Wrestling with Crocodiles

The Everglades are beautiful if you enjoy humidity, mosquitoes, and the persistent feeling that something with more teeth than you is watching from the reeds. I fit right in. A local guide named T-Bone — not his real name, but more accurate than his real name — took one look at me and said, "You're either very brave or very stupid." I said, "Both. Drive."

We found our opponent sunning on a bank near Flamingo: a American crocodile approximately twelve feet of scaled attitude named nothing because crocodiles don't need names when they have jaws. T-Bone wanted to observe from the boat. I wanted to observe from closer. He cited Florida law. I cited personal philosophy. Philosophy won, which is how most of my stories start.

Wrestling a crocodile when you are a cactus is less about strength and more about strategic placement of spines. The crocodile lunged. I sidestepped — surprising agility for something rooted in sentiment. It clamped down on my hat instead of my torso, which I consider a win for millinery and a loss for the hat. We grappled for what T-Bone later described as "an irresponsible amount of time." The crocodile eventually released the hat and slid back into the water, possibly out of respect, possibly out of confusion.

T-Bone did not speak for the entire ride back. At the dock he said, "Carl's twin?" I said, "Evil twin." He nodded like that explained everything. My hat is now in a crocodile's stomach somewhere in the Glades. I consider it a tribute. Carl would have bought a new hat. I will wrestle the same crocodile for it next season.