EXCERPT from MARSH MONSTER

The author's profile picture for the book. Taken outside the
real Honey Island Swamp Tour building.

The twisty-turny, rustic, but paved road, led up to a large, mostly empty gravel parking lot. A small, weathering bungalow-type building with two rockers on the porch sat off to the side of the lot. A sheriff truck was the only other vehicle in sight. The carved wooden sign on the building read Honey Island Swamp Tours. 

Another sign sporting a picture of an alligator read Trespassers Will Be Delicious. The rhododendrons were in bloom—bright pink and red clusters against the deep browns and muted greens of the surrounding vegetation. Various rustic bird houses hung about the place. Dad parked the van in the nearest non-handicap parking space and we piled out into the sunny-breezy weather. Twat, twat, twat called a bird. Chur, chur, chur answered another. The doors of the white with red lettering St. Tammany Parish police truck opened and two officers stepped out sauntering our way. 

“Afternoon,” said my dad, walking toward them extending his hand, “I’m…”

“Yes, Sheriff Meyers,” said a rather lean officer, extending his own hand, “we’ve been expecting you. Pleased to meet yer acquaintance. I’m Frank Rubart and this is Brock Eastbrook.”

“Officer Rubart, officer Eastman.”

“Call me Frank,” said the lean man, “and he goes by B.D. as in beady-eyed.” The other man didn’t respond. I suppose he was used to the remark.

“As long as we’re on a first name basis, I’m Jim and the kids are…”

“Pleased to meet y’all,” he said, tipping his Smokey Bear hat, “Your tour guide can take y’all out to the Deveaux place. We’ve got it marked off with police tape. You’re free to explore the usual tour route, too—plenty of wildlife out there. And let us know if you see anything suspicious.”

“Sure will,” answered my dad “Thanks Frank.”

“Jim,” he answered, “Y’all have a good time. Oh, he’s my card; call my cell if you need to.”

“Thanks Frank.” Thanks Frank, Sargent’s your rank, I thought.

* * *

We moved into the tour-gift shop-café building, skirting past a lizard sunning itself on the railing, and met the man from the TV, none other than Jeb Plouet, standing behind the counter of the gift shop, snack bar and tour registration desk. The place was well stocked with plasticized alligator heads, souvenir visors and T-shirts, plush-toy alligators, rubber snakes, key chains, postcards, quick energy food and drinks and more. There were a few aquariums that held baby alligators and turtles. Jeb looked thinner than he had on the tube, but was, none-the-less, a portly man dressed in baggy overalls, a rather large beige T-shirt and a wide-brimmed floppy tan hat. He smiled a toothy grin and stepped toward us.

“Afternoon,” he said, “you must be my charter.”

“That would be us,” said Bart’s dad.

“Well, we’d best git started den,” Jeb said. Like most Cajuns he could pronounce the th sound, so it came out like a d. “Daylight’s burning. Normally, I’d charge you twenty buck a head, but dis one on da house, beings as you’ve got a law officer with you. Might help us find ol’ Hal. He’s my best friend in da world. Why he even…well, dat’s a big story. Anyways, come on.” He turned and sauntered out the front door over which hung a sign that read:

HONEY ISLAND SWAMP TOURS 

We followed. Outside the man indicated the camera hung around my neck, “Ya want ya picture taken?” He smiled, “Prove ya were here and gives us a record should you go missin’.” He grinned a toothy grin. I handed him my camera and we posed for a photograph in front of the carved sign that hung from the porch, then walked toward the boat ramp and wharf. 

Beyond a rustic wooden queue, covered in weathered canvas, was a dock and beyond that a dilapidated building that opened into the water—a shed for boat stowage I imagined. Moored to the dock was a flat aluminum boat with bench seats running down the center, facing out to the sides and a huge Yamaha 150 outboard motor at the stern. Jeb put one foot in the vessel and kept one on the wharf. He assisted each of us onboard while he laid a few ground rules.

“Have a seat anywhere ya like, folks. The coast guard requires dat I go over a few tings afore we git head out. Stay seated while da boat’s in motion; please keep ya body parts inside da railing at all times; dere are life jackets under ya seat should you need dem. We’ll be underway as soon as ya situated. Tank ya for joining us today at Honey Island Swamp Tours where adventure awaits—and so do hungry alligators.”

It was a practiced spiel and sounded like one. Bart leaned over and told me he wondered if the remaining pitch would be as dull as this or if it would be more like the one-liners that peppered the Jungle Cruise at Walt Disney World. I half expected him to say "Dis here's da wildest ride in da wilderness..."

Stay tuned (Why not subscribe?), there's more to come. BTW: I finished a revision today.