Sunset at Lake Maggiore
When I was a young woman, my first husband, Gary, and I used to go to Lake Maggiore in St. Petersburg around sunset. We'd usually bring a few beers with us and sit together by the lake, enjoying the evening.
There was a picnic shelter near the shore, but out in the grass closer to the lake stood a single picnic table. That was our spot.
We would sit there together and watch the sun begin to disappear over the lake. And as daylight faded, something else would happen.
The alligators would start coming out of the water.
Not one or two. There were so many of them.
They would leave the lake and make their way onto the grass, spreading out around the picnic area. Before long, Gary and I would be surrounded by alligators.
So we did what seemed perfectly sensible to us at the time.
We climbed onto the top of the picnic table and pulled our feet up.
And then we stayed.
We weren't screaming. We weren't trying to get away. We certainly weren't feeding them or trying to touch them. We simply sat on top of that table and watched them while the sun went down.
The alligators never bothered us.
Looking back now, I realize how unbelievable that probably sounds to someone who didn't grow up in Florida. But alligators were simply part of the world I knew. As a child, I saw them in lakes, ponds, canals, and ditches. We respected them, and one rule was understood from the time we were young: You never feed an alligator.
Today, when I visit some of the places where I once saw alligators everywhere, there seem to be far fewer of them. I understand why communities have to be careful where people and wildlife live so close together, but seeing those empty shorelines still makes me a little sad.
Because when I remember old Florida, I remember the alligators too.
I remember Gary and me sitting on top of that picnic table at Lake Maggiore, our feet safely tucked away, watching the sunset while the gators quietly surrounded us.
They weren't intruders in our evening. We were visitors in theirs.