Target Practice

The following story is true, some creative liberties were taken in writing. The story takes place after the events of The Super Bass Buster Plug

         Miami was very turbulent in 1980, to say the least. The McDuffie riots and the Mariel Boat Lift had the ‘Big Orange’ in turmoil. Due to all this my dad always carried his trusty .38 under his truck’s seat wherever he went, including fishing out in the Everglades.

          The sky was hazy on that hot steamy Saturday afternoon. Alligator Alley was a construction zone mess as dad pulled that old beige Oldsmobile station wagon off the road. The reptilian highway was being widened as it was destined to become a stretch of I-75. The usual fishing spots were still there; however, they were only accessible by boat. You had to use the boat ramps off of US 27 to get to there and they were miles away.

          We marched towards the canal in a path provided by the Florida Department of Transportation. It was a simple rocky path with native wild brush on either side. Dad took the lead, followed by my sister, mom, and I brought up the rear. We had no earthly idea how high we were in compared to the new fishing spot. Our eyes nearly popped out of our sockets as we gazed down upon the murky canal; it seemed like we were 30 feet above the water.

         That was a minor problem in comparison to what was down below. A six foot black water moccasin was waiting at the bottom. My dad had a brilliant idea; remember the .38 I mentioned? Well, instead of leaving and finding another spot dad huffed that he wasn’t going to have any member of his family get bitten by a water moccasin when the nearest hospital was over 20 miles away.

          He promptly marched out to that battle tested Detroit station wagon and pulled out the gun’s carrying case and brought it back out to the canal. The coots and ospreys had gathered for a look by the time he got back. The coots nearly died of laughter as dad unzipped the case and pulled out the cold steel. The ospreys slowly turned to face each other as my dad sat down upon the high bank.

         The birds of prey covered their feathery heads with their mighty wings; no doubt they were shaking their black and white heads, much like my mom was doing. I was worried that dad was going to get arrested; we weren’t that far from the toll plaza and troopers were there all the time. He had seemed to forget about that fact or he didn’t seem to care as he drew aim at the deadly snake down in the water; truly another unforgettable Whitaker moment was upon us.

         My mom sighed his name and turned around, my sister and I put our fingers in our ears. I took a nervous breath as I gazed over at the distant tollbooth. I fixed my eyes back on my father and watched him fire. Ibis, herons, egrets, redwing black birds, grackles, as well as many other frightened birds squawked as they took to the safety of the hazy sky at the sound of the shot. We could see a bright cloud of orange clay down in the murky waters. The ominous snake was gone, we hoped.

         A dead eerie silence ensued. We slowly gazed up and down the bank. The ospreys broke out in laughter as they continued to watch us looking for signs of that menacing snake. Again, leave it to me and my keen eyes. I spotted it. It was about twenty feet from its original spot. You could clearly see a large hole near the back of its submerged tail. The ospreys nearly fell out of their nest as they doubled over in laughter.

         The Florida Highway Patrol never arrived and neither did a single bite. Sadly, dad’s quick tempered shot was the only bang on this fishing expedition. The fish skunked the Whitaker clan or did dad scare them away on that hot summer South Florida afternoon?