Gas Station Boudin

When I was a kid, I spent lots of time on or near the water. But about the only moments of grandeur were either seeing a big ship or naval vessel cruise by while I was skipping around New Orleans, or more commonly, watching a jackup rig leave the Port of Iberia and set sail for the Gulf. 

I never would have dreamed that I’d one day have my own office in a building tucked in only a few blocks from a big ol’ river that welcomed a festival fleet every year. I’m watching the bridges lift right now, as the fire boat sprays red, white, and blue into the air, and back down into the Willamette. 

Leaving the westside of downtown (actual downtown, in other words) only 90 minutes ago, the signs were there, indicating that the sailors were closing in: uniformed sailors who came by car and plane to meet their friends and colleagues (and, presumably, significant others). Slutty girls traveling in packs. Gay 20-somethings doing the same. 

And now the ships are here. It’s always one of my favorite days of the year. A moment that I witness along with thousands of others, but still a subtle personal reminder that I’ve carved my own life far away from the salt marshes and shrimp boats.