Gatorman

While attending the University of Florida I lived in an apartment just across the road from Lake Alice. The lake is a nature preserve, a wildlife refuge at the edge of the campus, peaceful and inviting in every respect but one; it is filled with large, menacing alligators.

Students congregate along its shore in the afternoon to feed the gators, hoping to catch a glimpse of the lake’s most celebrated resident, Big Albert. He is big, estimated to be between twelve and sixteen feet in length. One gator looks pretty much like another but Big Albert is easy to recognize when he makes his occasional appearance; he only has one eye. The other is clouded over like a pearl-colored aggie. All gators have a sinister appearance but when Big Albert silently breaks the surface and locks you in his glassy one-eyed stare your chest turns cold with fear and you experience an epiphany; you suddenly understand that your role in his world is only that of a morsel, a tasty tidbit.

Another celebrity stalks Lake Alice, not a resident but a frequent visitor. He arrives just before dusk on a rusted bicycle, dressed in cut-off jeans and tee shirt. He wears a white painted army helmet with his name scrawled across the front in hand-printed letters; GATORMAN. He never speaks to the people lining the shore throwing marshmallows to attract the gators in closer. He just lays his bike on the bank and wades slowly into the midst of the gathering reptiles, lightly stroking the rough hide between their protruding eyes as they drift within his reach. When the water reaches his chest he stands with his back to the shore, speaking in a voice too soft to be heard clearly.

Answers to inquiries about the Gatorman are inconclusive.
“He is a drop-out.”
“He is a biologist who never sought work after graduating.”
“He is crazy.”
“He is clairvoyant and communicates with animals.”

He is fearless; there is no doubt of that. He shares the lake with beasts that could snatch him in their jaws and drown him quickly, twisting rapidly in a death roll beneath the surface. He doesn’t appease them with food; I have never seen him feed the animals. He simply stands still in the chest-deep water, gently stroking any gator that moves in close, all the while speaking under his breath.

I don’t understand their relationship but the somehow the Gatorman and Big Albert are connected. Whenever he enters the water the giant gator appears within minutes. The other alligators herald his arrival by moving away, hanging still in the water several yards from the man. Only then does the giant appear, slowly emerging directly in front of the Gatorman. He never reaches out to stroke this gator. They confront each other in silence. It is reminiscent of the encounter between Captain Ahab and the great white whale, Moby Dick. I sense that these two share a guarded self-respect.

I wonder, do they also share some mysterious past? Was the respect they display for each other earned in conflict? Could the Gatorman explain the giant gator’s blinded eye? Might he himself hide angry scars beneath his tee shirt and jeans? I cannot answers these questions. Nor can I understand why a man feels compelled to repeatedly face mortal danger. I am sure he finds some fulfillment in these encounters but his reward must be a personal one only he can know.

Eventually, Big Albert disappears again beneath the lake and the Gatorman leaves the water. The final act always closes in the same way just before the sun sets like a falling curtain, ending the curious drama for another day.

You can witness this spectacle for yourself. Wander down to Lake Alice half an hour before sunset, where Village Drive ends at Museum Road. If a bicyclist in a white army helmet descends the hill from the direction of the law school, prepare to meet a legend.