Swamp Cowboys

Growing up on the muddy banks of the bayou in Louisiana, my brothers and I knew the creeks and swamps better than we knew the back of our own hands. Miles, Monty, and I, Murphy, were practically born in the marsh, and we spent every free moment exploring its murky depths.

On weekends, it wasn’t just us. Harold, our childhood friend, was always at our house. He practically lived there, and our mother, would often ask him, "Harold, does your mother know where you are?" Harold, with his crooked grin, would respond, "She does, Mrs. Robin. The problem is, me and my pops don’t know where she is, half the time.”

Harold's life wasn't an easy one, and I often wondered what might have become of him if Miles hadn't taken him under his wing. But on this particular Saturday, we weren't thinking about Harold's tough life. No, we were focused on a gator hunt.

We were walking down the banks of the bayou, which was really just a slow-moving creek, thick with reeds and mud. It was a hot day, the kind where the air seems to shimmer in waves, and the sun beat down on our backs as we trudged through the undergrowth.

Miles, always the leader, called us over to the edge of the bank. "Look down there," he said, pointing. Below us, a group of gators were basking in the sun, their scaly snouts and beady eyes just visible above the water. Miles, with a twinkle in his eye, that only meant trouble, turned to us and said, "One of you is going down there."

Monty and Harold exchanged nervous glances. "Rock, paper, scissors will decide," Miles said with a smirk. They both knew better than to argue with him.

After a tense moment of anticipation, Monty lost. With a resigned sigh, he allowed us to tie a rope around his legs. Before he knew it, we were lowering him down over the edge of the bank, just out of reach of the gators.

Miles had moved down closer to the water, taking aim from a tree, his rifle steady in his hands. Harold and I took turns lowering Monty and then raising him, careful to keep him just out of the gators' reach.

Monty, dangling above the water, held a chicken breast in his hand, letting the blood drip down to attract the cold blooded beast. It didn't take long for the reptiles to respond. Their beady eyes locked onto Monty, and soon they were swarming, their powerful jaws snapping just inches below him.

"Pull him up!" Miles suddenly yelled as one particularly large gator lunged. Harold and I yanked on the rope with all our might, and just as the gator leaped, the rope frayed. Monty’s legs jerked, and the rope gave way a little, but we managed to haul him up before the gator could snap its jaws shut around him. The gator, angry at missing its meal, thrashed in the water, sending a spray of mud everywhere, before jumping again.

Miles, cool as a cucumber, aimed his rifle. The crack of the shot echoed through the bayou, and the gator twisted in the air before splashing back into the water. It floated for a moment before going still, blood spreading in the water around it.

We quickly pulled Monty up and untied the rope around his legs. "That, boys, is how you get a gator," Miles said, planting one foot on the gator's floating head as we dragged it into our boat.

The day should have ended there, with us heading back home to clean and cook the gator. But we were young, adventurous, and looking for more excitement. So instead of heading home, we decided to keep going. We split into two boats, Harold and Monty in one, Miles and I in the other, and began trolling through the muck of the marsh, looking for a good spot to fish.

As we moved through the water, I felt a tap on the side of the boat. "We’ve got company," I said, looking down. The dead gator we had just caught, whom we had affectionately named Phillip, for some reason, had attracted a gang of other gators, all looking for a brawl.

One particularly large gator began to climb into Harold and Monty's boat. Harold tried to fend it off with his paddle, but the gator was too strong, and it fell into the boat, landing on top of Phillip's body. Now they were in the boat with a 10-12 foot gator, and it was furious.

Miles pulled our boat up closer, his rifle ready. I was yelling, "Shoot him, shoot him!" but Miles was calm, his eyes narrowed as he took aim. "I have to be dead-on," he said, his voice steady. "I don’t want to risk hitting any of you."

Harold and Monty were struggling to keep the boat steady, their legs braced against the sides, but the gator was thrashing too much. Just when I thought all was lost, Miles fired. The shot echoed across the bayou, and the gator twitched, flipping and flopping in the boat before finally going still.

But in the chaos, we hadn't noticed that Monty had fallen overboard. When Miles asked where he was, Harold looked around frantically and finally spotted him, struggling in the water. Without a second thought, Harold leapt into the water and swam towards Monty, grabbing him and hauling him back into the boat.

"Don’t you ever scare me like that again," Miles said, his voice shaking with a mixture of relief and anger. He fired a few more shots into the water, and the other gators got the message, they weren’t invited to dinner.

We finally got out of the marshy area and into a spot where we could pick up a little speed. Miles, always the daredevil, would race ahead and then circle back, laughing as the wind whipped through his hair.

Just when we thought the day couldn't get any wilder, Miles pointed out a huge yellow jacket nest hanging low over the water. "Hit it with your paddle and duck down,” he said, laughing. I didn’t need to be told twice. I swung hard and nailed it, but the nest exploded in a cloud of angry yellow jackets. I heard Miles yell as he went overboard, trying to dodge the stings.

Unaware of what had just happened, Monty and Harold came around the bend and were hit by the swarm. They, too, ended up overboard, flailing in the water to escape the angry yellow and black wasp. By the time we finally got back to shore, we were covered in welts.

As we sat around a fire in our own back yard, the orange flames licking the cool night air, we tended to our wounds with a mixture of laughter and wincing. Monty was dabbing tobacco on his stings, grumbling about how he’d never forgive me for hitting that yellow jacket nest. Miles, always the stoic one, had a few cuts on his arms and a welt the size of a grapefruit on his neck, but he wore it like a badge of honor.

Harold, nursing his own injuries, spotted the swimming pool a few yards away. He stood up, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “I’m gonna cool off,” he declared, limping over to the pool. We watched as he grabbed a floaty that looked like a small boat and awkwardly climbed on top, still in his clothes.

Leaning back with his arms behind his head, he began to mock Monty’s earlier fall. “Help! I’m overboard!” he hollered, kicking his legs in the air, sending water splashing onto the deck. “Somebody save me! I’m being attacked by a giant gator!” He flailed his arms dramatically, imitating Monty’s terrified thrashing.

Monty rolled his eyes, but we all knew he found it funny. Even Mama, who was usually quick to scold, cracked a smile. Harold continued to clown around, exaggerating every motion as if he were some kind of swamp actor.

But Harold had no idea that while he was busy putting on his show, Miles and Daddy had slipped away. They were hauling the head of one of the big gators, we’d caught earlier, towards the pool. The gator head was massive, its jaws still open, a toothy grin frozen in time.

With Harold too absorbed in his performance to notice, Miles and Daddy carefully placed the gator head on the back of the floaty, right behind Harold. They stepped back, snickering quietly.

“Look out, Harold, it’s gonna get you!” Monty suddenly shouted, his eyes wide with mock terror. Harold, grinning, turned his head just in time to see the gator head looming over him. His eyes bulged, and a blood-curdling scream tore from his throat as he launched himself off the floaty and into the water.

We all burst into laughter as Harold frantically paddled to the edge of the pool, gasping for breath. “That ain’t funny!” he yelled. Miles was doubled over, tears streaming down his face, while Daddy tried to maintain a straight face, his hands on his hips.

Daddy’s attempt at sternness didn’t last long. “Harold, you’re too easy,” he chuckled, finally letting the laughter take over. Even Mama, standing on the porch with a blackberry pie in her hand, couldn’t help but laugh at the scene.

When the laughter died down, Daddy shook his head, trying to regain some composure. “Alright, boys,” he said, his voice taking on that authoritative tone we all knew meant business. “Clean up that mess and get back to the fire.”

We did as we were told, though the laughter continued to bubble up every few minutes. The fire crackled warmly as we gathered around it again, the smell now of fresh coffee brewing and blackberry pie slowly drifting through the air. The bayou had calmed for the night, but the excitement of the day still buzzed in our veins.

Daddy sat down with us, his face thoughtful. He tried to act upset, after all, he had to appease mama, but we could see the pride in his eyes as he listened to our tale. He didn’t say much, just drank his coffee and nodded along, but we knew that look. It was the same look he gave us after a hard day’s work, the kind of look that said we had done well.

As he ran his hand through Monty’s hair, ruffling it the way he always did when he was pleased, I knew that despite the bruises and the stings, we had made a memory that would last a lifetime. Daddy’s approval was the only medicine any of his boys needed, and he gave it out generously to us.

The night ended with us around the fire, bonded by the bayou, and our laughter crackling like the flames. We had faced danger, gone overboard, literally and figuratively, and come out the other side with a story that we’d tell for years to come.

The bayou had tested us, but it had also given us a day of adventure that we would never forget. As I drifted off to sleep that night, I could still hear the echo of Miles' laughter, the crack of the rifle, and the splash of the water as we all went overboard into the wild, unpredictable bayou.

P.Robin