two not-yet-dry-behind-the-ear kids, with a lot of
gray in our hair, who got caught up in a “snipe”
hunt. This time we laughed about it.
and I got a hankering for an unhurried, uncluttered --
romantic in Dr. Phil speak -- look at the Texas coast
and a taste of shrimp gumbo, oysters, spicy
crab-cakes, soft shell crabs, and all things fishy.
Autumn is a good time to do that. Though, we didn’t
intend to eat up everything in the bay.
is a living Robert Wood Seascape thirty or so miles up
the coast from Corpus Christi and a short drive and
ferryboat float of similar distance from Port Arkansas.
We Dallas-ites used to hook ‘em to North Padre
Island and Arkansas for an annual charring of bodies
-- AKA beaching -- through the years. We had never
been to Rockport.
who depend on someone or something for entertainment
in a big citified way this isn’t your place. Here,
at least in the autumn, you get away from the
superficiality, noise and chutzpa of the city. Yeah,
you might call it a lower case Kennebunkport , a much
don’t need an Ivy League footprint to hang all ten
on a fishing pier. Holding your sweetie’s hand, or a
dog’s leash, or both, and strolling along the
harbor, or throwing in a fishing line, are the best
games going. Bird watching, just inhaling the fresh
salty air and bay-gazing isn’t far behind.
I’m sure, There are enough trawlers, sailboats and
assorted pleasure crafts to create the effect Mr. Wood
wanted for his paintings -- a stunning foreground for
a stunning sunset.
more boardwalks, piers and fishing poles per windblown
inhabitant than anywhere else in the world.
misunderstand. There are enough small art galleries,
antique stores, assorted shops and a couple of museums
for those who tire of hooking on some small marine
life in favor of the thrill of catching a bigger
toured a stately mansion that was built by George
Fulton (namesake for the county) who departed a long
time ago. We learned about his 1870’s genius; the
architecture, mahogany splendor and transom air-flow
of the house -- and birth control. Yep, that’s what
friendly docent gave us a private tour of the 6500
square-foot architectural masterpiece, paused at the
master bedroom and explained: “In those days the
better mattresses were stuffed with horse hair, which
was coarse and prickly. The hair penetrated the lining
and got uncomfortable, particularly when turning
thrashing about, I thought.
the early forms of birth control, eh?” I asked.
There was a smile but no confirmation.
arrived in the lobby of our “ Inn ” looking as
tourist as Rodney Dangerfield, when a convivial local
fellow answered our question directed to the front
desk, “So what are the ‘can’t miss’
attractions around here?”
you know the Whooping Cranes winter down here. If
you’ll go over to Copano Cove you might see a
‘Pink Crane’ or in technical terms a ‘Sand Hill'
Crane. Finding a pink feather is like finding a pot of
Off we go
with camera in hand as excited as two really big kids
can get. We drove into every cove and marsh in the
county only to find a few standard five-foot-tall
white whooping cranes; a striking sight to see
nonetheless. Tired and without a pink feather, we
returned to the Inn , poured a glass of wine and
walked to a prime viewing area. There I broke the news
to my sweetie.
remember the stories about ‘Snipe’ hunting back in
my youth? You know, the young and naive are sent into
the woods to catch something that doesn’t exist. I
just saw the guy who told us about pink cranes down at
the bar laughing with his buddies.”
over the shimmering harbor with its naked hoists,
masts, jibs and spars saluting the sinking sun. The
heavens as if on cue turned darker hues of blue,
lavender, magenta and pink. “At least some things
are pink”, I whispered.
another glass of wine and laughed.
Copyright John L. Brazell