Remembering a good pastor, hunting, fishing friend

Last month my good pastor, hunting and fishing friend of Lafayette, La., Francis Martin, went to be with the Lord.  Francis was 80 years old. It’s hard to lose a good friend of so many years. I preached at his church – Family Life Church – many times over a period of 32 years. Usually, Francis would have an outdoor adventure for Monday after a preaching weekend.

Years ago I helped Francis and the church start a Wild Game Supper. It has become a huge event. About 40 Cajun hunters and fishermen prepare their favorite dish out in the church courtyard. Shrimp gumbo, redfish etoufee, seasoned gar balls, fried doves, fried catfish, jambalaya, crawfish bisque and nutria rats. It’s all there.  But no one can eat 40 different dishes. It’s impossible. Cajuns love to cook and eat.

After the cooking and eating festivities they gather the men into the church building and I preach the gospel. The last supper I attended had over 1,000 men in attendance.

Several times Francis and I would run the marsh canals below Lafayette near the Gulf to Rockefeller Federal Wildlife Refuge. Francis was good at throwing a cast net. While he would toss the big net for shrimp near a weir I would fish. Those were good times.

Several times Francis came to Texas to fish with me.  One winter he came just as a big cold front rolled in. We stayed in my houseboat at Hampton Harbor in Aransas Pass.

 The first day we made a good catch on black drum, redfish and a few trout. But as it got colder each day our catch numbers went down. By day four the temperature had dropped into the low 20s and upper teens. The fish went into shock. They absolutely had lock jaw. 

“I think we are whipped,” I said. “It’s probably time to go home.”

   “I didn’t want to say anything,” said Francis. “But I was sure hoping you would throw in the towel.”

One summer I took Francis into one of my favorite wading holes in Corpus Bay. We anchored our boat outside a sandbar, waded over the shallow bar and into the deeper hole. It was full of redfish and they liked our soft plastic baits. While we were busy catching the redfish I saw a boat coming in the distance. As he drew nearer, at full-speed ahead, I knew he was going to hit that shallow bar.

“Watch this, Francis,” I said. “You are about to see a boat wreck.”

They hit the sandbar with great power and the boat was grounded in about two inches of water.  For the next hour they poured the power to their engine trying to back off the bar to no avail.

“Stay here and keep catching fish,” I instructed. “I’ll go help them escape.”

Those guys were glad to see me. I surveyed the situation and realized that they had blown a deep hole in the sand with their prop blast.

“Would you like me to try and get it out?” I asked.

They jumped on that suggestion. I gently began to slowly maneuver the boat in their prop hole. Soon I jumped it up out of their snare.

“We just bought this boat,” they lamented.  “They told us it would run in five inches of water,”

“Those guys are salesmen,” I said. “Don’t believe everything they tell you next time.”

I waded back to Francis and we finished out our limit of big redfish.

On another trip Francis and I were in Corpus Bay when a big school of jack Cravelle exploded on a pod of mullet in shallow water. Francis didn’t know what they were and prepared to cast.

“If you hook one on that trout rod be prepared for a 45 minute fight. Those are deep-sea fish that have invaded the bay briefly. They will weigh about 30 pounds each,” I said.

Francis cast into the melee and hooked up instantly. About 45 minutes later we had the huge jack to the boat. Francis was worn out.

“Last time I’ll do that,” he said.

On another trip to Texas, Francis and his wife, Babs, joined Beth and me on a trip up the Guadalupe River above Canyon Lake to catch white bass. It was spring and the whites were making their annual spawning run up the river.  We caught lots of fish but the special memory was building a fire on the gravel bar and cooking white bass fillets in the “black pot."

Cajuns love to cook in the “black pot." Francis fried the fillets on the hot campfire while Beth and Babs opened a can of Bush's baked beans. With a bowl of coleslaw it was the perfect meal. You can’t get fish any fresher.

I sure wish Francis was still here to go up the river with me in just a few weeks to catch and fry those white bass.

Good bye, Francis. I miss you.