Time Wasted

Originally published as a zine in 2018.

Late in the month of August, 2008, Ben, Ryan, Jimbo, Jordan, Erin, John, Mitch, and I launched from a sandy shore in St. Paul, MN and traveled down the Mississippi River to the Gulf of Mexico. That was when I was 22 and I considered a job one responsibility too many.

 

The plan was to boat down the Mississippi to the southern tip of Illinois, take the Ohio River upstream to the Tennessee River and follow that to the Tombigbee River which would bring us to the Gulf of

Mexico by way of Mobile, AL. It’s a known route for ambitious recreational boaters that is usually done on a solid middle class budget. I, with a whopping $2,500 to my name, doubt that anyone else in my crew

had much more to spend, so naturally, we were interested in reducing travel expenses however possible.

Ben already owned a tiny outboard motor that had just enough power to slowly get us around. We found a cheap pontoon style boat on craigslist that needed a healthy amount of fixing up. We cooked most of our meals from scratch. And we camped whenever and wherever possible.

 

It took us almost the entire first day to get that pontoon into the water and loaded up. We officially launched at 9:29pm and just after taking off the motor broke down. We eventually fixed the engine, and set up camp only a mile or two from where we set out.

 

 

Most of our time on the boat was spent sitting around and waiting for something interesting to happen while drinking cheap beer. One night, a crew member, who was considerably drunk, threw a large mass of spaghetti leftovers at me in response to something I said. It was funny only after the drama wore off. At another point a crew member, who is probably close to legally blind, fell into the river and lost his glasses. Seemingly out of nowhere, at least for some of us, the married couple that was a part of our crew decided to divorce and he took a bus home. At another point a major storm rolled up from the gulf and forced us to dock our boat in a marina for a couple nights while we put ourselves up in a hotel. During that storm some jerk stole a few of our reserve gas tanks.

 

Later on, the motor broke down again forcing us to paddle to the nearest tiny river town where we waited for a few days for some replacement engine parts to become available. While in that town Ryan overheard a cafe employee declare that he didn’t want any dirty gypsies (us) using his bathroom. One morning further downstream we woke up to the boat almost entirely beached and spent the first half of the day digging the boat out with our hands and sticks. Not long after, another big storm rolled in from the gulf and stranded us in St. Louis, MO for a few days.

By the time we reached the Ohio river, which was roughly the halfway point in our journey south, I had decided to abandon ship and continue to New Orleans by bicycle. I had no animosity towards my friends, I was just bored with all the time spent on the boat drinking and hanging out, and I really just wanted to hit the road and travel by bicycle.

 

 

On the road there were many long stretches of little to no human interaction so I spent a lot of time deep in my head thinking about anything. It was pretty lonely and I occasionally resorted to talking to myself. At one point I almost got arrested in the middle of the night because I set up camp in a forested area located, unbeknownst to me, 50 yards behind the town’s jail house. The officers initially thought I was planning some kind of jailbreak but quickly realized that I was harmless and holstered their guns.

 

 

While traveling alone by bicycle it was common for people to wish me safe travels or to warn me about dangerous traffic ahead. However, as I traveled further and further south I encountered more and more white people who saw it fit to caution me about the black people who lived in some area of the town I was passing through, whether or not I was headed through that area. Those racist warnings were usually given as a sour parting to otherwise pleasant small talk.

 

 

By now, for many readers, my travels probably sound like a humongous bummer. A drawn-out boat and bike trip riddled by a lack of forethought and preparation. But all of those setbacks and challenges were just fine with me and my travel mates because we were just trying to do something that wasn’t boring. Overcoming those setbacks and challenges was, ultimately, a source of satisfaction and without them our good times wouldn’t have been as good.

 

 

To combat the monotony of life on the boat we found ourselves reading, playing chess, napping, gambling (we played a lot of c-lo, a dice game), and jamming to large quantities of the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan and Foreigner. My favorite diversion was this trick (I think Jimbo or Ben pioneered) where after everyone had quieted down to something like a book or a nap the captain would unexpectedly ditch the wheel and take a dive off the back of the boat leaving the rest of the crew scrambling to regain control of the boat and retrieve the overboard captain.

 

Those antics, as enjoyable as they were, could only keep us entertained for so long, so when we ended up stranded in a tiny river town with a broken down motor we were more than excited to ditch the boat. We quickly made friends playing pool and dancing like idiots at the bar. Most of the locals we encountered were usually eager to meet us and hang out. Some even mentioned that word was out on us, that our shabby boat and freewheeling ways had earned us a minor celebrity status that preceded our way downstream. And thanks to Ben’s expert understanding of how small engines work we were able to proceed downstream.

 

 

Many of the stops we made to explore random islands and interesting areas of shore were also rewarding diversions. One of those stops led to rolling hay bales down a long hill in a soybean field. I remember that being exceptionally entertaining at the time, though now I kind of feel like an asshole about it. Oh well. Another time we were enticed by a huge deserted beach with a volleyball net and a fully inflated volleyball. After a few minutes of playing volleyball, as my team was about to serve, Ryan (on the other side of the net) pissed himself with the intention of totally destroying our concentration. It worked. The game quickly devolved into a madness that culminated with a massive bonfire which eventually put us to sleep much later that evening.

 

On the river we spent most of our time passing through remote areas. Although the banks of the upper Mississippi are home to a handful of big cities and hundreds of little towns we mostly passed through forests and farmland. There were plenty of nights where the shooting stars were as bright as street lamps. During one of those starry nights around the campfire baby turtles emerged from the sand all around us and waddled into the water to take their first swim. Further downstream we encountered those Asian carp who jump up to 6 feet out of the water, a few times landing in our boat only to flop violently at our feet. Every bend in the river provided a new scene, beautiful and surreal.

 

Thanks to the cooks in our crew, Erin and Jordan, we often ate like kings. The food may not have been exceptionally gourmet, though at times it kind of was, we mostly ate homemade, balanced, and healthy meals. Moms would have approved.

 

 

 

While traveling by bicycle I encountered numerous acts of kindness from strangers. People offered to feed me and put me up quite often and when I was feeling lazy I found rides or shortcut advice effortlessly. One of my favorite aspects of the bike tour was finding unconventional places to sleep. I camped on the sides of cotton fields, next to steamboat casinos, behind a K-Mart, and beside a pool table in some guy’s man-cave.

 

 

All that time I spent traveling solo forced me to get out of my comfort zone and talk to strangers. I met some unforgettable people this way. In my first 24 hours in Clarksdale, MS I met a wild drunk of a high school history teacher who gifted me a stack of classic novels, I met another drifting 20 something who showed me all the wailing juke joints (traditional blues bars) in town, and I met a river wizard named Driftwood Jon who made canoes by hand. Driftwood Jon and his wife put me up for a couple of days in their renovated 19th century boarding house and took me to a Tennessee Williams porch festival featuring memorable scenes from the playwright’s work on the town’s nicest porches.

 

 
Thinking back on those experiences it’s surprising how easily I found myself amongst the choice local restaurants, bars, and activities without the aid of a smartphone. All it took was a little asking around.

By the time I had had enough with all of my traveling I found a ride back to Minnesota via the Rideshare section of Craigslist. Spark, the person who provided the ride north, also put me up while I hung out in New Orleans for a couple of days. I did some sightseeing, went to a potluck in a warehouse and went to a show at some dive bar with one of those New Orleans style balconies. Then Spark and I made the marathon drive north.

 

 

Sleeping in my own bed after Spark dropped me off at my parents house was one of the greatest feelings ever. I spent the next couple of weeks transitioning back into some kind of normal life in Minneapolis. I found a crappy part-time job and moved into an apartment with an old friend. It felt good to be back in my boring routine again.

I am now 32 years old, I hold somewhere between two and four jobs depending on the season, and I currently live in New Orleans. Since our voyage down the Mississippi River I have embarked on a few other ambitious and loosely-planned adventures and I always finish them craving some kind of routine and stability. I guess that’s why I still live close enough to ride my bike along its banks, skip rocks across its brown surface, and build little driftwood bonfires on its beaches.

 

 
This ‘zine is dedicated to James Pederson. You were wild, hilarious, loud, and rowdy. You always sported the brightest smile in the room. And, best of all, you were exceptionally kind and honest. What more could I ask for in a friend?

Rest easy Jimbo.