Paddling With The Gators

N28°49.18′ W81°27.68′

1405 ZULU

Mist rises from the surface of the river, visible in the diffused shafts of sunlight that filter through the trees. The current runs smoothly between banks of mangrove and mud, a blanket of river grass hanging suspended in its pull. My plastic sit-atop kayak is unwieldly—and besides, paddling has become unfamiliar to me. It’s been several years since I’ve held a double-bladed paddle—actually come to think of it, any paddle—in my hands. In the stillness of the morning I grip the shaft tightly, square my shoulders, and inelegantly dig in, the bow surging forward against the current with each stroke.

I’m on a standover day—a full day off between arriving and departing—in Orlando. While most of my crew spent the long night flight discussing their planned upcoming visits to one of the theme parks, I had decided to spend my day paddling down the Rock Springs Run, and enjoy ten miles of—according to their website—scenic, clean, and alligator-filled river. Despite an open invite to the rest of the crew, when I turned north out of the hotel parking lot at 7:30 this morning, I was alone in my rental car.

I’m not alone on this section of the river though. The company that rents boats provides two options: a four-hour rental that allows paddlers to cover a mile upstream and a mile downstream from the put-in or a full-day rental that includes shuttle service from the takeout point, nine miles downstream. Feeling slightly adventures–and having no other plans for the day—I’d opted for the full day. I was on the water by 8:45, and with over six hours before I had to be at the takeout, I’d turned to the right out of the small canal, against the current, and followed the sounds of laughter coming from somewhere upstream.

Now, around the first bend, the current slows, dragging sluggishly around a wide, sweeping bend, and as I clear the point, with the tip of my paddle sliding against the sandy bottom, two kayaks and a canoe come into view. The canoe holds steady in the middle of the stream, while the two kayaks—one a double and the other a single—pinball from bank to bank. Up until now, my eyes have been on a constant scan for alligators, elevating my pulse with much more than just the effort to paddle upstream, but I quickly realize that at least here, all but the bravest of man-eaters would have headed for cover due to the noise and commotion. I feel my stomach muscles relax slightly.

With my long-forgotten paddling skills slowly returning, I work my way around the family and their boats, briefly grinding against the bottom as I cut across the shallows. Clear of the canoe—and the slightly exasperated dad in its stern—I paddle around another bend and through the shadows of a large tree hanging over the river, its branches draped in shrouds of gray Spanish moss. On the far bank, a lone heron slides through the grass, keeping one black eye on me while searching for a late breakfast.

I dig in hard for several strokes, picking up momentum, and then pause to watch the bird, my forward progress slowing more and more until the pendulum reverses and I begin drifting backwards. The kayak’s stern bumps into a submerged log at the stream’s edge that I see just out of the corner of my eye. For the briefest of moments, I think it is an alligator and adrenaline dumps into my bloodstream, rocketing my heart rate upwards as my grip tightens around the paddle—a millennium’s old flight or fight response wrecking the tranquility of my morning.

The log—I’ll later discover that it isn’t nearly the same color as an alligator—doesn’t move and the kayak drifts back into the current, forcing me to try to paddle and calm down simultaneously—not so easy to do. But by the time I’ve cleared the next curve in the river, my breathing has slowed. Ahead, a double kayak sits in an eddy near the bank, its two paddlers deep in an argument over who is responsible for navigation and who is responsible for propulsion. I work my way past their boat and around the next bend, the sounds of their animated discussion fading away, leaving behind only the babble of the stream and the drowsy hum of the morning. I lazily turn around the next bend and see, arching over the river, the bridge marking the upstream turn around point. I paddle hard for several feet, jamming the bow into the bank. With the boat momentarily held stationary, I apply some sunscreen, take a drink of water, spin the boat 180 degrees, and then push off for the next part of the voyage.

My kayak now glides downstream, skimming across the shallows and riding the current through the deeper areas on the outside of the meandering stream’s bends. Shadows dapple the surface, while a light breeze gently moves the branches overhead. I pull to the side and drift as the family I passed earlier fights their way upstream. The dad—now in the back of the double kayak—seems to have resigned himself to things and a smile has replaced the clenched teeth I saw before. Using my paddle as a rudder along the side of the kayak, I float around the corner, and then, after checking my watch, set a steady stroke and pick up speed.

I pass by a parade of kayaks, canoes, and glass-bottom boats working against the current, many totally out of control as they slam from one bank to the other. Despite the navigational difficulties, most people seem to be having a good time and respond to my hellos. After what seems like no time at all, I reach the canal that leads back to the boat dock. Behind me, the laughter and shouts carry downstream on the breeze. Ahead, a lone canoe with a family of three lazily drifts along as the stream widens out, the channel working its way through a marsh choked with lily pads and tall grass. With a glance up the canal and towards civilization, I take two strong strokes and rocket downstream instead, chasing after the canoe that has now disappeared around a bend.

Now I let my kayak glide. Despite its bulky shape, underway, the boat manages to track relatively straight and responds quickly to body weight shifts. I’m thankful for its maneuverability, as I look across the marshy shallows that border the main stream. Ahead, the channel narrows to just a few feet across, and I wonder what things I don’t want to think about are hidden by the grass and lily pads that stretch out on either side of me. Beyond the marsh, the shoreline of tall stands of pine trees above swampy mangrove roots rises upwards from the water’s edge, looming over everything—casting long, cold shadows despite the bright sun overhead.

Around the corner, I almost run into the back of that lone canoe. Its paddlers have stopped to drift with the current again, floating along at the edge of the stream. The child sitting in the middle of the boat—maybe four or five years old—dips a kid’s-size paddle in the water, chasing after a dragonfly that is hovering over a lily pad. That dad nods at me as I swing wide, and using the momentum I’ve been carrying, I fully pass them, the right side of my hull skimming the marsh grass on the edge of the channel. I move ahead slowly. The air is still here, turning the water into a giant mirror that reflects the trees and the sky and the clouds. The scene is empty of other people and for all I know will stay that way for the next eight miles. With mounting trepidation, I dig in my paddle and pick up speed again.

The first alligator breaks the surface of the water 100 feet ahead of me. I see ripples in the middle of the stream and instinctively ease off my next stroke, my brain plotting a course around what it thinks is a log. Except the log moves and I pause—the left blade of the paddle just above the water, droplets dripping and glistening in the sunlight. The current is still bringing me downstream at a good rate, so even with my paddle out of the water, what I thought was a log is rapidly taking on a different form. The shape is all wrong and the color is off—it’s more mottled gray than brown. I take two quick back strokes, sending mini whirlpools spinning outward in the dark water. The kayak slows.

I glance back upstream and I am happy to see the canoe with the family has cleared the corner behind me and I’m not alone with the gator. By the time I turn back around, the alligator has moved out of the center of the stream and is floating near the left bank—only his snout and head are visible and his eyes seem to track my movement as the kayak drifts by him. Feeling confident that I am now moving away from the perceived danger—and that there isn’t anything else of note immediately in my path—careful to keep my weight centered, I turn around, and point out the gator to the family. The dad seems excited and points the boat in that direction. His wife—in the bow and closer to the reptile—seems less excited about the prospect of getting face to face with nature. Before I can see how it will resolve, I drift around the next bend and the sound of their voices fades away, carried upstream by the breeze that has sprung up.

The current slows and the channel becomes full of water lilies. Ahead, an island splits the river in two. The main flow seems to go to the left, so I drag some rudder with the paddle, and with the sounds of gators bellowing somewhere ahead of me, drift down that side of the island. The bellowing gets louder and more frequent. I wonder aloud if the strength of the bellow corelates to the size of the alligator, but of course there’s nobody there to answer me as I am now totally alone on the river. But I quickly push that conversation away, as in front of me, the channel abruptly dead ends. I back paddle hard and come to a stop. There’s a splashing noise somewhere ahead and the bellowing increases in volume. In a panic, I spin the boat around and fight the current as I backtrack, hoping that the other channel is clear and doesn’t have a giant, invisible alligator in it.

I clear the top of the island and turn back downstream. Right away I can feel that the current is moving faster and have higher hopes for this way. The bellowing sounds have momentarily stopped. A minute later I pass by the bottom of the island—a heron standing guard at the point—and look back up at the water lily and marsh grass-choked channel I’d originally tried, glad that I had made the decision to turn around. In the distance—behind me thankfully—the bellowing starts up again.

Two minutes later I pass the buoy marking the turnaround point for the local paddlers. The channel narrows and the current picks up speed. A hawk drifts in lazy circles high overhead, its shadow gliding across the water. When I picked up the boat this morning, I’d asked about the likelihood of seeing wildlife. The guy behind the counter handed me a waiver to sign and told me not to worry and that the alligators would be way more afraid of me than I would be of them. I thought about telling him that in that case, they must be absolutely terrified, but then thought better of it. Instead I had handed back the signed waiver and headed out the door to the dock. Now, with the banks of the stream rising so that any gators on them would be just about at eye level, I suddenly regret not reading the fine print.

Alligator number two—a skinny looking five-footer—is lying on a fallen tree that runs from the left bank into the water and seems to be enjoying the late morning sunlight that is filtering through the high pines overhead. The log is at the end of a long and straight section of water, so I have some time before I get close. The channel is decently wide here, and I scan the far bank closely before I paddle towards its relative safety. The last thing I want to do is unintentionally put myself closer to another gator. Since leaving behind the other canoe, my nerves have been on edge as every log or root looks like a monster to me. I drift by the sunning beast and catch myself tucking in my paddle against the side of the kayak.

Despite the noise and chaos of the upper section of the river, I now kind of wish that I had a few people paddling with me. Nothing to do for it though but keep the kayak moving downstream. The sun is now directly overhead, and I can feel that the sunscreen I applied earlier is starting to lose its effectiveness. I contemplate trying to pull over somewhere and reapply it but can’t find a spot to nose the boat into that I can confidently say won’t have something there waiting to meet me. With that thought in mind, I pull a towel out of my backpack and drape it over my exposed knees and lower legs.

The river twists back and forth across the landscape but is always sliding downhill. For periods of time the current moves sluggishly, the channel a narrow cut through fields of lily pads. At other times it zips along between  muddy banks so close together, one of the deer that overpopulate the forests here could jump between the two without getting wet. I move down the river in bursts, paddling in the clear areas, and then drifting towards curves or obstructions, always looking ahead for the path that will keep me in the clear water, away from the marsh, and a safe distance from the banks and overhanging logs, where alligators may lurk. As I round a corner and frantically back paddle for about the tenth time to scope out two fallen logs ahead, I wonder why I thought taking this trip solo would be a good idea.

But despite the fear I am enjoying the solitude. I feel torn between the desire for other people to be floating with me—even if I don’t know them—and the still-present sense of adventure I’m getting paddling an alligator-filled river by myself. Of course, the danger is low… probably. The company I rented the kayak from has been running people down this river for over 15 years and never had any issues. And that does make the logical part of my brain feel better about things. But the small reptilian part—ironically the part that I share with the very thing that’s scaring me—doesn’t take any comfort in that fact.

I hear voices drifting my way from upstream and they’re getting louder with each passing moment. Eventually, a double kayak pops into view, moving quickly but erratically downstream. Ahead, on a log near the right bank of the river, a six-foot-long alligator lies in the sun just above the water line. I point it out to the couple in the other kayak as they pass me on a port tack. For reasons I—or they apparently— don’t understand, they reverse course and their boat starts heading directly towards the gator. With each stroke they attempt to move the bow, but their strokes seem to be counteracting each other and the kayak rockets straight ahead, slamming into the log inches from the alligator.

With an annoyed grunt and a smooth motion, the gator slides off the log and drops into the murky water, leaving nothing more than a trail of bubbles. The couple in the boat manages to back up off the log and continue downstream, all the while yelling at each other. I back paddle, holding position to give them some space, until I remember that there is an angry alligator somewhere underneath me. With very shallow strokes, I start moving forward again.

I feel better with the double kayak ahead of me—even as it pulls away, out of sight, around a bend. They are no doubt flushing out all the gators as their paddles splash water with each stroke. I relax and start to enjoy the scenery, watching the stream change its nature at every bend, from fast-moving and clear to slow-moving and murky. Herons squawk from the top of a dead tree up ahead, warning any wildlife within hearing of the intruders paddling by below. But, other than the birds, to me the river seems empty of life, except of course for a rise in the volume of the human voices coming at me from downstream.

I drift around the next bend. Here the banks are shallow and the water laps inland a long way, attested to by the brown mud stretching out onto the forest floor. In several places I can see marks where gators have dragged themselves away from the water. So far, the biggest alligator I’ve seen today was that six-foot one, but one of the employees putting boats in the water had mentioned Andre the Giant, a 15-footer who lives in the stream. Unsure if he was simply a legend or a fact, and at that point not actually expecting to see any gators, I’d laughed it off and continued stowing gear in my kayak. Now, two hours downstream, I look at the size of some of the drag marks and wonder just how big of a creature they were left by.

Still looking over my shoulder at the drag marks in the mud, I hear splashing sounds ahead of me and whip my head around. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see that it’s a cluster of seven kayaks and not a hungry alligator. The double kayak that passed me earlier has run into the back end of another group that is boisterously floating down the river. I back paddle and slow so I don’t crash into the other boats, and then drift with the current, listening in vain for the sounds of nature over the loud conversations and laughter hovering in the hot, late morning air.

I’m conflicted. On one hand, my body has relaxed, as the likelihood of any threatening wildlife sticking around, with this herd of kayaks rolling down the river, is very low. Unless something sneaks up behind me, I won’t have to worry anymore about the sharp-toothed grins of gators today. On the other hand, my river journey in solitude has ended, and any enjoyment of being solo in nature has floated down the stream and away from me. As small clouds drift in front of the sun, casting fleeting shadows across the stream, I contemplate these two distinct feelings. Adventure eventually wins out, and I slowly work my way through the pack of kayaks, moving left and right to pass, tucking my paddle against the side of my boat to clear theirs in the narrow confines of the river.

The last boat I pass is captained by yet another exasperated looking dad who is splitting his attention—mostly unsuccessfully—between keeping his kayak from slamming into the banks of the river and encouraging his family of boaters to keep up. He nods politely as I float by. Ahead, the river appears serene and empty, twisting to the right, the current running clear and fast on the inside of the turn with a wide sandy bar on the outside. I point the nose of my kayak straight downstream and dig the paddle in.

Immediately around the bend is a giant alligator sunning on a log that stretches well out into the middle of the current. He is easily over twelve feet long, his hind leg dangling off the tree trunk and into the water below. I back paddle slightly, slowing to a drift, and then slide to the left, giving him as much space as I can, while avoiding the reedy shallows along the bank that hide who knows what. The alligator’s eye follows my movement, lazily blinking in the bright light reflecting from the water’s surface. The rest of him is motionless. The voices from the boaters upstream still carry down to me, but I know that with every stroke of my paddle I will become more and more alone. A momentary pause, then, content with my decision, I paddle forward through the water once more and continue riding the current of the stream.