and I knew that I wouldn’t be as sharp along that dangerous stretch.  So I took the back way past the huge cruise ships to the Harborside Hotel. 

I didn’t care about a damn thing except connecting with my family once again.  J and the kids were having an ice cream lunch so I grabbed my gear and headed up to the room.  The hotel was beautiful and the view from the room was really cool.

Cruise ship: "If I'm really still, they won't see me."

J and the kids got back.  This was a little weird. It felt so good to see them but I had this ongoing anxiety about leaving them again for 5 more days.  It really gave me the blues and I had a hard time shaking it.  I regret that I was moody and sullen for the first couple of hours. 

The other problem was the unrelenting mental fatigue that would be my constant companion for the rest of the trip.  I’m in fairly good shape.  I’ve never been crazy athletic but I’ve always stayed fit.  The physical aspects weren’t bad at all.  Eat right, drink fluids, listen to your body, all of that worked out fine.

It’s the mile-after-mile, eyes on the road, constant attention that wears you down.  I’ll talk more about this later but I was really starting to feel it in Galveston.

Still, we had a great afternoon.  We ate at Joe’s Crab shack and walked around the Strand.  At this point, I felt like I was home.

There was a life size chess board in one of the Strand town squares.  A and A played chess with help from a couple of teenagers.  J and I watched in total confusion as rules were made up.  I think the game was really more about the trash talking among siblings.  I don’t know who won.  They probably don’t either…such is the way.

We then took the Bolivar ferry.  We hit it right at sunset.

Regardless of who you are or how you feel about Galveston…do this.

When we got back, I really wanted to go by the Shriner’s Hospital and drop off a donation.  It was Sunday night though and I was totally shattered.  Instead, we went back to the hotel and crashed. 

Soon, the sun would rise, J and the kids would head North and I would continue east.  My path would take me across the Ferry again but I knew the ride wouldn’t be nearly as beautiful as the night before. 

This day, like all the others, on the trip had been many days in one.  The days to come however, would not have evenings filled with giggling, lost pink flip-flops, sea-gull teasing and hugs.  As such, they would all pale in comparison to this one.

Day 2, Keys in the Water

I like to stand on the beach and stare out as far as I can.  I don’t have any problem seeing the other side in my mind’s eye.  The distances are staggering for the eyes but just a small trip for the imagination.

For the next 7 days, distances would be both monumental and completely irrelevant.

I stood on the hotel beach after a very stressful morning.  Tremendous technical difficulties with my phone and laptop ate up an hour and I was never able to resolve them.  That kind of thing drives me batshit.  I fix things, goddamit.  I don’t live with technical problems, I make them go away with one hack or another.  Not today. Screw it.  Time to go. 

So, before loading the bike, I walked out onto the hotel beach to relax and do the thousand- mile stare.  

The sky was deep blue and cloudless.  The sun washed everything with clean bright light.

I took some deep breaths and stepped to the shoreline.  I tossed the keys into the water and stared down at them for a minute.  I snapped a couple of pictures and picked them up.

The keys had been dipped in the waves of the southernmost coastal town in Texas.  This shit was on.

Day 2 Route

 Back across the bay towards Port Isabel.  The water was a pretty greenish blue and the town on the bay is quaint and only a little touristy.  I rode through it to connect up to 77.  Heading Northeast, I saw my waving wind turbines again.  I thought of Don Quixote jousting with windmills.  He would have shit himself if he had seen my windmills. 

There was a mandatory border patrol checkpoint about 15 miles up 77. I have never been through one.  It was pretty easy.  They had a drug sniffing dog.  He looked really happy.  I couldn't tell if he wanted to play or was just really excited that he might get to chew off one of my legs.

They walked him around my bike.  Thank god they didn’t decide to search my bike.  I wasn’t carrying anything but it would have taken us hours to sift through all my gear.  There are a million places I could have stashed several kilos of whatever. 

They asked if I was a US citizen.  I said yes and they waved me through.  I spent the rest of the ride to Kingsville thinking about why they would have a checkpoint that far from the border.  Best I can figure, if you walk or swim across, you still have to take 77 if you want to get anywhere.  If they didn't get you at the border, maybe they can get you at this checkpoint.

Made great time up to Kingsville and then on to Driscoll.  Grabbed a county road over to 286 to 358 in Corpus.  The landscape kind of reminded me of Kansas.  Horizon-stretching crop-growing flatness.  You could see for miles.  I loved it.  It felt lush and healthy after the desert of 77.

I was about 5 miles north of the bridge when a guy in a convertible red corvette rolls up next to me and honks.  He was early fifties with a baby mullet, looking at me with this shit-eating grin on his face.  I looked over at him, trying to figure out what the hell he wanted.  His smile faded and he drove away.

I don’t know if he thought I was a woman or maybe he thought I was someone he knew.  Maybe he wanted to hook-up but decided to pass when he saw my face.  Shortsighted bastard.  It could have been beautiful.

Broken-hearted and more than ready to be at the state park, I rode across the bay bridge.  One thing that I didn’t think about in the prep phase was bridges. There were so many. This was one of the prettier ones. 

John F Kennedy Memorial Causeway: Credit Cardcow.com

The water was the same jade green as South Padre.  Made it to Mustang Island SP with little effort.    

The loneliest parts of the trip were setting up camp or checking into hotel at the end of the day.  I’m not particularly fond of being alone. Or, I like it, but only for short times when I can look forward to connecting with other people soon.  There was something about setting up camp just for me that felt incredibly lonely.  I won’t say sad, just somewhat isolated.

I checked into Mustang Island State Park easily and headed over to my campsite.  The camp felt a little cramped as there were bigass RV’s on all sides.  Still, there was some grassy areas for a tent.  I was able to set up camp pretty quickly.

At this point I had some options.  Shoot back over to Corpus to do the 6 or 7 activities that I had planned or have a really good dinner on Padre and then go fishing at the beach.  Guess which one I did. 

I rolled back into town to grab a couple of supplies and get some dinner.  I ended up in this unassuming little restaurant called Dragonfly.  The décor was what I would call “island elegant”.  Not white table cloth or anything but classy in a casual island kind of way.  You knew that this wasn’t a beach diner.

Dragonfly: Credit www.dragonflycuracao.com

The service was nice and the food was amazing

Back to the State Park to fish and take pictures.  Here is what the sunset looked like from the beach:

Here are the seagulls that tried to take the hot dog off of my hook while I was casting.

Sure he looks innocent here but these bastards are aggressive!

And here is a picture of the fish I caught

You’re browser didn't screw up the picture. I caught exactly squat.

I headed back to camp.  It was off to bed on my oversized (somewhat) self inflatable camp mat. 

I think the most significant part of the day was standing on the beach and seeing only one shadow.  I’m used to seeing 3 others along with it.  Day 3 would bring all the shadows back together again.  I couldn’t wait. 

Charitable Component

I originally wrote this before the trip but I never posted it.  The time never seemed right.   Check the bottom for why I’m posting it now.

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I come from a long line of charitable mother****ers.  My Dad is an executive with a fairly large non-profit.  He has spent most of his career helping non-profits and he is, quite simply, a financial and managerial badass.  I used to love to go to work with him when I was a kid.  He has this way of talking to everybody with respect, Whether you are an executive or a warehouseman, you get the same courtesy and consideration.  I model my corporate communication style after his but I’m nowhere near as good at it.

He could have gone anywhere and been a winner.  He chose non-profit after a start as a big-six consultant. 

His Dad was a lifelong Shriner (a subgroup of the Freemasons).  He achieved the highest rank within the Masons.  He used to organize and volunteer at the Shriner’s Carnivals in the Kansas City Area.  When I was a kid, he used to give me bicentennial quarters that he collected while working the ticket booth.

He also used to ride in their scooter and motorcycle parades.  One of my earliest childhood memories is the gleaming, 70’s Honda 350 in his garage.  He let me play on it. I think he may have taken me for a ride once but the memory is pretty fuzzy. I could probably draw the Shriner’s logo (that was emblazoned across the tank and windshield) from memory.

For the last several years we’ve been donating a little to the Shriner’s Hospital in Galveston.  The hospital mainly serves children with burns and other severe/congenital injuries.  A few years back I heard that some friends of friends had to life-flight their son there after a campfire accident.  The Hospital is one of those “Pure” goods.  Light against the darkness type shit.

When I was 17, I spent a year as a volunteer firefighter with our Volunteer Fire Department.  I must admit that I wasn’t very dedicated and they tolerated me quite a bit.  Still, I learned a lot about fire service and first response.  Eventually, I left the department for personal reasons (and the fact that they had just about had it with my lackluster participation).  I’ve often wondered what the “personal reasons” were.  In the end, I think it was the kids. 

I had a horrible recurring daydream that involved kids in a house fire.  Some people are wired to deal with it and move on (our next door neighbor has been EMS forever).  Not me.  Couldn’t shake it.  Working major accidents off 290, I saw some pretty grisly shit.  I still have the occasional nightmare.  I have often wanted to rejoin but something always stops me.  Since I don’t drink any more, there is no way to unsee the really bad parts.  I’m just glad some people can do it.

Anyway, if I had to pick a charity for this ride, it would be the Shriner’s Hospital.  Partly because of my Dad and Grampa but mostly for what they do.  I couldn’t even hack first response. The folks at Shriner’s pick up the pieces and rebuild lives, most of it at no direct charge to the families. 

Same goes for the charities my Dad has supported all these years with above and beyond service.   My Grampa and my father aren't angels.  Both have engaged in some NFL-level fuck-ups (as have I) but it has always been clear to me how much they cared about people.

I’ll probably do 20 cents a mile (the trip will be about 2200 miles) to the Shriner’s hospital in Galveston.  I’ll also put the hospital logo somewhere on the bike.  Ideally I would like to drop off a check as I roll through Galveston.

I think Grampa would like it.  I wish he could ride with me.

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Why I’m posting this now,

Long story short, I wanted to “dedicate” the whole ride to the Shriners Burn Center in Galveston.  I had grand plans to roll up and donate a check.  Almost all of my timetables for the ride were completely wrong.  I got to Galveston on a Sunday and literally had no time to stop by the hospital.  I was extremely disappointed.  I was resigned to just sending them a check after the ride.  Not the most poetic or memorable outcome.

Then, on day 6, weird shit happened. I took a wrong turn in Tampa. This was pretty common as my Phone was being a world-class prick.  My wrong turn took me directly to the driveway of the International Headquarters for the Shriners…at 9:30 in the morning.  Holy. Shit. 

Fighting back tears (I was pretty raw and tired by day 6) I rolled in to the garage.  I took a minute to reflect on the whole thing and then walked inside.  I had my biker vest on with an old shriner tie pin that my Grandpa used to wear.  I walked up to the front desk and said that I would like to make a donation.  Somebody came right out and worked through the paperwork with me.  I told her some of the story and how it wasn’t planned, or that it was planned, just not really…you know, with the wrong turn and all.  She smiled and said “Oh it was planned, it just wasn’t your plan.”

Normally I argue with this kind of thing because I don’t buy any of it.  I had a very hard time calling up any argument on this sunny morning at the Shriner’s Headquarters.

The Shriners International Headquarters in Tampa, Florida

They had a tile dedicated to each chapter.  This was the one my Grampa belonged to.

I snapped a few pictures, texted J and headed across the Tampa Bridge.  I had lots to think about on the way to Key Largo.