Chapter 1: the Adventure Begins.
Stepping into the canoe, I found myself ass-deep, sitting in swamp water. Young gators across the inlet, snickering and laughing at me, making smart-ass comments, I’m sure, but I couldn’t understand as I don’t speak alligator. Several hours away and unbeknownst to me, I would meet another ‘friendly’ gator, Big Berth, who wanted to be my ‘sort-of’ guardian angel. At this point, it was 10:30am and the swamp part of my adventure was just getting started.
I arrived yesterday afternoon around 3:00pm in nearby Waycross, GA, a six hour Harley ride from my home in Liberty, SC. The ride down took about six hours, with a couple of brief rest-stops. It was a pleasant ride: cold when I started, but warmed up as the day went by.
After a restful night at a Waycross motel, I arrived at the Okefenokee National Park around 9:00am, when the park office opened. The rules said I had to be out on the water in my canoe by 10:00. I’d already filled out the paperwork and paid my fees online for two days of camping and canoe rental. All I had to do was to check-in, get my canoe, and I could be on my way for my swamp adventure.
As I sit up to my waist now in the swamp, leaning sideways in my canoe, I use my paddle to push myself and the canoe back upright. Swinging my right leg over the side of the water-filled canoe, keeping my left leg in it, I try to stand. Can’t get up! Something is holding me down at the waist. I reach down into the water and feel along my waist—and find my Harley keys on my carabiner still hooked to my pants’ belt loop. I had automatically hooked the keys back onto my belt after locking up the Harley. I try in vain to unhook the carabiner from the belt loop. It is a no-go. I can’t get enough slack in whatever the keys are caught on with the carabiner to unhook it. Feeling lower to where the keys are, I find them tightly wedged in the seat’s metal frame. Shit! I’m stuck! And only a foot away from shore.
Across the way, about a hundred feet, five young gators are staring at me. I can sense them licking their chops in their long tooth-filled snouts. “Breakfast is served, guys!” I’m sure they’re saying. I’ve worked around alligators before. In fact, collected fish for a population genetics study back in 1975, not too far from here on the Savannah River Plant outside of Aiken, SC. Judging by their size, 4-5 feet, these are ‘teen’ alligators. A full American Alligator adult can be up to eleven feet long and weigh up to a thousand pounds. Not something you’d want to go swimming with. I keep a wary eye on these teens as I focus on my embarrassing predicament. What a way to start my swamp adventure!
I look around the park area, up toward the concession stand where I checked in and then over to the canoe office where Phil, the guy running it, got me set up with the canoe. No one walking about. At least I didn’t have people watching me and laughing along with the teen gators. No one to help me either. I’d have to figure this one out on my own. I try scooting down lower into the canoe seat to see if I can get enough slack to remove the carabiner. No good. Still can’t get it unhooked.
Now, let me say, I know very little about canoeing. In years past, I’d watched movies with people pushing off and jumping in a canoe and paddling merrily on their way. Looked easy, right? The people at the concession stand where I’d checked in didn’t seem concerned about my lack of experience, saying they had people in here all the time with a wide range of experiences. I thought, yeah, but a 74 old fart that doesn’t know how to canoe? Really?
Phil was no better help. He pointed out the canoe, and essentially said, there’s the canoe, there’s the water. Do you want kayak-type or standard, canoe-type paddle? Here take both. We’re not that busy today. As I watched him walk away back to his office, which, by the way, faced away from the water and canoes. He wouldn’t be able to see me even if I got in trouble. I swallow my trepidation, go back to the parking lot, pull my gear-loaded Harley up closer, and unload the gear and pack it into the canoe.
I’m not a complete novice. Thirty years ago, I did a little canoeing and kayaking, but it’s been a long time, and I was a lot younger. Having watched several YouTube videos on how to canoe for this adventure, I tie my gear into the canoe, just in case it flips over, so I won’t lose it. to aid stability and steering, I distribute the gear-weight evenly in the front and rear of the canoe. Most of the gear is in water-proof bags. I am about to find out that both the tying and bagging are inadequate.
Having finished transferring my gear, I drive the Harley back over to the parking lot, throw a cover over it, walk back, and stand on the shore by the canoe looking out at the water, then at the gators across the way, I say a silent prayer, walk the canoe out into the wanter, and shove off, stepping in at the same time.
Gingerly stepping with my foot into the center of the canoe, trying to sit down in one smooth motion, the canoe and I promptly flip over on its side and sink! At this point, I really have the teen gators’ attention. All five of them are turned and facing me now. I swear, it looks like they’re closer too, maybe fifty feet away now, instead of a hundred.
Looking around, chagrined and embarrassed, still no one out—no people, that is. Finally, I decide the only way I’m going to get unstuck is to drop my pants so that I can get enough slack to remove the keys from my belt. I reach underneath the water, unbuckle my belt, zip down my zipper, stand up a little, and slip my pants down to my knees. At that point I can stand up, red drawers, blowing in the breeze, and undo the keys, leaving them wedged in the seat’s railing. I slip my pants back up. Stepping out of the canoe now, I pull the water-filled, heavy canoe back up onto the shore a little ways. I can slosh out some of the water, but there is still a lot in it. I will need to turn it completely over to get all the water out. Everything is soaked! So much for the water-proof bags. Even my down sleeping bag is saturated. I gently wring it out so as not to damage the down.
At this point, I realize it is time to go find help. In my soaked clothes, I slosh a wet trail back up to Phil’s office. Thankfully, he is there. Looking up at me, and hearing to my sad story, he smiles, grabs some bath towels stacked in the corner, and we walk back down to my canoe. I get the distinct feeling he’s had to deal with this sort of thing before. He takes in stride and helps me pull the canoe the rest of the way out of the river, empty it out, and take my gear out. While I sort through my gear and pour out its water, he dries out the inside of the canoe with the towels he brought. Then he helps me reload and tie back down the gear. Finally, when I’m ready, he has me get in the canoe and shoves me off into the swamp. I’m on my way!
Out in the middle of the river, I turn the canoe around and head downriver toward my camping site—only a three-mile paddle, according to the map. For an old amateur like me, should take me about two hours, according to what I’ve read.
Wrong!
Go to Chapter 2