Prose: Bon Secour

We’re driving down a two-lane road with thick trees and underbrush clinging heavily on both sides weighed with humidity. We come upon the small quaint community of Bon Secour. On the left is a white clapboard school trimmed in green, the Swift School it is called, being built in l920 with other buildings arranged beautifully on the property, with white picket fences. It is so well-kept we wonder if it’s a private school. Down the road is a brick Episcopal Church, also with some age to it. We pass an inviting seafood restaurant with yellow shutters and a large screened porch as part of its guest seating.

We’re headed to Billy’s Seafood down on the Bon Secour River to make our purchases. We pass an ancient oak tree with Spanish moss dripping off its limbs. Close by is a house, probably built in the l920s, now past its splendor. Its partially boarded up because of a hurricane, probably Ivan, that tore through the area a couple of years before Katrina.

There’s the river and the fishing boats and the old wooden fish house where we have come to buy some of the best seafood around. We walk in, my Mom, daughter Laura and I, taken aback by the sea scent for only a moment until we adjust. No air-conditioning, its all open with lots of fans. So many choices are laid out before us, so fresh. Do we want flounder, grouper, mahi-mahi, snapper, tilapia, sea bass, and many more I have never heard of before. And all kinds of shrimp, so many sizes. Since there are l2 of us we get carried away and keep adding another filet. We get enough shrimp to make a big salad, my Mom’s favorite. Although she prefers pickle and boiled egg in hers, I take my portion out before that is added. Mine only holds chopped celery, fresh dill, lime juice and a little mayo. It turned out to be the best shrimp ever.

I ask the “cute as pie” young man who waits on us at the fish market the meaning of Bon Secour. He didn’t know, but asked his boss, “Bon Secour means Good Harbour”, he said in his busyness. Satisfied , we start to leave, I always want linger, feeling I’m leaving behind a part of the Old South, a part that matters, that may vanish before I see it again.

My daughter and I both regretted not bringing our cameras.

Patricia