I have tangled with many alligators over the years and there’s an art to pulling the critters into your boat. It’s the hooking of the dinosaur that gets your heart pounding. What you do with them afterward makes your bones twitch.
While in high school, I’d built a plywood duck-hunting boat. My best friend Sam and I hauled that boat around central Florida on top of my metallic blue station wagon.
This afternoon’s adventure led us to a phosphate pit surrounded by a manufactured home retirement community. These lakes are left behind from surface mining. The deep and narrow fingers of water speckle central Florida.
The bass were always large, as were the retirees’ tall tales. This day’s tale was a cotton-haired woman waving a cigarette in the air and warning us to look out for the big gator. We waved back at her happy greeting and continued to paddle along the grass.
“See any dogs?” Sam asked me as we approached the next dock.
I looked back at the shoreline and counted none. No dogs in a retirement village is not good news. It usually means something likes to eat them. We kept paddling and spent our afternoon catching fish and discussing life.
As the sun began to settle, we turned the boat toward the finger of water near the car. Live oak trees dangled from the earthen berms pinching the waterway to where branches clacked against both sides of the craft. As the channel opened at the end of the pit, a lone gator floated.
“Move me closer,” Sam said. “I want to catch it.”
Catching gators was a sport my buddy seemed drawn to. I cut the paddle deeper in the water and aimed him for a cast. He tossed his lure in front of the snout and gave it a twitch. Nothing happened.
Sam looked down at his reel and cranked his line in fast. I kept watching the gator. A set of eyeballs rose from the depths, and I could see that what we had thought was the gator was just the snout of a big mama.
“Sam, don’t catch that gator,” I said as I tipped the paddle to reverse us away from what must be the local dog eater. He cast anyway. “Sam, that gator’s bigger than you think.”
His lure landed flat between the eyes of the beast. He chuckled and set the hook. Her maw opened and what we’d first thought was a 4-foot gator turned out to have about a 4-foot head. Gators are measured in thirds. One-third for the mouth…
Big mama thrust her tail and cruised toward us. “Get her beside the boat. I don’t want to lose my lure.”
I ignored him. Ms. Gator swam the length of the boat then turned to make a second pass. Her ridges clattered along the side of the hull. The repetitive thunk, thunk, thunk vibrated my bones. I tried to shove her off with my paddle and when I did, she snapped her tail and slammed into our side. The boat skipped left and tackle boxes upended.
Sam laughed and kept trying to get his lure back….
This adventure happened more than 40 years ago. A faded memory is still a memory. Don’t let your old stories evaporate. I think of them as the glue to who I am.
Today’s journaling prompt
Reach back in time and tell a remembered story. Don’t be afraid to start with something vague. What remains is enough, and stories like these also draw out memories. Lost details rebuild themselves.
John Wilkerson writes a monthly column for MNN to share his love of journaling. According to John he “works most days writing and fiddling with his computer. His new, old, home in Menomonie is constantly subjected to DIY mayhem. His background includes ghost writing, newspaper reporting, and a stretch in marketing and advertising.” He may be contacted at [email protected]
