Hey Y'all, I've been a lurker here for a while and I thought I'd introduce myself. I have a tendency to be verbose, so bear with me. This is actually a short version of my story, with my request at the end.
My name is Sandy Law. I grew up just outside of New Orleans, went to Tulane, and became a teacher and a coach. Couldn't make much of a living doing that there, so I moved to Waco, TX in 2000. In 2004 I thankfully had an opportunity to get back to the Gulf Coast and made the move to Angleton, TX. It's 40 miles south of Houston and 15 minutes from redfish, speckled trout, and flounder. I couldn't be happier about my location. It's a great town, and by and large the kids I teach are very respectful small town kids. Being able to hit the water on a regular basis keeps me sane in my less than sane (I teach and coach 7th graders) business.
I was raised with salt water in my blood. From the time I came home from the hospital, my mom and dad brought me out to our fishing camp on Bayou Cook, located between Bay Adams and Bay Bastian, outside of Empire, La. Empire is an extremely small town, made smaller in '05 by Katrina's wrath. It is located on the west bank of the Mississippi river. Most fishermen in the region are familiar with Venice, which is further south.
Our camp was a little 3 room shack about 20 minutes from the boat launch. There was no electricity, no phones, and no stress. It was a place where the problems of growing up didn't exist. It was a place that played a big part in making me the person I am today. It helped Dad and I form a strong relationship, even through those tough teenage years. We always had fishing and time at the camp in common. That place kept me out of trouble, and I became a man there. It was truly heaven on earth.
We had a lot of family history in Bayou Cook. My great grandfather had escaped the meat grinder of WWI in 1914. He grew up in the town of Mali Ston, which is on the coast of present day Croatia on the Adriatic (Formerly part of Yugoslavia). He was an oyster fisherman, following his father in the trade. When Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated in Sarajevo, the proverbial stuff hit the fan. Gangs of soldiers were grabbing men and tossing them into the Austro-Hungarian army. Peter Rozich couldn't think that fighting for a foreign prince was something he was interested in. Many of his friends had been recruited to come to Louisiana to work the rich oyster beds and he lit out as soon as the opportunity presented itself. He worked with others until he saved enough to buy his own boat and camp. He lived there on Bayou Cook for a few months before he met and married my great grandmother, Pavli (Pauline). She had been born on Bayou LaChute, a couple bayous over. My grandmother was born in 1918. Peter and his family moved to New Orleans where he lived the American dream. He owned several groceries and restaurants until he lost everything in the depression. He then moved his family back to the camp on Bayou Cook where they weathered the hard times. My grandmother met and married my grandfather in Empire in 1936. My dad was born up the river in Port Sulphur in 1938 and he spent long spans of time in Bayou Cook with the "Old Man" which is what everyone called Peter. Many wonderful stories came from these times.
That camp stood until Hurricane Betsy took it in 1965. By then, my father was a young professor at Tulane. In 1970, he went out to Bayou Cook and found most of the old camps gone. But the Red Cross was rebuilding some of them for the oystermen who had still called the place home. One of them caught his eye as it was located only about 100 yards from the Old Man's former camp. He knew the owner from his childhood and sought him out, finally finding him in New Orleans. The owner remembered my dad from when he was little, and sold him the camp. The year was 1970 and I came along in 1973.
I was running my own boat, purchased with my own money I earned by the time I was 8 years old. It was a little jon boat with a 1.5 horse outboard and I was the terror of the marsh. The adults would fish from the big boat, but I reveled in exploration of the deep marsh and the redfish to be found there.
When I was 9, a friend of ours left an old 12 foot pirogue at our camp. It was a plywood model, in a generally sorry state. I found a whole new world with it, as I was now able to silently negotiate even the shallowest of waters. I loved that boat, which I named "The Hunley" after the Confederate submarine. You can probably guess that it was as seaworthy as a collander. I made lots of haphazard repairs over the years. Thanks to that boat and the areas I could get into, I found many storm driven and lost boats in the marsh and built up what my dad called my "Confederate Navy" By the time I was 24, I had 5 boats there, but the pirogue was always my choice for silent redfish stalking. Sometimes I would be out in the marsh for the whole day, even taking a nap aboard.
The summer of 1997 was not a good one. In late July, a small hurricane named Danny formed in the gulf. I remember the breezy, sunny skies in New Orleans as I worried about the camp down in Bayou Cook. I wasn't too worried though. Danny was a small storm and our camp had weathered much worse over the years. The next morning I awoke to the phone ringing and it was my dad. (This still brings tears to my eyes.) He tearfully told me he had gotten a call from the Delta Marine in Empire and someone had seen that our camp was gone . . . . blown away by a tiny storm. It was very much like a death in the family. I was sick. Dad asked if I could handle going to see it and I packed some gear as I sobbed. I headed home where dad and I held each other crying and my mom and sister joined us in a tear-fest.
We hooked up the boat and headed down. As we rounded a bend in the bayou, where once our camp would come into view, we saw nothing but bare pilings. We both completely lost control. To this day, we both agree it was the worst day of our lives. We both know how blessed we were to have the camp and what it meant to our relationship. My boats were all gone as well, and the one I missed the most was the Hunley.
As time passed, Dad and I would go to friend's camps, but it was never the same as having our own place. I moved to Texas, but every time I came home, we would make a trip to Bayou Cook. Katrina took all but one camp in '05, and now we had no place to go.
I thought that chapter of my life was now over. I'd never make enough to own a camp. I joined a local fishing board here in Texas called 2coolfishing.com and made a lot of friends, bought my own boat, and wrote stories like this on the board. Everyone seemed to enjoy my stories, especially one fellow who, as fate would have it, was a partner in a fishing camp. The group invited me to join in, understanding that I was a teacher, not a millionaire. My friend told me, "Sandy, I couldn't think of anyone in the world more deserving and more in need of a camp than you. You're in."
My contributions to the place are more in scavenging free materials and labor than in money. I love it, and I get out there as much as possible. The fishing isn't as good as home, but it is very much like Bayou Cook. I even took dad out there when he visited before Thanksgiving and we had a wonderful time.
As we sat on the porch that evening, my dad made an astute observation. He said, "Sandy, you're missing one thing to make this place just like the old camp. Son, you need a pirogue."
Dad was right. I've looked at the Chapman and Paw Paw's pirogues, but they are so expensive, and far too nice to leave out at the camp. Fiberglass doesn't do it for me anyway. Kayaks are great, but I have my nostalgia for days long past to consider and I want a pirogue. I am a Louisiana boy after all.
What I want is one like the Hunley. I know a lot of you might try to push me to try to build one, and that may be a possibility if I ever retire from coaching, though I am not particularly good with my hands. All my free time and labor is spent on the camp, and I'd like to buy one. I'd prefer a used and even abused plywood one, with a wide bottom as I love to pole throught the marsh and sight fish for reds. I'm now 265 lbs, so it can't be too small or narrow. Price of course is a factor. As far as location, the closer to me, the better, but I regularly travel to New Orleans and will be doing so during the Easter break.
I'd appreciate it if any of you would let me know if you are interested in selling one to me. You can email me at [email protected]
Pics would be great, but not completely necessary. Let me know what you want for it so I can begin saving.
Many thanks for taking the time to read my blathering. I almost erased it all and made a post saying: "Want to buy old ugly pirogue", but thought a formal introduction would be best. I love reading y'all's stories, and especially seeing the pictures of your craftsmanship. Thanks, Sandy
My name is Sandy Law. I grew up just outside of New Orleans, went to Tulane, and became a teacher and a coach. Couldn't make much of a living doing that there, so I moved to Waco, TX in 2000. In 2004 I thankfully had an opportunity to get back to the Gulf Coast and made the move to Angleton, TX. It's 40 miles south of Houston and 15 minutes from redfish, speckled trout, and flounder. I couldn't be happier about my location. It's a great town, and by and large the kids I teach are very respectful small town kids. Being able to hit the water on a regular basis keeps me sane in my less than sane (I teach and coach 7th graders) business.
I was raised with salt water in my blood. From the time I came home from the hospital, my mom and dad brought me out to our fishing camp on Bayou Cook, located between Bay Adams and Bay Bastian, outside of Empire, La. Empire is an extremely small town, made smaller in '05 by Katrina's wrath. It is located on the west bank of the Mississippi river. Most fishermen in the region are familiar with Venice, which is further south.
Our camp was a little 3 room shack about 20 minutes from the boat launch. There was no electricity, no phones, and no stress. It was a place where the problems of growing up didn't exist. It was a place that played a big part in making me the person I am today. It helped Dad and I form a strong relationship, even through those tough teenage years. We always had fishing and time at the camp in common. That place kept me out of trouble, and I became a man there. It was truly heaven on earth.
We had a lot of family history in Bayou Cook. My great grandfather had escaped the meat grinder of WWI in 1914. He grew up in the town of Mali Ston, which is on the coast of present day Croatia on the Adriatic (Formerly part of Yugoslavia). He was an oyster fisherman, following his father in the trade. When Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated in Sarajevo, the proverbial stuff hit the fan. Gangs of soldiers were grabbing men and tossing them into the Austro-Hungarian army. Peter Rozich couldn't think that fighting for a foreign prince was something he was interested in. Many of his friends had been recruited to come to Louisiana to work the rich oyster beds and he lit out as soon as the opportunity presented itself. He worked with others until he saved enough to buy his own boat and camp. He lived there on Bayou Cook for a few months before he met and married my great grandmother, Pavli (Pauline). She had been born on Bayou LaChute, a couple bayous over. My grandmother was born in 1918. Peter and his family moved to New Orleans where he lived the American dream. He owned several groceries and restaurants until he lost everything in the depression. He then moved his family back to the camp on Bayou Cook where they weathered the hard times. My grandmother met and married my grandfather in Empire in 1936. My dad was born up the river in Port Sulphur in 1938 and he spent long spans of time in Bayou Cook with the "Old Man" which is what everyone called Peter. Many wonderful stories came from these times.
That camp stood until Hurricane Betsy took it in 1965. By then, my father was a young professor at Tulane. In 1970, he went out to Bayou Cook and found most of the old camps gone. But the Red Cross was rebuilding some of them for the oystermen who had still called the place home. One of them caught his eye as it was located only about 100 yards from the Old Man's former camp. He knew the owner from his childhood and sought him out, finally finding him in New Orleans. The owner remembered my dad from when he was little, and sold him the camp. The year was 1970 and I came along in 1973.
I was running my own boat, purchased with my own money I earned by the time I was 8 years old. It was a little jon boat with a 1.5 horse outboard and I was the terror of the marsh. The adults would fish from the big boat, but I reveled in exploration of the deep marsh and the redfish to be found there.
When I was 9, a friend of ours left an old 12 foot pirogue at our camp. It was a plywood model, in a generally sorry state. I found a whole new world with it, as I was now able to silently negotiate even the shallowest of waters. I loved that boat, which I named "The Hunley" after the Confederate submarine. You can probably guess that it was as seaworthy as a collander. I made lots of haphazard repairs over the years. Thanks to that boat and the areas I could get into, I found many storm driven and lost boats in the marsh and built up what my dad called my "Confederate Navy" By the time I was 24, I had 5 boats there, but the pirogue was always my choice for silent redfish stalking. Sometimes I would be out in the marsh for the whole day, even taking a nap aboard.
The summer of 1997 was not a good one. In late July, a small hurricane named Danny formed in the gulf. I remember the breezy, sunny skies in New Orleans as I worried about the camp down in Bayou Cook. I wasn't too worried though. Danny was a small storm and our camp had weathered much worse over the years. The next morning I awoke to the phone ringing and it was my dad. (This still brings tears to my eyes.) He tearfully told me he had gotten a call from the Delta Marine in Empire and someone had seen that our camp was gone . . . . blown away by a tiny storm. It was very much like a death in the family. I was sick. Dad asked if I could handle going to see it and I packed some gear as I sobbed. I headed home where dad and I held each other crying and my mom and sister joined us in a tear-fest.
We hooked up the boat and headed down. As we rounded a bend in the bayou, where once our camp would come into view, we saw nothing but bare pilings. We both completely lost control. To this day, we both agree it was the worst day of our lives. We both know how blessed we were to have the camp and what it meant to our relationship. My boats were all gone as well, and the one I missed the most was the Hunley.
As time passed, Dad and I would go to friend's camps, but it was never the same as having our own place. I moved to Texas, but every time I came home, we would make a trip to Bayou Cook. Katrina took all but one camp in '05, and now we had no place to go.
I thought that chapter of my life was now over. I'd never make enough to own a camp. I joined a local fishing board here in Texas called 2coolfishing.com and made a lot of friends, bought my own boat, and wrote stories like this on the board. Everyone seemed to enjoy my stories, especially one fellow who, as fate would have it, was a partner in a fishing camp. The group invited me to join in, understanding that I was a teacher, not a millionaire. My friend told me, "Sandy, I couldn't think of anyone in the world more deserving and more in need of a camp than you. You're in."
My contributions to the place are more in scavenging free materials and labor than in money. I love it, and I get out there as much as possible. The fishing isn't as good as home, but it is very much like Bayou Cook. I even took dad out there when he visited before Thanksgiving and we had a wonderful time.
As we sat on the porch that evening, my dad made an astute observation. He said, "Sandy, you're missing one thing to make this place just like the old camp. Son, you need a pirogue."
Dad was right. I've looked at the Chapman and Paw Paw's pirogues, but they are so expensive, and far too nice to leave out at the camp. Fiberglass doesn't do it for me anyway. Kayaks are great, but I have my nostalgia for days long past to consider and I want a pirogue. I am a Louisiana boy after all.
What I want is one like the Hunley. I know a lot of you might try to push me to try to build one, and that may be a possibility if I ever retire from coaching, though I am not particularly good with my hands. All my free time and labor is spent on the camp, and I'd like to buy one. I'd prefer a used and even abused plywood one, with a wide bottom as I love to pole throught the marsh and sight fish for reds. I'm now 265 lbs, so it can't be too small or narrow. Price of course is a factor. As far as location, the closer to me, the better, but I regularly travel to New Orleans and will be doing so during the Easter break.
I'd appreciate it if any of you would let me know if you are interested in selling one to me. You can email me at [email protected]
Pics would be great, but not completely necessary. Let me know what you want for it so I can begin saving.
Many thanks for taking the time to read my blathering. I almost erased it all and made a post saying: "Want to buy old ugly pirogue", but thought a formal introduction would be best. I love reading y'all's stories, and especially seeing the pictures of your craftsmanship. Thanks, Sandy
