Soucouyant - A Caribbean Vampire

By Ralph Trout

Hoping to mature as a journalist, a naïve college graduate hires on as a tugboat deckhand.

Working along the scenic Caribbean Islands, the young writer encounters, and rapidly succumbs to a beautiful female vampire who has the ability to change her appearance. His older brother and the crew of the tugboat fight the powerful Obeah occu

• Language: English
• Publisher: Libertad Publishing
• Release date: Nov 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9780999223925

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Published by

Libertad Publishing, LLC

Copyright © 2017 Ralph Trout. All rights reserved.

This book and all characters are purely fiction.

ISBN: 978-0-9992239-2-5

Dedicated to all who have been deceived by their emotions.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book would never have been written if I had not encountered elder Trinidadians who had been attacked in their youth by Soucouyants. I wasn’t superstitious until I lived on Trinidad’s north coast.

Virginia Schuler edited & Christopher Russo preformed computer magic.

The Dream

Today was excellent. It was the kind of day he had been dreaming of his entire life. As he drove along the beach a bright, orange sun was about to set into the sea from a cloudless sky. His passenger was a beautiful woman, who actually seemed interested in him. His BMW convertible’s white leather interior clung to her tight dress. A red-skinned thigh appeared when he shifted out of first gear. Then, a few sensual squirms against the leather exposed a light-blue-pantied crotch pointed towards him as he slammed fourth and accelerated. Yeah, he would always remember this night; he’d brag to his buddies over beers. He glanced again to catch her eyes, but instead, his gaze strayed to her lacy crotch.

Like what you see? The woman purred in an unrecognizable accent.

He gave his passenger a quick glance. She was a unique beauty, a rare ethnic mix. She had cheerful Asian eyes, billowing Latino hair, a flawless East Indian complexion, and a sensuous African mouth. Her reddish tanned skin revealed a touch of European in the mix. Everything made her his dream girl, for tonight anyway. He replied, Oh yeah, baby I’m loving it. This special place I’m taking you is as beautiful as you are. Be there in ten. He accelerated. Maybe less.

The sun gave her a glow. He adjusted the mirror to get a better view. Where are you from? he asked.

Does it matter? For you, I’m from anywhere and everywhere. I’m the girl next door; I’m the girl of your dreams. Just remember, I’m here now. She grabbed his upper thigh and whispered with a suggestive voice, Baby I’m gonna make this place so special for you. He jerked in his seat as her hand slid up his leg.

Not a hair of his crew cut swayed as he downshifted and threw the Beemer into a hard right turn. He parked the luxury car diagonally to block the street entrance. Drivers would have to honk, permitting some time to dress. A short distance down the beach they reached the secluded coconut grove. The shore breeze fluttered the blanket as it unrolled onto the warm sand.

Is this place special, or just isolated? I don’t even know your name, Mr. Big Car. You could be an ax murdering serial killer. No one would find a shallow grave here. You could have your deranged mind set on sexually abusing me. All the while she walked closer as she unsnapped, and dropped her dress. Coyly, Except that’s unlikely.

While gorging upon her tight, red-brown body in lingerie, he stammered, Call me anything you want to! Don’t be shy. Tell me what you want. In fact, I want you to scream it. He grabbed her arm and drew her close.

She smirked and rubbed her breasts on his now nude body. Baby, I’ll bet I can make you scream.

He was already breathing hard, nipping at her neck. I hope so.

She pulled his face to hers and breathed, Oh, Mr. Big Car, I’m…

His lips interrupted her. They kissed as if it would be their only one and it had to last a lifetime. Between grinding lips and twisting tongues, they gulped for breathe and moaned. She bit his lip and her movements quickened.

Oh yeah, he thought. This is gonna be good. He pulled away, and his final word was a whisper. His hands wandered her sleek back unsnapping a flimsy bra. His other wandering hand found the damp spot.

She unleashed a deep groan as her body grinded against his. With a practiced move, he toppled their bodies onto the blanket. He thought – no, he knew - he had a hot one.

Their hands explored each other until the writhing dance of the double-backed beast began. She took the dominant, top position and snaked herself up his torso, smothering his mouth with a series of forceful kisses. She paused raised her head, and wailed.

The mysterious woman closed her legs and squeezed. Her nails raked his shoulders as she humped while she licked his blood. Her hips moved faster and faster.

It was the best Mr. Big Car could remember. His sweaty face fell to the left with a gasp. Over his own, he heard her labored breathing certain he had adequately performed. He wanted this woman again.

Her labored breaths tailored to a steady pant. She licked his ear, bit the lobe hard, and lightly growled. He felt her body tense upon him. He thought she was going for a quickie second round, as she gripped his wrists and whispered in his ear, Baby, I hope I make you feel good.

The Nightmare

He sighed, Oh yeah… before his face contorted. And then, he felt a strange pinch to his neck. He couldn’t move; it felt like she weighed a thousand pounds. When he tried to shout, only a silent scream echoed throughout his head. He heard a new sound; breathing, panting, now he could hear her swallowing, gulping…what? His view of the cloudless sky went black.

Her teeth gnawed Big Car’s neck, shredding the flesh down to his jugular. The beauty raised her head, face covered in blood. She howled a cry of triumph, and then went back to the business of sucking and slurping. Blood smeared her lips while she writhed, getting more satisfaction from this feast than from the sex. His body went limp as she ripped her victim’s throat. She was finally satisfied, for tonight.

Slowly the murderess rose, holding her victim’s blank stare. She bowed her head, palms of her hands pressed together between her breasts, and recited a very odd-paced verse. When finished she raised her arms to the full moon rising. Ah, she sighed. Master, I am coming home. I have what you need. Leaving her clothes scattered on the sand, she turned to the moon, raised her arms above her head. As her arms dropped, her body ignited into flames. She rocketed upward in the form of a fireball, shooting east across the horizon. A mournful howl trailed in her wake.

Chapter One

AThe college park surrounding Tulane University was a magazine motif, exquisitely landscaped. Today, a stage was set for the graduation ceremonies. A thousand plus students in rented caps and gowns graced metal chairs sweltering in the humid, high eighties.

I knew by alphabetical order my name was next. A dean bent to the podium microphone and announced, Phillip Sullivan, bachelor of the arts.

I trotted up the stairs onto the stage and grabbed my diploma. I’d been a virtual unknown to the vast majority of my classmates, no clubs or sports. If they’d ever seen me it was at work. This was probably the last time most of our paths would ever cross and I wanted most to definitely remember me. I’m a tall, kind of skinny guy and made a gentlemanly bow towards the dean and the audience. I must say I danced a very good, respectable Irish jig while waving my diploma at the somber, sweating audience. I walked off to the left of the stage still waving my diploma. Down the stage steps, my first steps as a graduate, there was my older brother Chris to greet me.

Congratulations, bro, He said. After a tight embrace we loudly and very visibly removed a cork from a bottle, sloshed some into plastic glasses, and began a stroll through the gardens.

Feels good to be out of school? It did for me. But now the evil specter of work, and perhaps a career, beckons. My brother continued as I drank, either to subdue my thirst or my nerves.

I’m considering keeping the bartender’s job. I could write short stories. I gulped the bubbly wine and refilled.

I’m certain you will do well…at whatever you try. Chris said.

Pretty difficult to screw up beers and shots. As Chris began to pour another glass of champagne, I grabbed the bottle. Oh, I insist. Permit me. I am a trained professional, I quaffed in a bad French accent.

So, you aspire to be another Jack London? He asked.

I should be so lucky. The scholarship delayed a career decision. Our parents die in a car wreck, so we get the sad-ademic awards. Oh yes, you got yours for baseball.

Chris thrust out his right arm and it wasn’t completely straight. Yeah, luckily I didn’t throw out my rotator cup until my senior year.

They mashed the plastic glasses and chimed, To success.

I finished the toast, And to our happiness. If you don’t mind, what happened to your new woman? What’s her name? You have so many I can’t keep track.

Winnie, Winifred. Chris slapped me on the back. She thought just the bro’s would have a better celebration. Another two swigs from the bottle.

Does she?

Does she what?

Whinny when you ride her?

Hey! Chris wrinkled his eyes, Maybe. Let’s celebrate! We’ll go to Gino and Pete’s Pizzeria. They have beer and have been known to put up with the antics of the slightly sloshed Sullivan brothers.

The pizza shop’s bright interior reflected in the black and white tile floor. Half a pizza, several drained beer bottles, and accompanying empty shot glasses with the leftover limes cluttered our table.

So what do you think you’ll do? I sounded almost somber.

Wait a minute recent graduate, that’s my question. My elder bro returned.

I know what I’m going to do. It’s you I’m worried about. You really going to stay with the Star Trib? I mean Chris, you write really good things, I mean, ah, damn. Nervously, I pushed my hair back with both hands until I could clasp my fingers at the back of my head.

You sound like dad. Well if you really want to pry, I’m thinking of returning to classes, getting my doctorate, and teaching. To me that seems relatively secure in this increasingly insecure world. But the job at the paper will help for right now, he answered. I’d like to settle down and do the family thing.

With Winnie? At least you committed to do it, and not just try. Family man, Dr. Piled Higher and Deeper; you really want to stay in the ivy towers?

Who knows? Maybe? I just want a family again. Since grandma passed over, it has been you and me. Now you feel like you got to go someplace, right? Chris was trying to unveil plans I didn’t have.

In a whispery imitation of Winston Churchill, I believe I must. What can I write about? Hey, what do I really know about life other than tying my shoe laces and wiping my ass?

Chris rolled his eyes and let the liquor talk. I may add you do a commendable job of both.

No, really; you seriously want to stay in that ivy tower and teach the heart ache of troubled souls like Hemingway, Kerouac, and yes, Jack London? Me, I want to emulate them. Taste their stimulus and document my quest. Perhaps I did have a tiny bit of a plan.

Big brother Chris sighed. Here’s to optimism and idealism. I propose you get laid as soon as possible. Pussy is a good stimulus.

Hey, I could work for Hustler. Larry Flynt would hire me. Nah, there’s no women on the horizon for me. You are the handsome Sullivan, the jock just three years older and so much wiser.

Spare me. Grab the waitress. Chris paid the tab and we staggered to his Mustang convertible.

I stammered. I believe to write, really write, you have to experience and meet the characters. No, no, really be the characters. Experience everything, every aspect! Don’t you agree? Hunter S, Dumas, Zola…, they wrote about what they really lived, and of course my hero, Jack London.

Really, really, really…really! Chris mocked me.

Don’t make a joke of me. I want to travel, meet the wackos, and have crazy experiences.

Bother, we missed the sixties and seventies. Chris stopped the car and hugged me. You don’t have to search out weirdoes or risk your life to be a writer. I grant you a few authors have done it, but…

I cut him short. I got a bit of money with what Grandma left me. I think it’s now or never. Worst case scenario, I stay tending bar, take some night courses, meet a girl and wham, bam, the end of the man.

Look, do what feels good. You don’t have to prove a thing to me. Chris said. You are the designated artist of the family. I’m just the layman, and man do I get laid.

My imitation of a horse whinny was pretty bad.

We are young. Everything lies ahead. How many of your fellow students are debt free at 21? Phil, take your time. Enjoy life. Try losing the lofty creative ideals for a while.

Slumping in the car seat with a wine - beer - tequila grin, How can I have lofty ideals working at the Dog House Bar? I said as my head began to ache.

About me, I am Phil Sullivan the first. My only brother Chris was named after my father. Anyway, I guess I’d say I’m the average, not as tall as my brother and been the same 150 weight since high school, and always been the shy type of guy. The majority of people are until they fit into a protective group where they can be outrageous. That’s me. I could count on both hands the instances I have felt out of control, from being drunk and having consumed whatever else happened to be available. Of course I love a good time, but basically I’m a two beer man. I’d like to think my sense of economics is a good excuse.

Our parents had been killed in a traffic accident during our teens, and living with grandma wasn’t the place to come home drunk and disorderly. Very often she subjected us to a face check. Chris was the wild one; he usually failed. I was the mild one, the good grandson. Chris was a great baseball pitcher. In high school he set records for strikeouts and scoreless innings. He had the friends and plenty were girls. He never had a problem with me hanging around, but it usually made me self-conscious. He got a full scholarship to Boston College and threw fantastic ball until midway through his senior year. If the rotator cup hadn’t been so severely damaged he would have gone pro. Chris still has his wavy blond hair and sportsman physique.

Now he writes about sports. Must be hard to watch what you could have been. I think about that a lot. I don’t want to screw myself up, so I got to watch out and wait for that fork in the road. Our father worked the same job his entire life, with two weeks off every year. These days, people would roll over and sit up for a chance at that kind of definiteness. I think I want just the opposite; and I want to make money writing about it.

Right now my only source of income, and the very occasional date, is being a part time bartender at The Dog House. It is a working man’s bar stocked with cheap liquor and draft beer. All the waitresses are college students, a legal eighteen. Their only job qualifications are a cute face attached to long legs, a good sense of math, and a better sense of humor. I must say I love my job. The Dog House menu is only sandwiches, all wrapped in a piece of newspaper. Charlie likes to keep the customers smiling, and believes in reading.

Aspirins, water, juice, even a pinch of powdered cayenne pepper hadn’t helped my hangover. Heading to work behind the bar while suffering last night’s indulgence made me feel decadent. Maybe this was the first step in becoming the man I wanted to be?

The ten AM bar was usually three deep, each customer believing if they shouted their order louder and more often, it would appear quicker. My head throbbed. This morning the starving throngs were only two deep, probably due to the middle of the month financial crunch. Most were regulars. Plenty were slightly irregular; a good portion being almost dissolute and living on disability or pension. To me, it was a very interesting clientele. When time permitted, I jotted descriptions, situations, and conversations in my trusty, ever-present notebook. This morning stretched from last night with no intermission, so I was still wearing last evening’s attire. My tux’s ruffled shirt with cufflinks was greeted by a number of traditional wolf calls and whistles. Shit, I would return it after my shift and have really gotten my money’s worth.

My boss, Charlie, watched me move slower than usual and just rolled his eyes with a nod. Charlie, or rather Mr. Doghouse, was a local institution. Licenses on the cashier’s wall dated back to the late fifties. Charlie is owner number eleven. The first to perfectly combine what the local people desired: good food and brew at a reasonable price. Bald as the proverbial egg, Charlie wore white shirt and pants, with an official ‘on duty’ chef’s hat while flipping burgers and checking the fries. When off duty, on the patron side of the bar, he wore his ball cap extolling the home team, the Saints. Charlie was a numero-uno, superb short order cook. Short order always sounds derogatory, yet in action, he is the efficient, totally complete, food artist.

So, now you are an official grad –u- what, Charlie pulled on the ruffles of my shirt as we toasted with a beer. And now I suppose I gotta give you a raise with more hours seeing you sulking around. Okay, everyone, quiet for a few seconds. Raise your drink and toast to Phil Sullivan, the first college grad who ever tended bar at the Dog House. He is bringing the place some class. Charlie pranced as he placed two life-size standup photos of me in my cap and gown at each entrance of his pub. The photos held a card, ‘Proud to serve you.’

Blushing I asked, Where did you get them?

I have my ways, Charlie said as he hugged me close. He clinked my bottle with his. Proud to know you.

Throbbing head and all, my eyes started to … but I turned.

Sam, a Caribbean seaman with a thin beard, sitting at the bar nursing a beer while forking scrambled eggs, slurred, Never happen, ain’t nuthin’ bringing this place any class. After an extended burp, Never happen.

An old friend of Charlie’s came through the glass door and gawked at my life size photo. At the counter Charlie introduced him to me. Phil, this is Captain Earl.

We shook and almost simultaneously said, Any friend of Charlie’s.

To be kind Earl was portly, with more than a few inches of belly to pinch. His wide black belt was assisted by red suspenders. He walked with a combination limp-swagger.

Am I to take it from the decorations you got your diploma and you’re still announcing to people you’ve finally graduated? Earl questioned. What ya gonna do with it?

Might have been my aching head that slowed the reply; I started making a quick inventory of the liquor supply and sort of sputtered, Try to write.

Did they teach you to try, or to write?

Okay, I’ll try and sell my stories.

What kind of stories? Tear-jerking love stories, self-help, high adventure? What?

Actually I write about everything. I just need stimulus, I replied.

Take F. Scott, he wrote about what was going on around him, and damn, the world found it interesting. You gotta figure what the populace wants to read now. Charlie offered.

That’s the big question. Look back and try to predict future literary tastes; personally I don’t believe it works. Clancy and King, are they the current James Fennimore Cooper and Edgar Allen Poe? The majority of the reading public and even some nonreaders want to imagine themselves existing as someone else. I was enjoying this barroom debate even with an aching heard.

I favor happy endings myself, but it’s gotta have a good plot, Charlie chimed.

I would like to write about experiences, like climbing Mount Everest, I said. Then there is always the medium, the method: film, print, You Tube, Net mags, whatever pays a buck.

Too much competition; almost half the world has climbed that mountain, a regular action-attraction, Earl replied. Sex, violence, and horror sells books. Captain Earl sipped his second beer and laughed, Guilt. Everyone loves to wallow in another man’s guilt. Tramp the other guy’s old lady, and shake his hand at the bar. What do you think your first attempt will be?

Oh, I don’t know. I need something to happen to get me started.

Like what?

Don’t know, hasn’t happened yet. Maybe I should go on a trip somewhere, but I don’t have much money.

Don’t be quitting on me, Phil. I’d have to break in a new bartender just when I got you doing some of your job right, Charlie called over his shoulder.

You tied to a dress? Captain Earl inquired.

What?

What type of anchors holding ya back? A woman, family, church, or what? Certainly can’t be this job.

Anchors? No, I really don’t have any. Probably no girlfriend would notice me gone. No family except my brother. No, no anchors.

Well then think about this; I’m heading my tugboat south for the hurricane season. Probably stay through the winter. Might put you on as crew. It’s a big tug, a triple screw. Crew of six, counting me and the cook, offered Captain Earl.

Charlie’s turn. You know Earl, you piss me off. I just said Phil was finally getting into the Dog House groove. What you gonna pay this kid?

Work, it is real work. Question is, can you do it? Not filling glasses and mopping floors. Sometimes we hump the week through. Base rate $500 US a week, five day week, but truthfully it’s usually $700 for seven shifts. Hard to be at sea with such a small crew and not have everyone busy every day. Extra days mean extra pay. I’m not cheap. Cheap skips screw themselves by getting shitty crew. Now, you are a total green horn. Gonna puke a few days out, sure as shit. That isn’t a problem for me; is it for you?

No sir, I’ve spilled my dinner for a lot less.

Okay, but stop with the ‘sir’ shit. Call me Captain or Earl or a combination of the two. You’ll find my vessel quite casual. With that he laughed and slapped Charlie on the shoulder.

You’ll split a cabin with another man. No hot bunks, comfortable with good food. If we do a salvage job, then there’s more dough. But I’ll level with you; it is work, and if you ain’t used to it, it can be dangerous.

Sam cut in, It ain’t that bad. I been with the maniac for three years and I still go out again.

Charlie asked, Captain Earl, how long you been doing this?

Forty years, five tugs – on and off.

Charlie surmised, Off, whenever he lost his boat or was in jail. You ain’t gonna pull Phil into trouble, are you?

That’s the rules, no drugs or alcohol on board. This is real serious business because every port has customs and they can put us into the life of three hots and a cot, if you get my drift. I see you or smell you; you are off the boat at the next port paying your own way back home, Earl stated.

Sam blurted, You won’t want for any of that stuff. Captain Earl here keeps it interesting. Ain’t no day-in, day-out, same old bullshit. Be towing, loading, unloading, maybe some salvage. Raising them. Pulling them off reefs. Ain’t dull.

Captain Earl explained, Whatever comes along. We got business on different islands. Sometimes you gotta clean, scrape, sand, and paint. That sea salt never permits rust or us to sleep.

All winter in Trinidad and Venezuela. Oh, those girls. Sam hugged himself. Yes sir, it ain’t too bad.

Who knows kid, you might even like it. Think of boat work as a sort of a safe occupation for wayward men, Earl said.

I had one more question. When?

Earl replied, Leaving Saturday with the tide. Barge load of containers to Biloxi and pick up a next load to Miami.

Probably. Definitely let you know tomorrow night. I jotted Earl’s cell number. What’s you tug’s name?

Gazelle.

What time is the tide?

Greenhorn, be there early so you don’t miss any of the fun. Earl snorted, drained his beer, and in a smooth move he rose while pulling Sam off his stool. Come on, you and me buying supplies today.

Earl extended his hand to me again, Don’t disappoint me. You look like ya got a bit of salt in your blood, and I’m short a man. Just don’t pull any of that professor shit. I do all the thinking.

Sam added, Captain Earl’s always thinking.

\\\\\\\\

At my small studio apartment I sat on the edge of the bed trying to decide what to stuff into an old duffel bag. I didn’t want to look too newish. I had already packed a few boxes and had them stacked at the door. Chris, the respected advocate of continuing education, would protect my few cherished possessions.

Thanks for letting me store my stuff at your place. I feel like I’m going to summer camp. What do you think I should take besides my laptop? I carefully packed the electronics into a sturdy, foam-lined plastic briefcase.

You will need a couple sets of work clothes. Got any gloves? Your hands will take a beating, Chris recommended.

Good idea. I think I’ll buy a couple of pairs of coveralls and some good shoes with steel toes. Hate to come home with a limp. Maybe I’ll return as an ‘old salt’ with a crutch and a parrot. Just kidding.

Will you be going ashore? You know you could have done this with Uncle Sam’s Navy, Chris stated.

Hey, I’m not sailing with Captain Bligh on the Bounty. This pays a hell of a lot better than a Navy hitch with no permanent term. If it gets shitty, Charlie will take me back and I won’t be AWOL.

Chris sat on the bed next to me and did the brotherly arm-drape across my shoulder as he palmed a small wrapped present. It was one of those rare sad-happy moments. Chris had accepted I was off to seek the Wizard. My smile grew as I unwrapped a digital movie camera. And with a bear hug I sighed, Wow, thanks, bro. I hope it’s not too tech for me,

I made certain it was the best quality point and shoot with an automatic aperture. It’s one of the best for low light. I got you two extra batteries, so all you have to do is keep them charged.

Bro, this must have set you back, thanks. Got to catalogue a lot of stuff before we haul anchor.

Listen to you, already the old seadog, hauling anchor. Chris laughed as he switched on the camera and immediately started filming me packing. Keep the camera in a Ziplock. Don’t let the salt air get at your electronics. I expect constant emails with videos. I want to live this through your eyes and paragraphs. Don’t get side tracked. You are doing this to write; don’t forget that.

"Absolutely. If the work is too hard or the boat sucks, I’ll use plastic and get a ticket home. Charlie says he’ll hold my job for a while.

Who’s cooking? Not you, I hope.

Sounds like there’s a regular cook, but all the crew helps out.

Try not to poison anyone. Chris joked.

Hey, Charlie taught me a lot.

Phil, promise me you’ll be careful. Working on the water can be dangerous especially if the weather gets rough. You’re all the family I have. If shit happens, don’t hesitate to call. Chris was serious.

I promise, older brother. I’ll be sending emails from all the islands and plenty scenes of girls to make you jealous. I’m going for the ride, not for the risk. I faked a few punches at Chris. And you! If you suddenly get the marriage bug, promise to let me try to talk you out of it.

Phil, you are my designated best man. Please don’t do anything too crazy. How long do you expect to be gone? He replied.

I don’t know, six months, maybe longer, maybe less. Depends if I like it.

He opened my small refrigerator, revealing only two beers. Here’s to the Sullivans. Chris raised his bottle. Here’s to the quickest after-college placement I’ve ever seen. Here’s to the great adventure that awaits, with a safe return.

You worry too much. We touched bottles again. May we multiply like rabbits so our family expands, I said, bringing a chuckle.

Chris hugged me close, Better start practicing those multiplication tables.

CHapter Two

With a bit of bounce in my step after successfully dealing with the port’s security, I maneuvered the docks on the Algiers’ west side of New Orleans. Head tilted from slinging my duffel, I soaked in the early morning sun and marveled at the flurry of activity around me. This is all new and what I desired: truly fresh experiences. I opened my heavy plastic brief case and my new camera christened my trip. The wharf scenes began with barges pumping fuel to huge freighters. Diesel fumes overwhelmed the brisk fresh salt breeze. Cranes reeled goods and containers on and off vessels. The Coast Guard, primped in starched whites, patrolled with clip boards evident.

The morning’s aroma was a combination of the boats’ fresh breakfasts and stale putrid fruit in the trough that ran the length of the dock. The odors couldn’t be filmed, so I narrated every detail to the camera. With my eyes glued to the small flip-out screen I soon found myself involved in a game requiring acute awareness, dodging rampant forklifts that roared from narrow passageways between shipping containers.

After passing twenty cargo ships I found the dwarfed Gazelle. I’m not the nautical sort. If the boat had a sail, it was a sail boat; motor – motor boat. No brands or types, but I had seen a lot of tugs along the Mississippi. Not knowing what to expect of the Gazelle, I stopped to digitally document my first impression.

She’s wide, probably thirty to forty feet and no part of her hundred-plus length would be considered sleek. I guess Captain Earl or a previous owner used their sense of humor for the moniker ‘Gazelle’. Black hull with a white upper structure, pretty neat - especially the red bands at the top of the exhaust stacks. Guess they keep her running constantly. No one visible yet. Hope someone shows so I can get aboard. The aft area was spacious with a crane hovering unattended over coils of thick, braided nylon ropes.

I continued walking along the dock digitally surveying the tug. The main structure had obscured my view of the work area. Earl was in full swing as leader, using the forward deck crane to shuttle crates below decks to waiting men. I took a deep breath and felt a hell of a lot like Bilbo Baggins. Over the aluminum ramp I’d later get to know as the ‘gang plank’, I walked onto the tug. Sam, who was strapping one cable to another, immediately hailed me. The camera captured all action as Earl accented