My buddy Jacob and I had just spent a week boating down the Sabine River, from Toledo Bend to the Gulf of Mexico, and we were tired and grimy and waiting for Jacob’s father Henry to come pick us up. We had arranged to meet him at the Sabine Pass Battleground State Historic Park in Sabine Pass, Texas. The memorial site was grassy and desolate, and we were the only people there. A cool breeze was blowing in from the ocean. Jacob went off to find a public restroom, and I was sitting at a picnic table, minding my own business, when a fellow in a convertible coupe began to circle through the parking lot.

The guy who hopped out of the car was fortyish and not wearing a shirt. In fact, he was not wearing much of anything — only shorts, sandals, and wrap-around sunglasses. A ponytail. A bronze tan. I was careful to avoid eye contact, but it didn’t deter him. He walked right over and started asking questions about the battle of Sabine Pass.

I answered, curtly, that a small band of Confederate soldiers had fought off a larger fleet of invading Union ships at this spot, which was now a state historic site.

“Those damn Yankees,” he said. “I say that in jest because I’m from the Northeast. So this was like a crucial port for the South during the war?”

“I have no idea,” I replied. “We just got here. But if you’ll walk around, there’s bound to be some reading material somewhere. At least a marker or something.”

He didn’t take the hint. “So where were you coming from?” he asked.

When I told him about our trip down the Sabine, he announced that he had once ridden a jet ski 180 miles along the Atlantic coast. Now his watercraft was in storage in his garage back home, needing repairs. “You know what they say,” he said. “You either have a new jet ski or you don’t have a jet ski.” He was from New Jersey, and he had taken off work for a few weeks to see the Gulf Coast between New Orleans and Brownsville. As for rivers, he added, “I’d love to explore the Hudson, because it’s so beautiful.”

“On a jet ski?” I asked.

“Oh yeah.”

Then he wanted to know what year the battle of Sabine Pass had been fought. I told him I really, truly had no idea.

“I’ll find out,” he said.

As he walked away, I thought about Jeff back up the river. Then I thought about the Tidwells and the rest of the people I had met along the Sabine. It hadn’t mattered that I was a stranger. They had invited me into their homes, fed me and treated me like one of their own. I realized that I wasn’t like these river people at all. I wasn’t as kind.

Jacob showed up with chips and sandwiches. We were eating at the picnic table when a voice shouted: “1863!”

I turned around. It was the shirtless guy. “What?” I asked him.

“1863,” he said. “That’s the year of the battle.”

“Oh, OK,” I replied.

He stood there beside our picnic table.

“Pringles, huh?” he said.

“Yep.”

“Nice.”

When we didn’t say anything more to the man he walked over to the piers, then circled back to his convertible coupe and sped off to his next destination. One hopes he found a place where the people were friendlier.

Ruthlessly cut from an early draft of Running the River: Secrets of the Sabine, by Wes Ferguson and Jacob Croft Botter.