Friday, July 11, 2008
So Long, Blackie
Posted by Clancy DuBos on Fri, Jul 11, 2008 at 4:01 PM
There’s an old saying among fishermen that God gives each of us a certain amount of time on earth, but the time we spend fishing doesn’t count against that total. The long, well-lived life of Blackie Campo, patriarch of Shell Beach and a friend to every fisherman in southeast Louisiana, is proof that there’s something to that old wisdom.
Blackie was a beautiful man and a great touchstone for generations for fishermen. As “Deadly” Dudley Vandenborre put it, Blackie meant fishing.
To me, Blackie was also a link to my Isleño roots in St. Bernard Parish. My maternal grandfather, José Nunez, died the year I was born in 1954 at the age of 77. I knew Grandpa Joe only through the stories my mother and uncles told me from time to time, but through Blackie I felt as though I had encountered him in the flesh. My grandfather, like Blackie, lived off the land and water in eastern St. Bernard. He was a hunter, fisherman and trapper who fed a wife and 11 children by trapping muskrat and mink, hunting ducks and fishing. Mostly, he trapped. I find it not a little ironic that he died two years before the MR-GO was authorized by Congress. The MR-GO cut the town of Shell Beach in two. It would have broken my grandfather’s heart had he lived to see it built. I believe Grandpa Joe knew when to go. Blackie turned 36 that year. He had a more difficult calling: he had to watch the MR-GO destroy the land and waters he loved. I think he’s resting easier knowing that the federal government’s biggest environmental mistake ever is about to be closed and, hopefully, filled back in and returned to its former state.
Blackie was a classic Isleño — tall and handsome, with a warm smile, a big heart, and a deep and abiding love of the outdoors. He forgot more about fishing than most of us will ever learn in a lifetime.
The first time I launched a boat at Shell Beach, he greeted me like a son. I mentioned my grandfather to him and he beamed: “Of course I knew ‘Uncle Joe!’” He refused to let me pay for the launch, and he directed me straight away to where the fish were biting.
One time, when my son and I returned with no fish, he quietly called me over and said, “Go get some redfish out of that cooler over there. I got plenty enough for myself. I don’t want you going home without supper.”
Blackie kept abreast of issues that affected the fishing community. I once saw him in the state Capitol with a delegation of fishermen lobbying a fisheries bill. He came across the room to greet me — he had a way of making everybody feel like his best friend. He was the real friend, though. He was the real deal.
I’m convinced that my love of fishing and hunting is hard-wired into my DNA from Grandpa Joe. But it took guys like Blackie Campo and my dad, who first took me fishing when I was 4, to bring that love to the fore and nurture it. My proudest moments as father include the times I have spent with my own sons on the water or in the marsh. Fishing is one of the best ways for fathers and sons to get through a son’s difficult teenage years. It not only doesn’t count against the time God allots us on earth, but it also takes us to safe place, a sacred place, a place where everything makes sense, when nothing else in life seems to make sense. Fathers and sons can always argue about things that don’t matter. Fishing forges bonds that never break. Yeah, it’s spiritual.
Blackie understood that notion intuitively. He lived it.
We who love the marsh have lost a great friend and mentor. The best way we can honor him is to keep his love of the places where land meets water alive in ourselves and in our children.
So long, Blackie. Hope you and Grandpa Joe are limiting out.
Comments (3)
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Great article, Clancy, and I wholeheartedly agree about the Islenos connection. I too have had the pleasure of discussing my ancestry with Blackie, and he had an amazing recall of people and events that happened long before us. My great grandfather had Blackie catch bass and then stock the little pond behind his duck camp over in the Scarsdale area. When Betsy came along, the end of the pond blew out and the bass escaped into the marsh. For years, the locals refered to them as green trout, as they did not get to be too big, but were certainly good eating. When the diversion came the bass population exploded and with the advent of the new food source the bass started growing larger. So in essence, Blackie was the godfather of the great bass fishing in the Caernarvon area. A few years ago, we did a video deposition in a legal case. While his deposition dealt with ownership of a small section of land, his vast knowledge of the entire area and the transformation that had occurred was amazing. Also, a few years ago, he and I did some PSA's for Ducks Unlimited. I spent all morning trying to nail my spots probably around 20 takes, and after lunch we went down to Shell Beach and Blackie nailed his in two takes. Unfortunately, the lady that was handling that project left DU, and we never made it to the air waves. I am told DU still has the footage, and one day may use it. Blackie will be missed, but the legend will continue. My heart goes out to his entire family, all close friends of mine, and especially to his wife Miss Mabel. I know that they were very close. For the ducks, Mike Benge
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I met Blackie two years ago when I was writing a story about the plight of local shrimpers in the post-Katrina world. Many of the folks I spoke to about that story were lifelong residents of St. Bernard Parish and were earnestly trying to recover from the storm. For Blackie, it was old hat (particularly the part about expecting no real help from the federal government). He had lost his home to hurricanes three times before Katrina struck. And there he was on a hot day in late July doing what he'd been doing for the past 73 years: supplying fishermen with fuel, dock hoist and supplies. He told me that when he started with his daddy, he had to hand pump the gasoline.
Dear Clancy, Great article about a wonderful man. I remember the first time my grandfather took me fishing in Shell Beach, when I was around 9 yrs old. Blackie Campo walked up to the car, opened the trunk, grabbed my grandfather's outboard motor in one hand and a 6-gal gas can in the other, and walked over what seemed like a half-dozens skiffs to load up our skiff for the day. At the time, I could hardly pick up the gas can. To this day, I remember then thinking that Blackie must be the biggest and strongest man in the world. 45 yrs later, reading your story about him, and thinking about how he lived his life and how many people's lives he touched, I realize now that he was bigger and stronger in more ways than a 9 year-old could ever imagine. Also, I'm not surprised to hear you didn't catch any fish. :-) Regards, Chester Plauche
