Returning Fo(u)r Seconds

Returning Fo(u)r Seconds

There is a tranquil looking basin in Texas where I often go fishing. This basin, shaped like a half moon is about a mile across and the same distance long. The left side of the basin is lined with two meter high reeds and behind these reeds are extensive marshlands. All sorts of marine creatures arrive to spawn in this brack water environment which is also a haven for countless of small animals and reptiles. Tiny birds feed on the innumerable insects here and these birds seem to be tweeting and singing all day long. 

In contrast, the right side of the basin ends in a sparkling white sand beach. Tall, hardwood trees grow right to the waters edge and large cranes, buzzards and fish eagles like perching silently on these tree branches -  always keeping a watch out for their next meal. Just prior to the beach, there are a series of sandbanks which get exposed only at extra low tides. In-between the sandbanks are barely noticeable, yet vital troughs that finger mullet and fry use as an escape route. Larger fish cannot swim in these shallow troughs. The fry closest to the shore are tiny and in their thousands. The deeper the water gets, the bigger and faster the fish become.

The unique feature of this basin is that the depth of the water in the entire area never reaches chest level. It is an anglers paradise! One can spend an entire day crisscrossing the area, in bliss, targeting different species of fish in the different belts - which is exactly what I like doing once a week. 

A few weekends ago, I got to the basin at the crack of dawn and instead of the usual three or four fishermen, I found no one else around. The water was almost perfectly still. The sun had that magnificent warmth of dawn and all the colours imaginable where peeping out of the horizon. A few early birds were flying silently around and fish - especially the mullet - were jumping. 

In no time I had two large fish on my stringer. I was in my element, happy as could be when something to the right suddenly caught my eye. I glanced and saw, judging by the distance from its nostrils to its eyes, an eight foot long alligator. It was just twenty feet from me and I was two hundred yards from the nearest shore. 

The gator was almost submerged but must have been following me for some time as, when he saw that I had spotted him, the alligator closed one pair of its eyelids. Alligators have three sets of eyelids. I could not, at that very second remember what each pair was for but guessed that the gator closed that particular set of eyelids because it wanted to remain in stealth mode. 

I now had a dilemma. The question I faced was, do I let go of my stringer and allow the gator to feast on those fish while I quietly sneaked out of the water? I was very reluctant to do this as I knew fully well that the long term consequences of such a move would be that the gator would later follow every other wader, expecting the same response from them. The alternative was to pull the fish on the stringer closer to me and walk, backwards, barefoot, to the shore while keeping eye contact with the beast. My fish were important to me and I was not going to let go of them. The gator followed me slowly for five minutes, then feigned lost interest and sort of disappeared. 

An eon later, I finally got to the shore. Another fisherman had just arrived and when I told him what I experienced, he suggested that we should move to spot Number 13 - four miles away. 

The fisherman, KC, is a Vietnam veteran. He has fished this area since he was in high school, 60 years ago. He had previously told me that while he was in Vietnam, all he kept dreaming about was to return to fish again in this area. Spot Number 13 has bountiful fishing but it also has a slough on either side of it. One slough currently has two, six feet long alligators that always hunt together. Alligators are usually solitary hunters, but these two are different. They rarely venture from their slough to the open sea but when they do, they tend to feed only at the entrance of their slough. On weekends, their feeding range changes. 

The other slough has a twelve foot long alligator that can be seen lying on the muddy banks every now and then. The unique feature of this gator is that it is fat and has girth. Texas rangers usually cull gators once they get to 13ft. At that size, the gators lose fear and attack anything that seems like a good meal.

Fatty prefers to feed on small and medium sized mammals. He does this by keeping semi-submerged a few feet from the waters edge. When a javelina or any small animal gets close to the water's edge, the up to then seemingly lethargic gator will lunge forward, grab the prey with its jaws, toss it into the air and swallow the prey with one gulp. The entire process takes two seconds but you can witness the latter part of it when you hear the high pitched squealing. 

As we were preparing our fishing equipment, two fishermen exiting the water pointed out to the two smaller alligators and reassured us that the gators had not moved much from the entrance the whole morning. They added that the larger gator on the west bank had not moved at all, probably because it had not warmed up enough. KC and I decide to fish closer to the larger gator - simply because gar were in season and that was the spot for giant gar. 

We fished for about an hour, all the time keeping an eye on all three gators. Then the large one lifted its head, showed one and all the size of its jaws and slid into the sea. 

To my astonishment, the gator swam determinately and straight towards us. We were a hundred and fifty yards away and I was surprised that the alligator even knew where we were but it swam purposefully, like someone heading for their first meal in days. I warned KC what was happening but all we could do was freeze and watch. The gator stopped 20ft from us and seemed to size us up.

Then it sank.

For the first time in my life, my pot belly began to tingle. Then goose bumps appeared on my arms. 

In the first second that followed, my life flashed before my eyes. My only regret - not becoming a repairer of bicycles - remained the top conjecture. Then the history of the universe - all six billion years - flashed before me. 

In the second second, I remembered that some alligators liked chewing on the heads of their meal, so I removed my cap - which held my GoPro camera - and held the cap in my hand with the lens facing the probable direction of the attack. Anyone can film their demise but the video is only of value if others get to see it. My intention was to throw the cap - with its flotation device - as far away as possible at the very last moment. Perhaps someone would find the camera and make the video go viral. Better to achieve infamy late, than never. 

In the second, second second, I looked towards KC, longing to hear him say, "The gator is swimming away, lets continue fishing," but KC is old and almost blind. 

On the fourth second, a larger wave struck me from behind and knocked me off balance. I spun half a step and as I put my foot down to regain my footing, I realized that I stamped on the alligator's cold tail. 

For the first time in the history of mankind - remember that very history had flashed before me just a second earlier - a man did a straight jump out of four feet of water and got to heights above a basketball hoop. 

As I was floating back to the earth in slow motion, I spotted the alligator swimming closer to the shore. 

What I had stamped on, was not the alligator's tail but the cold 6ft aluminum pole of my landing net. 

KC pretended he saw nothing.

The author caught a five foot, one inch gar later in the day.