Perfect Paddle

It was a perfect morning; It was chilly, it was raining and the wind was blowing. Yes, it was the perfect morning for keeping almost everybody off the river. So, we went paddling on the Wacissa. Putting in was different this time, as no one was already there. So the joke became, "Where in the world are we going to park?"

With rain gear on and paddles to the ready, we headed out onto the main river. That's where we started counting alligators. They were everywhere. They were probably everywhere before, but the boaters racing away from the ramp kept them hidden. They were of all sizes and all degrees of indifference to us. Some would slowly submerge while others slid off logs amidst splash and bubbles.

Big Blue was devoid of human inhabitants. But, there on the float was an alligator stretched out taking in the sun. Because we were quiet and did not make a move towards it, the 'gator was still in its spot when we left. Paddling out the back way we leisurely picked our way through obstructions and rafts of water lettuce, constantly amazed at the birds we saw.

Some were difficult to recognize, as they were immature, and their plumage was not what we normally associate with their species. There were coots and herons, grebes and ducks. Also there were egrets and storks and a plethora of smaller wading birds. They were wading on lily pads and mats of other plant life that were in water deeper than my height, so the birds were actually 'in over their heads.'

My favorite is the great blue heron. In its world, it is the quintessential hunter. Coiling its neck for a strike, the heron ever so slowly stalks an unsuspecting fish or frog. And with a lightning-fast move, it has its prey in its beak and has flipped it around to better facilitate swallowing it. It is pure poetry in motion as it feeds itself from what seems to be a never-ending bounty.

Alas, like all good things, this paddle came to an end. The rains stopped, so the skies cleared. Almost immediately the booze-soaked and befuddled Society of the Crimson Napes began to appear with their obscenely loud air boats and their never ending consideration for others on the water (just a little sarcasm).

So, we packed up and headed about 100 yards to the blueberry farm and picked about a gallon each of the delicious fruit. I had the least, as I had been eating as I picked. I could hardly let the blue herons outdo me, could I?