Catching Some Wind.

Mrs. Peel, who hasn’t been mentioned much recently, and I were walking one day when she noticed that I spend some time walking aimlessly every day. “It gives you time to collect your thoughts,” she observed. I pointed out that I spend most of my day wandering aimlessly, one way or another. “You do think a lot,” she said.

Mrs. Peel contacted me the other day. We’re needed. A scheme is afoot. I am not the only one who lives in my world. Happiness loves company.

It’s nice to see you.

Anyhow, my head has been getting more cluttered than usual. It’s that time of year. Summertime brings doldrums to New Orleans. We take the good with the bad. When the good times roll, the first half of the year, everybody forgets that summer is coming. The fish may be jumping and the cotton may be high, but the living is anything but easy during summer in New Orleans. You should visit.

Mrs. Peel just added to the collection of schemes hatching and incubating in this shock-headed noggin. Cobwebs were cluttering the gears. It was time to blow the cares away.

The Vespa usually takes care of such things. As a man of leisure, not only do I walk Mrs. King’s dog several times a day, I also zigzag all over town. When you are stuck in traffic, to me, you are the traffic—something for me to slip eel-like to the front of the line. Two wheels set one free.

The bike I drove before the Vespa. Also nothing to bark at.

The Vespa, tried-and-true, trusted companion that it is (King with no Vespa would not be King), wasn’t cutting through the industrial-level nattering going on in the back of my head. Dare I call it worry? Why not? Nonchalance takes practice. Cut me and I bleed.

What to do?

There is one source of motive wind that is stronger than a motorcycles. Yes, an airplane would do, but I’m not interested in being strapped to a wing flying over New Orleans. I am talking about another way, a third way. Open your third eye and see the possibilities.

I took the Vespa down to Jean Lafitte and took an airboat ride. It was just what the doctor ordered. The town of Jean Lafitte is a world apart, just the kind of place for a krazy kat like me. Airboats go fast.

You have seen airboats in the Everglades. I guess that’s okay. Everything is better in Louisiana, just ask anyone who lives here. Don’t ask me. I rarely leave the city. It takes a lot to get me to Jean Lafitte.

Cooter was happy to see me. He’s a Cajun straight from central casting. He has gingivitis. He knows his way around the swamp. “It’s been awhile, Mr. King!” Indeed.

I told Cooter I was in need of a job and that I had a need to clear my head. Cooter had in his pants pocket just what Dr. Feelgood ordered. He had the keys to his uncle’s airboat. “Giddy-up!” Cooter said, “You can sit in the stern, Mr. King.”

So there I was, wind in my hair, shifting and drifting to the boat’s mechanical music. It was an adrenaline surge. The seat’s well-weathered leather, the fan blades’ hot metal and oil, the scented swamp gas air… sunlight on chrome, the blur of the swamp, our every nerve was aware.

We went to Grand Isle and back. That is not a euphemism.

So, with mind cleansed and gyroscope realigned, your humble narrator is relaxed and refreshed, rested and ready. Let’s see what the next small scale adventure will be. I know a secret. Time in the swamp does a body good.