It's The Rougarou

#110 -They steal up on you at night, and all they have to do is touch you and you become one of them, and then it’s too late. You have to pass it on to someone else.

Welcome to Before I Forget . .    

I’m glad you are here. Thank you for your time - and for subscribing! - It's free.  

                       It’s The Rougarou 

Billie Benoit, called “B-B” since he was a kid, and his friend, Marshall, were visiting T-Man, my good buddy, B-B’s cousin. T-Man's family has a thing for nicknames. His sisters have nicknames. 

We lived on Lake Bigeaux, near Breaux Bridge, near the Atchafalaya River. T-Man and I worked on the rigs out in the gulf and in between our two-week shifts, we fished the numerous waterways around us. 

We couldn’t have been more different than these two from California.  

They were surfers. They were traveling in a tricked-out van on their way to surf the waters of eastern Florida. They were headed to the Sebastian Inlet State Park, known for its surf.  

They had just been in Galveston. “It was just chop – not much at all,” B-B said. That was pretty much my experience when I visited Galveston.  

If a storm is in the gulf, there could be surf. It was windblown waves though; the shallow gulf can’t produce the more powerful waves that the deeper waters off California or the east coast can. Marshall said, “You can feel the difference.”  

They wanted to rest up a few days with us. We were cool with that.  

B-B was born in New Iberia and lived there until he was seven when they moved to California from their home on Bayou Teche. They moved to La Jolla where his mother was from. Her family had money.

T-Man said, “I wish your sister had come along with you.” She was a looker even then when she was twelve. 

This was his first time back though his dad had visited often. He was now twenty-two. 

He wanted to revisit the places he remembered from when he lived here. He remembered their house on Bayou Teche, how the waters would rise almost to the door stoop during heavy rains and how one storm they thought sure would flood them out. 

And Avery Island, the swamp park near the underground salt dome and where Tabasco Sauce was made. He liked the sauce. 

He wanted to go down to the gulf where they used to go crabbing. Which was funny because he didn’t like crabs or crawfish or any fish really. He said his mother wasn’t raised in the culture, so she didn’t cook any.  

And speaking of crawfish, the Breaux Bridge Crawfish Festival was going on. Lots of people, bands, every kind of seafood imaginable, and of course, the star of the festival, crawfish. Huge tubs of boiled crawfish.  

Every shrimp recipe that Bubba recited to Forrest Gump rounded out the menu. 

Three days of party and celebration. 

So, first off, we went to the festival. B-B and Marshall had a blast and were a hit with the girls on the dance floor. They liked the novelty of the boys from California with their long bleached blond hair. They were awkward dancing to the Cajun music but were game to try and had fun.  

Marshall ate a bit of everything, and B-B, not having the taste for seafood, found a booth making Po-boys and was happy with that. There was beer. 

We spent the next day down at Avery Island and cruised the roads through the swamps and lowlands. Marshall took a liking to the gators. 

We decided to go fishing and camping the last two days of their visit. We borrowed a couple of cots for B-B and Marshall. It’s not good to sleep on the ground around here if you can avoid it. 

We left early. B-B and Marshall followed us in their van to the boat launch. On our return the next day, they would then head for New Orleans and Florida. 

We were in the water before dawn on my 19’ Tracker Jon boat down near Morgan City. We headed south to Shell Island where the Atchafalaya meets the Gulf. 

We fished till noon and kept the limit of four redfish for our dinner and returned north above Morgan City to the woody swamps of the Atchafalaya Basin. I brought my .22 thinking we would hunt squirrels for B-B's dinner. 

By mid-afternoon we’d had enough sun and started looking for a place to camp for the night. We found a good place up off the water and set up our tents and gathered wood for a fire. I started cleaning the fish for supper. 

T-Man and B-B took to the woods for a couple of squirrels. It wasn’t long before we heard shots and then they were back. T-Man got them ready for the fire. 

We brought gumbo from home and we were going to have a feast. And we brought beer. A lot of beer. T-Man and B-B for sure were related, they could really slug ‘em down. Marshall drank the least of us.

I was doing the cooking and they threw in their fishing lines. T-Man wanted some catfish for dinner. 

So, we feasted. The sun went down as the moon came up full and bright. We were sunburned and windblown and tired from a day on the water.  

We did plenty of talking, fueled by a copious amount of beer and with B-B and Marshall’s surprise reveal – marijuana! Legal smokables from California. Though still illegal here but by prescription, me and T-Man were not strangers to the weed. But they had a much deeper relationship with it. Jeez, they could smoke. It was strong stuff. 

We ate and drank and smoked ourselves blue in the face. We were getting loud. 

Suddenly, a horrendous screech echoed through our moonlit grotto of moss-covered trees.

“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!!” B-B said as he jumped to his feet with a stagger. 

Then silence. The moon reflected off the water through a wispy fog that wafted its way through the trees. 

“What the hell was that!” he repeated, his voice down low. He was clearly startled. 

I was high, and just kidding but I said, “It’s the Rougarou!” knowing full well it was only one of many night sounds in the swamp, from herons roosting in treetops to coons and bull frogs. And nutria. Even gators. And bears. There are a few, even down here in the swamp. Sounds like that cut through the swamp and carry a long way. 

“I know what Rougarou is!” B-B said. “It’s a half man half wolf. A werewolf. Daddy always told me when I was a kid to be a good Catholic ‘cause they knew to go after people who weren’t good Catholics. They steal up on you at night, and all they have to do is touch you and you become one of them, and then it’s too late. You have to pass it on to someone else. I haven’t been to church since we moved to California!” 

Me and T-Man were about to bust out laughing. Marshall was suspicious but not quite sure about it. 

I added, “Not just Catholics. Anybody the Rougarou can get at is fair game. And it might not be werewolf. It can be a wildman. There are wildmen out here in the deep swamp. They don’t like intruders and will scare them away. Sometimes people disappear. Their boat and everything.” 

B-B sobered right up like he hadn’t touched a thing.  

“They don’t like fire, right!? I heard they don’t like fire.” 

I said, “Yeah, that’s right.” 

He put more wood on the fire. It was soon raging. He went about collecting more firewood but wouldn’t venture into the shadows.   

Another screech echoed through the night, and another one sounded from behind us. 

I said, “Sounds closer.” 

“I know!” replied B-B, his eyes wide-open peering into the moonlit dark. He was upset, getting real worked up.

I thought it was time to come clean on our prank. 

“B-B, I was just spoofing you, man! It’s just an ol’ screech owl, we hear ‘em all the time. C‘mon, let’s call it a day. Let’s hit the sack.” 

“Maybe,” he said. “I’m going to stay up with the fire. I’m not sleeping.”  

Three of us headed for the tents, tuckered out.

I woke up once and saw him feeding the fire and when morning came around, B-B was still up. He had coffee brewing.  

 Thank you for reading Before I Forget . . !     

For my Subscribers new and old - A post from July 21, 2023. 

More posts are in my archive. Check them out.  

Photo by DALL-E 3 

See you next time, my friends.  : )