RRN Online Volume 18

October 16 '03

Volume 18

Chauvin Fishing A Grand Success

A tropical depression, later upgraded to Hurricane Josephine, in the Gulf of Mexico almost prevented our fishing in Southern Louisiana this past week. The camp, where we were scheduled to stay, had 10 inches of water around the house, preventing comfortable access to our living accommodations and boat launch. I learned of this last minute delay only a few hours prior to our departure. We would delay our trip to Louisiana by 24 hours, however my friends, Lee Gordon of Houston and Jim Hess of Vicksburg, wanted to fish the Vicksburg area on Monday. A newcomer to our fall fishing adventure, Billy Temple of Clinton, decided to wait for the saltwater adventure in Louisiana. Lee made arrangements to stay overnight with his sister, who lives in Vicksburg, and Jim Hess invited me to spend the night at his home.

Early Monday morning, I drove to our local 24 hour Wal Mart to purchase a Mississippi fishing license. I then drove to Leland, MS, in order to rendezvous with Lee Gordon, where we would then depart for the lakes, Choutard (Sho× tard) and Albermarle, in Southern Issaquena and Warren Counties. These lakes were once part of the Mississippi river, but as the big river has changed its course over the centuries, these areas are no longer part of the navigable Mississippi, but serve adequately the needs of sports-fishermen.

Early morning factory and school traffic delayed Lee’s arrival by about 45 minutes. We also had some difficulty finding the correct road leading off Hwy. 61 to the lakes. One faulty choice, led to a dead end; a farm worker’s home at the end of a field of cotton. We arrived at Choutard, about 2 hours later than planned. Jim had waited for us at the southern-most landing and we had pulled up to the north landing, expecting to find Jim there. Luckily, he found us just prior to our launching the boat.

Choutard & Albermarle

A rising water level produces acceptable river fishing, but when the water level is falling, fishing is poorest. A rapid rise in a short time period is not conducive to good fishing. A rise of 0.1 foot is acceptable, with higher levels producing less acceptable results. It was our misfortune to catch a 0.9 foot rise. After about 4 hours of fishing our best efforts produced only 1 bass and a handful of garfish, all of which were returned to the water.

Resigned to the disappointment of the river fishing, we loaded our boat and traveled to Vicksburg where we finished out the afternoon fishing a small lake in a residential area. Lee Gordon’s sister and her husband own a home adjoining the lake. In the late afternoon, we caught a few bass and some white perch. Crappie (crop× ie) is our common name for the white perch, and is also known in South Louisiana as Sac-a’-lait (sock a lay), which our Cajun friends explain is French for sack of milk.

Historical Note

On Monday afternoon while we were fishing, Jim Hess secured a niche in history. Jim manned the front of the small aluminum craft, I took the middle seat, (actually, this boat had 2 seats in the mid section, instead of a middle seat) and Lee Gordon accepted the seat in the back of the boat.

Were he black, Lee would have stood on the bank and sang "We shall overcome" rather than sit in the back seat of the boat. You see, he who sits in the back of the boat is at the mercy of the Captain in the front. He who commands the front of the boat, casts first into selected spots, plots the course and makes absolutely certain that others have the opportunity to complain about their casts not reaching the edge of the shoreline or grass beds or structure that usually hold the fish. The good thing about sitting in the middle of the boat is: one, it is not the back; and two, you can watch the other guys and hope to cast your lure somewhere between theirs; and three, you don’t have to paddle.

Paddling is that chore relegated to the occupants of the front and rear of the boat. Jim Hess paddled our boat around the lake for the entire time we fished. I cannot recall if a second oar was among our gear or not. That of course is inconsequential, what is noteworthy is that Jim Hess on October 7, 1996, did single-handedly navigate the lake for his friends, Lee Gordon and Wayne Carter, in a courteous and uncomplaining demeanor, in an exemplary manner of self-sacrifice worthy to be praised, and worthy of note in the Fishing Chronicles.

"Well done, thou good and faithful servant."

Having fished to contentment for the day, we were to meet at Jim’s house for supper. Lee wanted to run a few miles and shower before the evening meal, so Jim and I left to prepare the meal. Since Jim was hosting the meal, I allowed him to do most of the work, lending my supervisory expertise as needed. Lee arrived at 7:30 to help us eat the hamburgers. Us, being Jim, his daughter Dawn, and me. After a meal of burgers, baked beans, and potato salad, we all shared a special treat, Snickerdoodles, compliments of Sarah Brown. The Snickerdoodle cookies were a nice complement to the Blue Bell Vanilla Ice Cream. Lee Gordon hails Blue Bell as his favorite brand, but this could be due to the lack of a Blue Bell distributor in the Houston area; sort of an "absence makes the taste buds grow fonder"- thing.

The Organist

Jim’s wife, Sheila, was working late and did not arrive until 8:30. The burger supply was diminished but not obliterated, prior to her arrival. Sheila teaches piano on Monday night at a Vicksburg Church, and departs early on Tuesday for Clinton, MS, where she, herself, becomes a student; a student of the pipe organ. Sheila has long been a highly capable pianist, as well as an accomplished organist, accomplished, at least, as I am able to measure it. It is her passionate desire to become an even better organist.

She did her best to explain to me, how playing the organ had so permeated her being, consuming her time and energy. As I listened to her describe the importance of correct body position, precision, and a host of other things important to a dedicated student of this remarkable instrument, I began to develop a greater appreciation for the work required to become a skilled organist. In her struggle to articulate in terminology that I could understand, she described the feeling she experiences when playing as creative, almost as if life was being infused in the process. Her expressive eyes displayed both her glee and her dismay. Glee for that which she experiences, dismay that so many gifted pianists do not chose to refine their keyboard mastery and pursue the higher goal of becoming a gifted organist. As good an organist as she is, today, Sheila states that it will require about 5 more years of lessons before she has attained the artistic level that she so strongly desires. I see no reason for this to not happen.

Tuesday

Jim Hess was kind enough to prepare a fine breakfast for us before we left, Tuesday morning, for Chauvin (Sho× van) LA. At 6:00 a.m. Lee Gordon arrived, and we drove to Clinton, where we picked up the fourth member of our fishing party, Billy Temple. Jim Hess rode with Billy, who drove his pickup, towing his own boat, while Lee drove the 2nd pickup and boat, both of which were on loan from a good friend in Houston. I rode with Lee.

We stopped in Houma, LA, for lunch. Lunch was found at the French Loaf, an eatery noted for Po-Boy sandwiches. My friends ate Oyster Po-Boys, but I selected a conservative, Ham and Swiss Po-Boy. Each sandwich was a quarter (1/4) sized one, and were at least 6, possibly 8, inches in length.

Before we could fish, we had to purchase an out of-state-permit for saltwater fishing. This was done at the Wal Mart Super Center in Houma. Of course, we found it necessary to buy a few lures and rigs, to round out our bulging tackle boxes. I managed to complete my license and lure needs for less than 50 dollars, as did Lee and Jim (they told me to say this), but Billy barely made it under $200.00. With excitement mounting, we exited the parking lot, bound for Chauvin.

Saltwater

The water level surrounding our fish camp was much improved, but still required us to remove our shoes and wade ankle deep sea water to get from the boat dock to the house or vice versa. We were fishing by 4:00 p.m. and stayed until dusk, around 7:00 p.m. Our guide, Larry White, had to leave early, but he was replaced by his younger brother, Don. Our group caught a variety of fish that included Red Fish, Grouper, Flounder and Sheepshead. I caught several Reds and one good-sized Flounder. As usual the big one got away.

I used mostly artificial lures, because I prefer the "chunk and wind" method over the "bobber and sinker" method. The former is faster, but the latter is sometimes more productive. It took me a couple of days to get used to not knowing what you had on your line until you almost had the fish in the boat. Heretofore, if I were fishing for Bass, I could expect to catch a Bass; the same for Bream or Crappie. Here in the saltwater marshes, any hungry fish could be expected to strike.

The fish camp house was a two bedroom mobile home with an added on screened porch with swings. There was also an outside sink area, that was ideal for cleaning and filleting a day’s catch. We iced down our first day’s catch, deciding to wait until the next afternoon to clean the fish. Supper seemed more important at the time.

We arrived at a nearby restaurant, Le Font’s, around 8:30. I was not impressed with the atmosphere, so I chose what I hoped to be a safe menu selection; a hamburger, fries, and Sprite. The rest of the guys all selected items such as gumbo, seafood platters, fried oysters, all Gulf Coast fare. I still play it pretty safe when it comes to seafood. Adventure is not my game. Some popular items, like shrimp or crabs are scavengers. While not many people object to eating this kind of scavenger, there are very few who would pay inflated prices to eat vultures, even if they were attractively presented. I suppose if I had eaten more seafood in my younger years, I would be better able to detect the off-taste or smell of bad seafood, but a lot of seafood has an offending smell even when it is fresh. My friends seemed to enjoy eating their selections and all commented favorably on the meal. I would wait another night for my seafood tasting adventure.

Our sleeping arrangements were less than comfortable, but since we were allowed to stay free of charge, we complained not. Truthfully, I did remark that my fold-up bed slept more like a hammock. Lee Gordon, slept on a half bed and shared my tiny room. Jim also had a half bed in an even smaller room. Billy opted for the pull-down, wall-bed located in the dining room at the opposite end of the trailer.

Wednesday

Wednesday morning 5:30 was the appointed time to prepare breakfast. It is also a good time for a morning shower. If you like a cold shower (I do not), one awaited, because no hot water was available. We had not been able to locate the breaker panel the previous night, and assumed it to be located outside, around back of the trailer. With ankle deep water in the back of the house, there were no volunteers to locate the water heater breaker and reset it. During the night the sea water receded sufficiently, so after breakfast I ventured out back and reset the breaker for the water heater.

Lee had a pot of Yuban coffee brewing and had begun making biscuits, when I found my way to the kitchen to assist him. I took over the frying of the bacon and the boiling of the grits. After the bacon had been removed from the pan, we poured off the grease and Lee cooked all eggs to perfection and to the specifications given by each individual. Jim and Billy took turns washing dishes as Lee and I cooked breakfast, each morning.

We were back on the water by 7:00 a.m. and fished along the rock area as we had Tuesday afternoon. We were able to catch fish more readily with baited hooks than with artificial baits. The morning proved to be very frustrating for me. I conceded that to catch fish I would have to use baited hooks. We used a chum rig that consisted of a float and 2 jigs on monofilament lines of unequal length. This unwieldy contraption proved easy to entangle itself with the float or my own fishing line.

I must have spent half of the morning either untangling my own hooks from each other or netting the fish caught by Jim and Lee. While it certainly is a high honor to perform such a humble service for my friends, I did not ride 400 miles just to net their fish. By noon, I had achieved a respectable ratio of good casts to bad casts, and had caught a few fish. At some point during the day I caught a "double" consisting of a Red fish on each of the hooks.

We stopped fishing around 3:30 and returned to the boat dock. Jim and Lee were to sing at the Baptist Church, and we needed to finish our fish cleaning so they could get to the church by 6:30. The honors for biggest fish went to our guide, Larry, who caught a Red fish that measured 33 inches and weighed in excess of 15 pounds.

Billy and I arrived a few minutes late for prayer meeting, just as Jim and Lee were finishing their first of two songs. No, I do not know the name of the songs they sung. Already my sister and my wife have asked this question. I told them the songs were choir songs, not hymns. They were songs that ministers of music or choir soloist sing, not songs for us commoners. I did not take notes on the music or the prayer meeting.

Billy is a back-row Baptist or at least that is where he led me to sit down. After the songs, a part of the group was dismissed to participate in a ukulele band in a different building. One young boy, seated on our row, exhibited signs of mild retardation. He wanted to leave with the ukulele band members, but was told to remain seated, by several family members. He walked by Billy and me and was not retrieved before he had made it to the foyer. After he returned, he continued to create a disturbance. At one point, his grandfather spoke to him in a non-English language; my guess Creole.

The pastor asked Lee Gordon to share a mission experience that the Houston, MS Church had participated in, that involved children from the area of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster. In his opening remarks, Lee introduced Billy and me and shared how we inter-related as friends, bonded in Christian brotherhood and as fishermen. Just because a man is a minister does not mean he should be above suspect. For most of the morning Lee Gordon had ribbed me, mercilessly, about my ability to handle the fish net. At times his ribbing bordered on outright criticism to the point that I sarcastically nicknamed him Barnabas (which being interpreted is son of encouragement). I sat calmly, in the Church pew, and listened as Lee described me as a fishing partner who stood in the middle of the boat and functioned as an able and capable netter of fish. I suppose it could be his conscience would not allow him to relay a falsehood from behind the sacred desk, but I may never know the real truth.

After prayer meeting, we walked over to observe the Ukulele Band. We found the room filled with children and younger teenagers, along with a scattering of adult workers. A lone tambourine player provided a steady rhythmic beat, as the ukulele players strummed their instruments to the musical accompaniment of a studio piano. Their voices, though untrained, lifted words of praise in song. The experience was uplifting and encouraging. God was being worshipped, praised, and magnified through their efforts.

The building where the band was playing was the original Church building that was inadequately protected from occasional flooding of the Petite Cailliou Bayou (Cailliou, pronounced Kai -You) that ran immediately in front of the Church. First Baptist Church of Houston, MS had been part of a mission effort to help the small Church of Chauvin, LA raise a new Church building. Raise is both figurative and literal, as the new Church building is set on pilings sunk 20 feet into the ground and extending 10 feet above ground. The term, "High Church", used to describe the aristocratic atmosphere of certain Church congregations, takes on a different meaning in Chauvin. Truly, Chauvin Baptist Church is "high and lifted up" before the Lord.

Following the services at the Baptist Church, the pastor, his wife, our guide and his wife, joined us for dinner at the Eastway Seafood West restaurant in Houma, LA. I decided to branch out and get a shrimp dinner. After all I was in Cajun country, and I really should eat something more closely tied to the area than a hamburger. I was disappointed that a seafood restaurant served condiments for salads and seafood in portion controlled, pre-manufactured containers as might a fast food chain. The shrimp were good, and contained a light breading, but I kept thinking how much better I liked the shrimp at Shoney’s. The waitress received a double blessing from most of us who left a tip at the table and found, at the cash register, we were assessed a tip as part of our meal since we met the minimum requirements for a group setup.

Thursday

Our breakfast on Thursday came around at our usual time, but we did not get to the water as early as we had before. We delayed our departure to help launch a third boat. The pastor of the Baptist Church, Richard Brown, along with his wife, Sonya, his son, Ricky, and one additional female church member were welcomed additions to our fishing party. Our guide also brought his wife, Mary. We were preparing to get our boats out of the boathouse, when a bit of serendipity came my way.

The boathouse was an enjoyable treat for those of us who are accustomed to packing all of our fishing tackle away at the end of each day’s fishing, backing the boat trailer into the water and loading the boat, then driving home for the day. For all the conveniences it afforded, it was not as sound structurally as a non-swimmer such as myself would have preferred. On the deck bordering two sides of the boathouse, there were a couple of boards that needed to be replaced, while inside a few pieces of lumber lay scattered on the walkway between the two boat slips. The doors that provided entry points for the boats were large and cumbersome to open and close.

Always anxious to get to the task of fishing, Lee Gordon untied the rope that held fast the door behind our boat. Rather than wait for anyone to assist him, Lee attempted to open the door. As he leaned against the railing to push open the door, he unexpectedly received the wind’s assistance. The resultant displacement of his center of gravity, was too great a load for the railing to bear. The wood railing ripped away from both the wall and the deck as Lee sky-walked into the waist deep, cold, murky water. Our gladness that he was not injured, almost exceeded the laughter we shared at his expense. From the neck down, Lee was drenched, but it took little time for him to walk to the trailer, rinse off, and return in a fresh change of clothes.

By 8:00 we were well on our way to a new area of the marsh to fish for Speckled Trout. No sooner had we begun to fish, than we realized we had no net. Jim and I had used it to transport the catch from our boat to the cleaning area, the previous afternoon. Neither of us remembered to take it back to the boat, though each of us had walked by it on our way to the boathouse. Just when we thought our luck might change, Lee lost his baited rig from a poorly tied knot, and seconds later I repeated the blunder by failing to snap shut the snap-swivel that I was using to hold my rig.

We caught a number of Speckled Trout, far short of the daily limit, but we had an enjoyable time in the process. At least, Lee and I did. Jim was unusually quiet, so it was hard to read his enjoyment level. I remember he did a lot of whistling through his teeth, with lips unpuckered, which may or may not have any significance. It was perhaps the incessant backlashing of his monofilament line that sent him into the shell of quietness. I am certain that my suggestion he try my new Spiderwire line was not the precipitant of gloom. In some circles, Jim is noted for his steadfast refusal to change lures, though others are catching fish with a different lure, while his lure is non-productive.

Jim hooked a small sting ray that afforded me my first look at one of these creatures in close-up fashion. I caught my largest Red fish of the week, but it paled in comparison to the BIG Red Larry caught on Wednesday. Our boat landed more Speckled Trout than the other boats. We quit fishing around 4:00 to clean fish and clean ourselves for dinner of boiled crabs at the Church.

We arrived at the pastor’s house where the crab boil was about to take place, at approximately 7:30. Larry had a huge pot of vegetables ready to be taken off the fire. Inside the pot were boiled corn on the cob, whole white potatoes, whole red potatoes, halves of yellow onions, chunks of smoked sausage, and whole cloves of garlic. The aroma from the seasoned vegetables was tantalizing. A basket containing a bushel of live blue crabs awaited transfer to the boiling cauldron. I could not help experiencing pangs of sympathy for the crabs as I wondered if I could manage to consume one of them. I watched as each crab was lifted by metal tongs from the plastic basket into a metal basket that would be lowered into the boiling water. Several lively crabs managed to scale the sides of the metal basket, and throw themselves onto the concrete drive of the carport, in a short lived moment of freedom, before being recaptured and returned to the basket. A few moments later all were submerged in the cauldron, a lid was placed on the boiling pot and in a matter of minutes the blue colored backs of the crabs changed to a bright orange-red hue. They were now ready for consumption.

We walked to the old Church building where a series of long tables were joined end to end and surrounded by folding metal chairs. I saw that the tops of the tables were lined with unfolded and layered newspapers. Soon, Larry brought the crabs into the room and began to scatter them down the center of the tables. I was startled to see him place the boiled vegetables and sausages also down the center of the table. I was more amazed to find that the newspaper was not only my tablecloth and the serving container for the food, it was also my plate. Our eating utensils were our hands and a single table knife to crack the crab claws and assist with the removal of white meat from the main body of the crab.

After the food was blessed we were instructed to begin eating. I began by sampling some of the vegetables and found them to be delicious. Jim offered to show me how to break away the exoskeleton of the crab to get to the choice meat. I was not really sure that I wanted to do this, but I remembered, "when in Rome, do as the Romans." I had no sooner removed a crab leg before Larry, who was seated to my left, said "Stop. Let me show you the correct way to do that." Patiently, Larry told me to hold the crab just as he was demonstrating and do everything exactly as he did it. Well, that sounded easier than it proved to be, but with a little extra help from Larry, I was soon eating crab meat. The meat was delicious, but like other shellfish, a lot of work is required to reap a harvest. I did not wish to overdo the consumption of crab meat so I dedicated myself to eating the vegetables and sausages. I ate some of everything, including the onions and garlic. Each of us had our own dipping bowl, filled with a ketchup/mayonnaise dressing that was touted to be a beneficial dip for all the meats and vegetables before us. Sleeves of Ritz, Club, and Saltine crackers served as our bread.

Shortly after we began to eat, Larry’s pre-teen son asked his father why he was having to help that man (me) get meat out of a crab. Larry replied, "Son, not every man is privileged to live on the Bayou." I made no comment, but living on a bayou is a privilege for which I do not aspire. Just lead me to higher ground.

In a state of wonder, I watched the huge pile of food dwindle to a mound of corn-cobs and crab cartilage. Some of the eaters consumed 7, 8 and 9 crabs. The most anyone would admit to having ever eaten at a single sitting was 10. I only ate one, and I doubt I could have eaten more than 2. Later that evening, Lee told me that he and Jim were proud of me for eating the crab. Both had doubted I would indulge, and so had I.

Back at the fish camp, our gang found room for a helping or two of Blue Bell Vanilla ice cream and a few of the Snickerdoodles that Sarah had made. We all had a good night’s sleep; short, but good.

Friday

A cold air mass had moved into portions of the Gulf by Friday morning, and a quick check of the weather just before breakfast, assured us of the need to wear long sleeves and windbreakers for our last morning of fishing. Both Larry and his brother Don arrived as we were finishing our breakfast, so we offered them some bacon, biscuits, and coffee. Don would guide us this day for Larry had promised his wife he would get their new washer and dryer installed.

The cool weather had an apparent effect upon the fish we hoped to catch. We again fished for Speckled Trout. We fished hard for the 7 that were of legal length to place into our live-well. Our partner, Billy and our guide had better luck with Reds than with the Speckled Trout. As on the previous day, the airboats roared around us, drowning all sounds but those of their own. The larger of the two boats had a crew of 4 or 5, and the boat would stop at various points marked by orange ribbons tied to bamboo poles that were sunk into the muck. The smaller boat, like Mary’s little lamb, followed the large craft wherever it went. The smaller boat had only a pilot, aboard, and seemed to serve no real purpose. Perhaps they form the waterway equivalent of our highway department crews, like a work crew and supervisor.

Our boat made it back to the dock at noon. Billy and Don had chosen to fish their way back and did not arrive until 1:00 p.m. After cleaning our fish, and readying the camp for the owner’s Friday night arrival, we packed our gear into the trucks and stopped back by the Chauvin Baptist Church, so that Lee could pickup his pillowcase that I had mistakenly dropped in camp laundry.

There is a paved road on either side of the Petite Cailliou Bayou and the roads are connected by a bridge that rotates to allow boat traffic to migrate the Bayou. While we were waiting on Lee’s laundry, I had the opportunity to see the rotating bridge in action. A small shrimp boat heading South passed quickly through the opening, but a North bound boat, approaching the bridge, was not seen by the operator of the bridge, as she began to close the Bayou to boat traffic and allow automotive traffic to cross the Bayou. A series of loud whistles screamed from the approaching boat as it threw its engines in reverse at full throttle. Luckily it was able to stop in time to avoid hitting the closing bridge. The bridge operator reopened the way for the boat to continue, before automobile traffic resumed.

From Chauvin we veered slightly off our course in order to stop in Bourg (Berg) at a supermarket, noted for its Boudin. Boudin may or may not be the correct spelling for the Cajun sausage considered a delicacy by some. Certain variations of Boudin are referred to as blood sausage, and I think the derivation of the name is readily understood. Boudin is a fully cooked mixture (I am told it is fully cooked) of rice, meat, and seasonings, that is stuffed in the intestine (casing - to be politically correct) of some animal. I don’t think those who relish this sausage wish to know exactly what meat or what anatomical portions are included, for fear such knowledge would dull their appetite. Lee’s pastor in Houston is a genuine Cajun and had asked Lee to bring him back some Boudin. Lee bought a few extra pounds for his use. It was exactly 4:00 p.m. when we pulled away from the Bourg Supermarket.

At 8:00 p.m. we were in Clinton, MS, visiting in the Temple home and snacking on some microwave heated Boudin. Okay, it smelled good and I was hungry. It tasted fine, and I suffered no ill effects the next day. After dividing the catch of fish filets, Lee headed toward Houston as Jim and I drove to Vicksburg. At 9:30 p.m. I bade good-bye to Sheila, Dawn and Jim and headed North toward Greenville, arriving there at 11:20 p.m.

I had just completed a full week of fishing with some of my very best friends and I was just about exhausted.

We shall fish together again in the Spring of ‘97 among the lakes in Northeast Mississippi, particularly the ones in Pontotoc and Chickasaw counties.

Billy Temple An Introduction

Billy Temple is a retired US Army Colonel. Since 1976, he has been a good friend of Lee Gordon, a fisherman friend of mine. Lee was at that time the Minister of Music at Van Winkle Baptist Church of Clinton, MS. Billy further endeared himself to Lee when he availed himself to "be there" during a particularly stressful period in Lee’s career. Lee told me they fished together every day for about 3 straight weeks, from sunup to sundown, as he worked through a crisis in his life.

Billy Temple is a very colorful individual. I would put his age at early to mid sixties. His height is about 5’ 10", and he weighs around 240. His nickname/ CB handle is Fat Billy. He laughs as he explains that he has been fat all of his life, and as a young boy his friends named him Fat Billy. He said that he never minded being labeled as fat, since it was the truth. Today, most of the fat is retained in the spare tire around his mid section, and suspenders are needed to keep his trousers at a respectable height.

Billy Temple had a distinguished career in Uncle Sam’s Army. He joined the Army and was trained as a pilot. In the time that I was exposed to the escapades of Billy Temple, while on our Chauvin Fishing Trip, I found it almost incredible that he could have experienced so much in such a short lifetime.

He served in the Army Intelligence unit, flew a helicopter load of contraband weapons into Costa Rica, was arrested, and later sent to Mexico where he spent 3 weeks in a prison cell awaiting US intervention to free him. He bailed out of his aircraft over the mountains of Kentucky one night when an electrical short, disabled all radio communications, instrument panel lights, and his ability to safely navigate the aircraft. As he descended into complete darkness, his parachute was snared by trees on a rugged mountain slope. He could hear his aircraft overhead, as it flew a wide circle around him, until it ran out of fuel. He found a country doctor who transported him to the nearest phone, several miles away. A few weeks later the aircraft was found relatively undamaged. Billy was able to fly it out of the mountainous area where it had landed.

Billy was present when the military dictator of Chile was offered 50 million in US currency to fly safely out of his home country to any other country of his choosing or to stay and choose death. The general chose to stay; Billy and another US officer were asked to leave the room, by a leader of the coup, and gunfire followed. The news reported that the general took his own life, when in fact he was executed.

Billy helped train Iranian pilots, at the time the Shah of Iran wished to form an Iranian Air Force of world class. He became friends with a young pilot, who was later thrown to his death from a 7th floor balcony of a hotel, when the Shaw’s government was overthrown.

These are some examples of the action filled life of Billy Temple, that I recall. Today, he resides in Clinton, MS, where he is able to fish and hunt, pretty much whenever he pleases. His children and adopted children are living away from home, and his wife is about ready to retire from teaching, having taught for 35 years. Much to Billy’s chagrin, she is house shopping for a residence with a few acres of land. I think he is afraid the yard maintenance will cut too deeply into his hunting and fishing.

All evidence seems to indicate that he has enjoyed living, not recklessly or frivolously, but daringly optimistically. It is not always easy to discern fact from fiction. I have the feeling that some of Billy’s stories have ballooned with embellishments over the years that he has related them. However, if one can believe but half of the tales that I heard him tell, then he has given much of himself in the service of his country, and even more in service to his fellowman. Though he has been a lot of places, and done more than many of us will ever do, he maintains a relatively simple lifestyle, that belies his adventuresome past.

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