March 28, 2013--Snowbirding: Paddling With Gators

Growing up in Brooklyn, the only contact we had with alligators was with those that inhabited the sewers that ran beneath our streets. 

As unlikely as this seems, these alligators were said to have been released down storm drains after they got too big to remain as pets in our cramped apartments.  Pet stores sold them as babies and if one was able to keep them alive (not at all easy), after a few months they were too large for their bureau-top fish tanks. So into the sewer they were dumped, where, allegedly, they grew to mammoth size.  Needless to say, this was never confirmed by any credible source—they are tropical and New York is freezing during the winter--but live on in our fantasies they did, inhabiting our fears and imagination. 

So when the other morning Rona suggested we load up on sunscreen and head for the Everglades where, she enthused, we could rent a canoe and paddle around in the saw grass and among the tree islands, when she suggested this, I timidly asked, “Aren’t there alligators there?  You know, this is Florida and . . .” 

“Don’t be such a baby.  When was the last time you heard about an alligator attacking a person?” 

To tell the truth we’ve been hearing more about houses being sucked into sinkholes than gators lunching on people. 

“I heard that in Loxahatchee they rent canoes and that the channel into the Everglades is well marked.” 

I tried to wiggle out by wondering out loud, “Have you ever been in a canoe, much less paddle one?” 

“Once years ago.  I think in Central Park Lake.  But you rowed on the crew in college, didn’t you?”  I nodded.  “So, my big boy, I’ll depend on you to teach me and keep me safe.”  Her smile was radiant.  “It’s only a half hour from here.  It’s a beautiful and cool morning and it’ll be fun.  Come one.”  She was pulling on my sleeve. 

Without further protest or delay, off we went, being sure to bring along a couple of bottles of water. 

Amazingly, less than a half hour from where we are at the ocean, past the retirement communities and endless strips of shopping malls, out past a few tree farms, one approaches the east edge of the vast Everglades. Immediately, everything is tranquil and the only sounds are the wind and the thwap of birds’ wings as they lift themselves from their nests. 

“This is wonderful,” I admitted to Rona, “Though my canoeing technique, such as it was, is rusty, I can’t wait to get onto the water. Imagine, being out there among the herons and whatever other birds there are.” 

“Egrets and ibis and anhinga, osprey and maybe even a golden eagle.” 

“I see you’ve been doing your homework.”

She smiled, “On the Internet it’s so easy.  Let’s get started. Right up there is where they rent canoes.” 

“Not a bad deal,” I said, “Only $32 dollars for the day.” 

“Plus a dollar each for seat backs,” Rona noted.
“I’m not sure we need them.  If we’re going to be authentic, let’s pass on the seat backs. Did you ever see a picture of an American Indian in a canoe with a seat back?”
“We’re not Indians and for two dollars,” Rona insisted, “let’s get them.” 

And so we did and, with Rona up front and me in the stern since I claimed to be better able to steer us from there, off we were pushed out into the wild Everglades by the canoe attendant, who told us, the trail is “only” 5.5 miles long and clearly marked. “Just keep paddling counterclockwise and you won’t get lost or into trouble.  If you do, just turn around and come right back.” 

“Trouble?  Come right back?” I asked tremulously, but he had given us such a firm push that we were well away from the landing and couldn’t hear me. Or had chosen to ignore me. He was well grizzled and had seen and heard it all. 

Not a hundred yards into the channel and already we were surrounded by wading and nesting birds. “Look at that,” Rona said, pointing ahead in full Sacajawea mode, I think that’s a giant blue heron.” 

And sure enough as we stopped paddling and silently glided ahead closer to where it was stalking, it was in fact a majestic heron.  It stopped in its tracks just as we came to rest and across the ages and phylums that classify and separate the world into what is considered to be a natural hierarchy, we stared in wonderment at each other and at Nature itself. 

When it took off to hunt in a different location, its wings spanning six or more feet, Rona enthused, “I can’t believe this. We’re less than ten miles from home and all the gas stations and so-called developments, and this is still going on. Just as it was before humans came this way and began to spoil things.” 

“Let’s not get too philosophical or environmentalist.  We have well over five miles to go and we need to work on our paddling technique if we’re to make it before it gets dark.” 

“The canoe guy told us it would take at most five hours to complete the loop. That is if we stopped at that rest platform he told us about that’s about two miles ahead.”
“Yeah, up to five hours if you know what you’re doing. We’ve gone only a couple of hundred yards and three times already we came close to crashing into the bank of the channel. We need to figure out how to coordinate our padding better.”

“OK Cochise, how do you suggest doing that?”
Ignoring Rona’s barb, I reminded her, “Recall, this all began with your remembering that I had done some canoeing eons ago and that all would be well. It will,” I quickly added, “if you up front, at the point, paddle on one side of the canoe and let me switch from side-to-side to do the steering and keep us in the middle of the channel.  How does that sound?”
“Whatever you say, Kimosabe.” She twisted in her seat to make sure I could see that she wasn’t annoyed at me and was still having a wonderful time. 

On ordinary days my right shoulder twinges because of the onset of arthritis, even when just typing on my laptop keyboard—like right now.  And so, while canoeing, especially when switching the paddle from left to right in an attempt to keep us centered, I was concerned that I would soon find myself in agony and we would have to turn around and, in a version of defeat, retreat clockwise back to the dock. But my macho was such that I determined not to allow that to happen—and if necessary to paddle while in pain—at least getting as far as the platform where baking in the sun for half an hour would loosen my joints. 

The pain, thankfully, was manageable, and on we paddled.  Our coordination improved as did our technique—I even managed a few classic J-strokes that I remembered learning in Boy Scout camp.

“Stop,” Rona whispered. “Look over there. Up in that tree with all the dead limbs.” She had stopped paddling and pointed to the right about 100 years from where we again glided to a stop. “Let’s use our binoculars.  I think that may be a female golden eagle.”
“Really? An eagle? I find that hard . . .“ 

“I told you,” she said in a hushed voice, “I did some research and I’m pretty sure I’m right.  Not a bald eagle, but a golden one.  They’re rare here but they have been spotted.”
“How rare can it be? We’re only about half a mile from where we were launched. That’s not my definition of rare. If we maybe saw one up in Alaska.  That would be rare.” 

She slid the glasses back to me along the bottom of the canoe.  “Take a look. See for yourself.”  Which I did and sure enough it looked like an eagle to me. I’m a bit color blind but it did indeed look sort of golden. 

“I think you’re right. It’s a female, sitting on what looks like a huge nest.” 

“It could be the male,” Rona corrected me, “They share the incubating. And it’s not a nest.  With eagles it’s an eyrie.” 

“Whatever. But I think you’re right. It does look like an eagle. A really huge one. It looks like it weighs 50 pounds.”
“Actually, females weigh about eleven pounds.” I was impressed by all that Rona knew, “But with all the feathers, puffed up while settled in the eyrie, I agree, she looks as if she weighs a lot more.”

For the next half hour we paddled in silence, keeping our eyes wide open looking for other rare species and finally got to the one-mile marker.  “Only four-and-a-half to go,” I grunted with a chuckle. I was already looking forward to the platform where we could rest and sit in the sun. But it was at least a mile further. 

Rona, who knows me better than I know myself, offered, “Maybe we should just sit here and rest awhile. Have some water and regain our strength. I’m also feeling a little weary.” 

“I’m not,” I pretended, “I’m feeling just fine. Ready to paddle all day.” 

“Have some water anyway.”  She slid a bottle back toward me.

“I think I’ll husband mine,” I said, “We only have a bottle each and God knows there won’t be any place along the way to get any more. We probably should have . . .” 

“Take a few swallows. You don’t want to get dehydrated. You know what happens to you when you do.  How you get dizzy.  I don’t want you passing out. We can’t call 911 from here and I don’t want to have to paddle us back all by myself.  My J-stroke is beginning to look more like a C-stroke and that won’t get us back before midnight.”  

At that thought, I took two big swallows and quickly felt my head clear. “And be sure to put some of this sunscreen on your ankles”—Rona slid the tube back along what was now a familiar pathway—“I don’t want you getting blisters there which will then turn into skin cancer. We have enough problems already with your arthritic shoulder.”  Had she been reading my mind? 

At the second mile marker I was very much looking forward to getting to the rest platform. Among other things I needed to urinate.  I was even having thoughts about not waiting until we got there, when from her privileged position up front Rona, pointing said, “I think I see it.”
“What are you seeing?”
“The platform where we can tie up and get out of the canoe to stretch our legs. Mine are getting stiff from all this crouching on this so-called seat.” 

“Maybe it would be more comfortable without the seatbacks we rented.” 

“You’re still on that case. Sometimes you can be . . .” 

“But you’re right,” we had glided forward another 50 yards, “That is the platform.”  It was a battered looking, weathered affair with no amenities whatsoever. Not a bench nor chair to sit on and of course no jug of water much less a portable toilet.  But still we were both eager to make a landing and get out of the canoe.

“Don’t paddle,” I said, “Let me do it so we can get in close.”  Which I managed to accomplish through a series of paddling techniques that came rushing back to me from decades ago.  

As we bumped gently against the side of the platform, I called out, “Reach for that cleat.  That’s where we’ll tie ‘er up.” 

“With what?” Rona growled.  “I don’t see anything to tie up with. Did they give us a rope? Did you bring one along?”

“I didn’t think . . .”

“Let’s forget it then,” she said.  “We’re doing fine.  We’re just about halfway to the end.  We’ll be all right. You can pee in the water if you have to.” 

I grumbled, “I don’t need to.  I’ll be OK. Though I continued to consider the alternatives. 

By the four-mile marker, though we were continuing to enjoy the land and waterscape as well as the animal life, we were weary, and though our paddling technique was periodically breaking down, we were proud of ourselves. We shared that thought without speaking it as we had also stopped most talk to conserve energy and not to reveal to each other how tired we in fact were. When we did speak it was in more in grunts than sentences. 

“Almost there,” I gasped.

“Mile to go,” Rona gulped.  I decided not to correct her. In a mile we would be close enough to the end to think we we had survived and could look forward to very soon dragging ourselves out of the canoe and then limp up to where we parked the car. 

“Stop . . . a . . . minute?” I suggested.

Without responding Rona, and then I, stopped paddling and flopped forward in our seats to catch our breath and think proudly about what we had already accomplished. For two very inexperienced canoers to paddle four miles into the heart of the Everglades felt pretty impressive, no matter how ungracefully we would drag ourselves back to where we had begun. 

The wind had picked up, fortunately from behind, and I knew that if it kept up it would both cool us and make the last lap a little easier to navigate.  It indeed was already propelling us forward while we sat gasping for air. 

But when I looked up I saw we were again heading for the channel bank.  From my position in the stern I began to paddle on the right side of the keel with all my remaining strength, but in spite of my efforts the wind was stronger than my stroking and toward the land we were headed.  There was so much vegetation growing in the channel itself that I was also concerned that unless I was able to steer us back into the middle we might wind up not only banging into the bank but also tangled in the water plants. Not a good scenario I worried. Especially with both of us so exhausted. 

Feeling my paddling, Rona too now was upright and on alert.  I again said, “Don’t paddle.  You’ll only interfere with my trying to straighten us out.  But get ready with your paddle to push against the bank in case I can’t manage to correct our course.  And be sure not to let the paddle slip out of your hand and lose it in the water. That would be one fine mess.” 

“That doesn’t make sense,” she said, “If both of us paddle on the same side won’t that help get us back into the channel?” 

“From my Boy Scout training I’m not sure that’s true. Trust me,” I heard her snort, “I think we can get more torque with just me in the rear using my J-stroke. You stand ready to push against the bank if necessary.” 

I heard Rona mutter, “As soon as we get home I’m going to do some research about proper canoeing technique.” 

“But between now and then get ready to repel us if it looks as if we’re going to slam into the land and get all snared there in these friggin weeds.” 

I was beginning to straighten us by furiously paddling forward and back, in this way trying to keep us from moving forward while turning on our axis.  That would keep us from colliding with the . . .” 

“Your about to hit that big log floating there along the bank.’  She was pointing straight ahead.  “If we do, with me up front here it could get ugly.” 

“Don’t worry,” I tired to reassure her, “But to be safe hang onto your seat in case we do hit the log. To keep your momentum from tipping you into the water.  Though I can see it’s shallow here and if that does happen you’ll be OK and I’ll easily be able to pull you back into the canoe.” 

“You’re arms are killing you and,” she said sarcastically, “and you’re telling me no problem—if I wind up in the water you’ll just reach out and pop me back into the boat?” 

“Right.  Don’t panic. Just stand on the bottom and I’ll be able to scoop you up and . . .” 

“That’s no log,” Rona whispered urgently. 

“What is it then?”  My paddling was managing to offset the force of the wind and we were as a result standing still in the water about three feet from the bank and the log.

“I think it’s a . . . oh my God it is!  It’s an alligator.  And a huge one.  Ten feet at least.” 

“Don’t panic I said,” trying to hide my own panic. “I think that if we remain calm and don’t agitate it it will just hang there and not bother with us.” 

“Did you learn that also in the Boy Scouts?” 

“Look, we have to work together now.  This is no one’s fault.  As you keep reminding me, we’re in Florida and there are sharks in the ocean right by where we live, sinkholes can swallow us even in I-95, and alligators can be anywhere.  Even on the grounds of gated condo communities.” 

“And three feet from where I’m sitting in this flimsy canoe.”

“It’s made of aluminum. So at least we don’t have to worry about that.”

Blessedly the wind subsided. And what breeze that remained had shifted and was helping to propel us back away from land and the gator. 

“I think we’ll be all right,” Rona said, expelling a deep breath.  “So maybe let’s just sit here for a few minutes.  How often are we going to have a chance to be at eye level with an alligator just a few feet from us?” 

“Just this one time feels like enough for me.”  In truth, now feeling safe, I, like Rona was fully enjoying this little adventure.  “And with everyone worrying about being sued, would they rent canoes to people if it was really dangerous?”

“Though remember all those waivers we had to sign before they rented it to us?”  I did and felt a second rush of concern.  “But why don’t we try to enjoy this.  We wanted an Everglades experience and between the eagle, the alligator, and paddling now more than four miles, I think this qualifies.”

“Agreed,” I smiled, in truth feeling rather good about myself.  

We had drifted and quietly paddled ourselves well back into the channel and swung to the left, again moving counterclockwise, to head toward the end of the loop. 

For the next forty-five minutes we said very little.  We were preoccupied with our thoughts and had little energy to spare. Our technique had completely broken down and we concentrated instead on just getting ourselves back to the dock in one piece.  If we were to do this again, we would be sure to do some research to learn about how to properly handle a canoe, especially how to steer it and to make rapid turns in case were encountered alligators or other threats. 

“I’ll bet you’re now enjoying that seat back I rented for you?”

“Indeed I am,” I confessed, “Best dollar we ever spent.”