Category: Port Aransas Texas

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Memories At 4: 00 AM


My father, Port Aransas, Texas, 1957

     My father didn’t own a beach chair, nor did he want one. He preferred to sit on his haunches or stand when he fished. My grandfather, the old salt of the clan, felt the same; real men took their fishing seriously in 1957 and didn’t need such things. They smoked unfiltered Lucky Strikes and carried a Zippo lighter and Barlow pocketknife in their pant pocket. If it was summer, my dad waded into the surf, sometimes up to his waist, which worried my mother; she feared a sand shark or a giant octopus would drag him beneath the waves and leave my sister and me fatherless. She fretted about the monsters in the ocean and would have a panic attack if she got more than knee-deep in the surf. She couldn’t swim a lick, thanks to her mother’s lifelong fear of water which she instilled in her children. However, my baby sister was fearless and would keep plodding headlong into the surf until one of my parents or I rescued her.

     My family lived inland, four hundred miles to the northern part of Texas. The journey from Fort Worth to Port Aransas took eight, sometimes nine hours, but we could have made it in six if not for my mother wanting to stop for lunch at Franks restaurant in Schulenberg and a potty break every hour. The women in her family were cursed with an uncooperative bladder.

     We were city folks, but our hearts and souls were one with the Gulf of Mexico and that small island village. I never considered myself a city boy; Fort Worth was where we stayed until our next trip to our natural home, the ocean. Home to me was Gibbs Cottages or the Rock Cottages on G street. Bilmore and Son’s Hardware sold tackle, bait, and gas, and the Island Grocery had the best baloney and rat cheese sandwiches in Texas. The only church in town kept everyone saved and signed up for heaven, and Shorty’s was the most popular beer joint in town and served ice-cold Pearl beer in dark glass bottles.

     The magic was always there, winter or summer; it never changed. The ever-shifting dunes and beach grass waved like grain fields in the southern breeze. The sea birds ran along the shoreline, paying no attention to us interlopers. The gulls would assault me if I had a sandwich or a bag of potato chips, and the brown Pelicans glided above the water like a formation of B-24 bombers. There were rattlesnakes in the dunes, but I never ran across one. I once disturbed a napping Coyote; it snorted and trotted off into the grasslands behind the dunes.

     Memories come to me at inconvenient times. This one woke me up at 4:00 am, so I figured I had better write it down. Who knows what memory tomorrow may bring?

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The Father’s Day Reel That Never Caught A Fish


A few nights ago, I thought about “Father’s Day.” I often wake in the wee hours, which is my most fruitful time to contemplate the state of the world. Things include forgetting to water my veggie garden or putting the trash bin out for collection. The small items require as much thought as the big ones.

The restaurants will be packed to the limit this coming Sunday, and Bass Pro Shop and Amazon will work overtime until Saturday night. But, of course, it wasn’t always this way.

Like Mother’s Day, it wasn’t an official government-sanctioned holiday until the 70s, although the American public has recognized the special day since 1910.

It gained ground during the Second World War because the retailers figured out how to make a few extra bucks by plucking our heartstrings with schmaltzy advertising. As a result, Hallmark has sold Billions of cards, and American retailers continue to milk this golden cash cow dry.

Around our house in the 1950s, “Father’s Day” wasn’t considered an extravaganza. My Dad mowed the yard or made repairs on our home, Mom made him a special meatloaf with cornbread, and my sister and I gave him our homemade construction paper cards. Sometimes, he received a gift, but not often. One year, Mom purchased a fancy fishing lure for us to give him. Large, shiny treble hooks and feathers would make any fish want a bite. Another year, a nice shirt and a pair of fishing sneakers. He never expected much because money was always tight, and folks of his generation weren’t wired like they are now.

I gave my Dad a Garcia saltwater fishing reel for ” Father’s Day.” 1969. Captain Rick Corn, who owned the Sports Center in Port Aransas, gave me a “poor boy’s” deal, or I could have never afforded such a gift. It was a beautiful bright red and chrome reel nestled into a padded black leather case. Unfortunately, it was too pretty to use. The saltwater would tarnish the colors and the shining chrome within a few weeks. Then, it would be like our other working reels.

For years to come, during our fishing trips into the Gulf, I noticed he never put the reel on a pole. He said it would be a shame to lose it overboard like we had a few others when a 40lb King Fish hits our bait at light speed, and the rod escapes the holder and goes flying into the water. He kept it locked in the storage closet of our family beach house. So, I forgot about the reel for many years.

My father passed away in 1996. So when my sister and I sold the beach house in 2001, I ran across the reel in the storage closet; it had never been on a pole. It was as shining and beautiful as the day I gave it to him.

Years ago, I passed the reel on to my youngest son, Wes. He knows the family story behind the reel.

He and his family live on South Padre Island, just a short drive from Port Aransas. His home is on a canal that leads to the Gulf. His Blue Wave fishing boat moored to the dock behind his house. I have not seen the reel on his rods yet, so I will assume he treasures the 52-year-old reel as my father did by not risking its loss in the Gulf. One day, he may pass it on to my grandson, and perhaps he will catch a record-breaking Kingfish with that reel.

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The Legend of Lawnmower Ted


by Phil Strawn

Lawnmower Ted, Port Aransas Texas

Some folks in the fishing village of Port Aransas, Texas, say that Ted first showed up in the early 70s. I remember him being there as early as the summer of 1968, pushing his lawnmower around the village, mowing air, and stirring up a dust devil or two. The mower had no blade or very little of one and, most of the time, no gasoline.

Ted was a borderline vagrant, a bum, and a suspected lush, but only after 5 PM he had an image to protect. Ted was also a masterful storyteller; truth or lies, it made no difference; he could put you right there in the heart of the yarn he was spinning. His unkept vagrancy and mellow low voice gave authenticity to his tale. That talent alone kept Ted in meals and booze contributed by the well-meaning local villagers. Everyone loves a well-told story and is willing to part with something of value as payment.

It was rumored that Ted slept underneath Shorty’s Bar, which was raised to 5 feet above the ground for hurricane flood protection at the time. Lord knows how he fought off the mosquito hoards and the numerous Rattlesnakes if he truly did reside there.

Ted knew that Shorty, the crusty owner of the bar, was always good for a few beers and a package of Pork Rinds for sweeping the porch and trash duty. Lunch might be a misordered cheeseburger from The Chicken Coop or a back-door chicken fry at Mrs. Pete’s Cafe. Betty’s Liquor Store kept him in Ripple and other beverages as payment for unloading inventory or breaking down boxes. The locals watched out for Ted. Every little town has its flamboyant character, and Ted decided he would fill the bill for Port Aransas, briefly stealing the unofficial title from Mr. Jack Cobb, the true-to-life flamboyant owner of The Sea Horse Inn. The two of them unknowingly traded the title from year to year.

Local businessmen and island historians Spanny Gibbs, the owner of Gibbs Cottages, and Carlos Moore of Bilmores Hardware claimed they knew for a by-damn fact that Ted had worked as a nuclear scientist building The Bomb at Los Alamos Labs in 1945, or maybe it was a Professor of Mathematics at Harvard or both. A mental breakdown or three, and Ted finds himself an amnesiac vagrant wandering the streets of Port Aransas pushing a rusted Craftsman lawnmower. Both are good stories in themselves, but no one factually knew where Ted came from, and he wasn’t telling. Back then, Port Aransas was a good place to come if you wanted to drop off the edge of civilization and hide in plain sight. The town was full of guys like him. Shrimp boats always needed a deckhand who asked no questions and paid in cash.

After watching Ted’s antics for a few years, I finally met the man on the covered porch at Shorty’s Bar one afternoon. Dexter Prince, myself, and my Father were sitting around an outside table having an after-fishing trip Lone Star beer when Ted wanders up, lawnmower in tow.

Dexter, never the shy one, tells Ted he’d buy him a six-pack for a good story. Well, hell, a six-pack is almost worth his life’s story, so Ted joins us at the table, pops a longneck, clears his throat, and says, ” did I ever tell you about the time I was working on a dive boat sailing out of Vera Cruz Mexico, looking for sunken Spanish gallons full of stolen treasure?” Dexter passes Ted another beer and says, “please go on Ted, I don’t believe we have heard that one.” Truth is, we had never heard any of his stories in person.

The yarn, which lasted for an hour, ended with Ted procuring twenty boxes of Castro’s favorite cigars from a Cuban shrimp boat that tried to hold up the treasure hunt at gunpoint. Ted made enough money selling the contraband smokes back in Texas that he took another few months off from building the bomb and stayed in Harlingen, only returning to Los Alamos when Oppenheimer himself flew down and dragged him back to New Mexico. We all knew it was a crock of crap, but damn, the man could make you believe anything. Dexter and my father were impressed and they chipped in and bought Ted’s supper.

The last time I saw Ted was in the mid-80s. He was ancient and barely moving along Cotter Ave, still pulling that old mower. I should have stopped, bought him a burger, and requested a yarn, but I missed my chance. A year later, no one knew what happened to Ted; he just faded away into the sunset, leaving Jack Cobb the surviving winner of the town’s most flamboyant character.

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A Beach Day in Texas, 1969


by Phil Strawn

The hint of daylight gives enough lumination for me to find my way down the steep steps of my family’s beach house. Grabbing my surfboard, wax, and a few towels, I load my supplies into the back of the old Army jeep, Captain America, and leave for the beach. The old vehicle takes time to wake up, and it sputters down E Street, doing its best to deliver me to the water’s edge.

Port Aransas is quiet this morning; fishermen and surfers are the only souls moving on the island.

As I drive to the beach, taking the road through the sand dunes near the jetty, the morning dew on the metal surface of the jeep pelts me like fine rain. The salt air is heavy, and I can see the cloud of mist rising from the surf long before I reach the beach. The seats are cold on my bare back and legs. The vehicle lacks a windshield, allowing bugs to hit my face and chest. Texas is a buggy place. That’s a fact we live with.

I park near the pier and see two friends, Gwen and Gary, kneeling in the sand, waxing their boards. I am usually the first to arrive, but they beat me by a few minutes today. I join them in the preparation. We are quiet. This will be a good morning, and making small talk might interfere with our zone.

The Gulf of Mexico is glassy and transparent. The swell is four feet, with a right break. We enter as a group of three and paddle past the second sand bar.

Sitting on my surfboard, I see the sun rising over the ocean and feel the warmth on my upper body. A tanker ship is a few miles offshore. The smoke from its stack gives us a point to paddle to.

Today will be hot, and by noon, these beautiful waves will evaporate into a slushy shore break full of children on foam belly boards. But this morning, the three of us are working in concert with our beloved Gulf of Mexico.

We ride for hours. The ocean is feisty this morning. The waves are doing their best to beat us, but we show them who the boss is. The beach fills with other surfers, and now the line-up is crowded, and we ride into shore. Gary and Gwen leave, and I head home to go fishing with my father; the Kingfish await.

I lost touch with Gary and Gwen after that summer. I heard Gary went to Vietnam and didn’t return. I would like to think that we would have kept in touch and shared our surfing stories around a good glass of bourbon at Shorty’s Bar. Three old men catching up and telling lies.