Floridian-Style Bird Watching

A Wild Anecdote

My first experience of Floridian-style bird watching was back in the sixth grade, and I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. There’s one location about an hour and a half away from where I live, so my dad booked a trip for the Saturday of that week for my family, so we packed a lunch, slapped on sunscreen, a hat, and started driving.

The road through the Everglades is one of the more relaxing ones (unless you forgot to fill up the tank before you left, because once you get on that highway you won’t be seeing a gas station, or any other sign of civilization, for a long, long time). Looking out the window there’s a carpet of long grass as far as the eye can see, and a murky river running parallel to the road where beautiful flocks of white egrets perch in the well-rooted cypress trees; I was able to catch a glimpse of a snapping turtle swimming along, and an oddly-shaped log or two bathing in the sun.

So finally we made it to this little “town” where there are a maximum of five buildings, and we parked at this saloon-looking gift shop/gas station/ grocery store/ pawn shop where they sell everything from live hermit crabs with painted shells to popsicles to jack knives to stuffed alligators wearing sombreros. It wasn’t long before our guide introduced himself. He’s a stocky man wearing a bucket hat and orange-tinted sunglasses who smiled with more gold in his mouth than teeth and kindly escorted us to the dock where our experience truly began.

I’d never seen an airboat until that day. It’s essentially an overgrown house fan fused to the back of a small fishing boat, which was well-needed because it had to be hot enough to boil the water in my bottle. It’s so loud that we all needed to wear headphones as we left the dock behind us, speeding through the forest of grass where the water below was only a few mere inches deep. It took about twenty minutes until we slowed down in preparation for our first sight.

Much like traditional bird watching, many observers use a certain sound to lure their desired species into view. It’s a strange sound, kind of like a duck’s quack. Our guide called out a few times, then we waited.

Now the one thing about Floridian-style bird watching I should mention is that the birds are much larger, toothier, with less feathers, and in their more… prehistoric form. Common name? Alligators.

The first one we saw was about the size of my brother (who was seven at the time), who our guide immediately identified as a two year old female. She came right up to us without fear, swimming within a three foot range of where I sat. I moved a little closer to the middle of the boat. When she lost interest, we moved on-- each one we spotted much larger than the last. The water got deeper the farther we went, so much it became more of a brown void below.

By that point we had just enough time to meet one final specimen, one promised to be the king of all the scaly birds.

“Meet ‘Battleship’.”

“Battleship?”

He nodded. “Battleship.”

It was a fitting name. I reasoned that this monster could probably swallow two of me whole without batting an eye, and half of its body was still submerged underwater. And yet, it sauntered up to our guide like a puppy, patiently awaiting command or a treat. To my horror, our guide kneeled at the edge of the boat, took off his sunglasses, and reached at the beast. No one moved. No one breathed. He perched the glasses atop its snout, and “Battleship” magically became no more dangerous than the keepsakes at the store.

After a moment filled with pictures and dumbstruck awe, he removed the glasses as easily as he’d put them on, started the engine back up, and drove us back to the dock, leaving us all with the opinion that alligators definitely look better with glasses.