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Show RIVER helped me push it off. We tied up to an enormous shell pile and I struggled with the engine until a fisherman came along and helped me get it started. We began our last run on the river. As we rounded Avondale Bend a small towboat chugged past us and evidently the pilot read the "New Orleans or Bust" inscription on the side of the raft because he picked up his loudhailer and said "Congratulations." It was the proudest moment in my life: an honest-to-God river pilot had saluted our accomplishment. We drifted under the Huey Long highway bridge and past the New Orleans naval station. The docks that line the New Orleans side of the river began, stretching down the river as far as we could see. New Orleans. We'd done it. The crews of the ships tied at the docks stopped working and stared at us and called out questions. "How far did you go in that thing?" yelled one old seaman, and I called back, proud as a pirate, "Fourteen hundred miles!" We cruised past the excursion boats President and Mark Twain, riding at their moorings where the old steamboat waterfront had been, and came up to the Algiers Ferry dock at the foot of Canal Street. Rosie killed the motor and I jumped off the cabin and onto the dock. I tied up and Rosie climbed up to the dock and we fell into each other's arms and hugged and danced and kissed. "We did it, we did it," I said to Rosie. She looked into my eyes and said, "We did it." New Orleans. N'Orlins. New Awwwleeens. We'd not only managed to reach our long-distant and elusive port, but we'd done it on Halloween night. The city was as lit up and noisy as a pin ball machine. We had coffee at the Cafe du Monde-it brought us down to our last eighty-seven cents-but the show that -104- |
