by Marsanne Petty

It wasn’t her first trip to the area. The cool, deceiving calm had always been her favorite secret call. A banker by day, a mother by night – there was just not time for such frivolous pastimes. An hour in the swamp would give her more adrenaline than a line of coke ever could.

It wasn’t the drive that kept her away. It was all of the perceived obligations – that she must participate in the PTA, she must attend ball practice and fund raisers, she must head the six-year-old dance team. No, the drive was relatively short, only about two hours there and two hours back, so completely doable. It was more the fact that if she went, she might not want to come out, that she might want to escape into the fathomless areas of the swamp, that she might just blend into the earthy islands and tannic laced waters. There was only so much of that kind of thing that a woman could take, you know, and she aware enough of it to heed the warnings in her head. But a few times a year wouldn’t hurt too much, she supposed. And so she set her goal.

The day dawned cool and crisp. There was a small box at the gate to hold donations. She always drops a few dollars in; it just makes her feel safer that the park will still be open next time, next month, next year. Her little part of helping save the world from civilization. The money into the box wouldn’t cover even a fraction of her day elsewhere. She had only minutes to go.

There was a slight breeze on the water, but she didn’t mind. She made sure to dress for the weather – all temperatures could be felt throughout the course of the day. By nightfall, her arms would ache from paddling away, and her face would be parched from the sun. But it was worth it.

Water rippled in front of her, dark and concealing. She sat with the paddles laid across her lap, waiting. The autumn colored leaves falling down, each one reflecting into itself before hitting the water’s surface. Birds chirping in the background and perched in the tops of the cypress trees. Turtles lounging on fallen logs while fish rolled in the depth.

It was over almost before it began – the slicing of water, the splash of a fish tail slapping the surface, the snap of seventy-six teeth closing over scales and backbone. Rising up, the alligator broke through the surface, eyes bright, droplets of water slinging from the osteoderms trailing down his back. Fully stretched upwards, his jaws opened, teeth shining in the sunlight, and then it was gone. The fish was gone in less than a second. With a splash, the weight of the alligator pushed back down through the water, disappearing beneath the surface, leaving only a few air bubbles of proof.

She’d been holding her breath without realizing. Slowly paddling back through the labyrinth of the swamp, she let her mind wander. Without a doubt, survival of the fittest in nature was the most beautiful of all.