Read Online Deadly Catch by E. Michael Helms - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: E. Michael Helms
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my joke, “but just wait till summer really gets here.”
Wakulla Springs was a little over an hour’s drive from St. George. We headed east on Highway 98, enjoying the beach scenery and each other’s company. We drove through Apalachicola, home to what the locals, along with many others far and wide, call the best oysters in the world. Once a sleepy fishing village, the downtown area is fast becoming a popular artists’ colony and weekend shopping destination for southern Alabama, Georgia, and Panhandle residents. I’d spent a couple of days there before moving on to St. George.
At the eastern end of town we passed the Gibson Inn, a large, early-twentieth-century three-story wooden structure with wrap-around porches and topped by a cupola. I’d visited their bar at happy hour one evening, and the place was hopping.
“The Gibson is haunted, you know,” Kate said, turning in the seat to catch a better glimpse as we drove by.
I snickered.
“It’s true, Mac. The ghosts of an old sea captain and a young woman roam around the place. They’ve been seen by the staff and so many guests that there’s no way they could all be making it up.”
I laughed. “Yeah, well they’ve got a great bar in there, too. I never noticed any spooks when I was there, but I’d bet my money that it’s mostly spirits conjuring up the spirits.”
We crossed the John Gorrie Bridge into Eastpoint, and several miles later we turned north onto Highway 319. I couldn’t know it then, but a couple of weeks later I’d be traveling much this same route on more serious business. A few miles farther on I turned onto Wakulla Springs Road and soon came to the park’s entrance.
I paid the attendant the six-dollar daily fee, handed Kate the park map, and followed her instructions to the Waterfront Visitor’s Center. After finding a parking spot that offered some shade, we hurried across the lot to the ticket window. I shelled out another sixteen bucks for our River Cruise tickets, then we strolled about the grounds to stretch our legs while waiting for the three-thirty cruise.
At three-thirty sharp we boarded the tour boat, a thirty-foot rectangular vessel with open sides for good viewing and a top to provide shade and keep the rain off. Our guide, a young state park employee with longish blond hair and a matching mustache, gave us the official spiel as we glided over the main spring for a moment, which due to recent rainfall was a bit murky instead of the crystal-clear aqua Kate had bragged about.
According to our guide, the bones of mastodons, saber-toothed tigers, and other extinct animals still lay at the bottom of the spring where they had rested since the last Ice Age. We turned downriver, and before long scores of alligators came into view, some sunning on the banks or logs, others watching us drift by with only their eyes and snouts visible above the water.
One curious eight-footer approached the boat way too close for my comfort. Kate leaned over me and snapped photos while I moved my arm away from the rail. No free meals at my expense. And I didn’t object when she asked to switch places.
Our guide pointed out a pair of ospreys nesting in the top of a giant cypress, brilliant purple gallinules, the rare limpkin, and other feathered inhabitants of southern swampland swimming or wading in the shallows along the banks. The guide really grabbed my interest when he mentioned that several of the early Tarzan movies starring Johnny Weissmuller had been filmed here, as well as the cult classic Creature from the Black Lagoon , one of my all-time favorite flicks as a kid. He even pointed out the huge tree where Tarzan stood beating his chest while belting out his famous “Aaaaeeeeeaaaah!”
I hadn’t felt so relaxed in a long time and was sorry to see the tour end. Back ashore after our hour-long, three-mile wilderness adventure, Kate and I visited the rest rooms and then headed for the restaurant for an early dinner before returning to
Wakulla Springs was a little over an hour’s drive from St. George. We headed east on Highway 98, enjoying the beach scenery and each other’s company. We drove through Apalachicola, home to what the locals, along with many others far and wide, call the best oysters in the world. Once a sleepy fishing village, the downtown area is fast becoming a popular artists’ colony and weekend shopping destination for southern Alabama, Georgia, and Panhandle residents. I’d spent a couple of days there before moving on to St. George.
At the eastern end of town we passed the Gibson Inn, a large, early-twentieth-century three-story wooden structure with wrap-around porches and topped by a cupola. I’d visited their bar at happy hour one evening, and the place was hopping.
“The Gibson is haunted, you know,” Kate said, turning in the seat to catch a better glimpse as we drove by.
I snickered.
“It’s true, Mac. The ghosts of an old sea captain and a young woman roam around the place. They’ve been seen by the staff and so many guests that there’s no way they could all be making it up.”
I laughed. “Yeah, well they’ve got a great bar in there, too. I never noticed any spooks when I was there, but I’d bet my money that it’s mostly spirits conjuring up the spirits.”
We crossed the John Gorrie Bridge into Eastpoint, and several miles later we turned north onto Highway 319. I couldn’t know it then, but a couple of weeks later I’d be traveling much this same route on more serious business. A few miles farther on I turned onto Wakulla Springs Road and soon came to the park’s entrance.
I paid the attendant the six-dollar daily fee, handed Kate the park map, and followed her instructions to the Waterfront Visitor’s Center. After finding a parking spot that offered some shade, we hurried across the lot to the ticket window. I shelled out another sixteen bucks for our River Cruise tickets, then we strolled about the grounds to stretch our legs while waiting for the three-thirty cruise.
At three-thirty sharp we boarded the tour boat, a thirty-foot rectangular vessel with open sides for good viewing and a top to provide shade and keep the rain off. Our guide, a young state park employee with longish blond hair and a matching mustache, gave us the official spiel as we glided over the main spring for a moment, which due to recent rainfall was a bit murky instead of the crystal-clear aqua Kate had bragged about.
According to our guide, the bones of mastodons, saber-toothed tigers, and other extinct animals still lay at the bottom of the spring where they had rested since the last Ice Age. We turned downriver, and before long scores of alligators came into view, some sunning on the banks or logs, others watching us drift by with only their eyes and snouts visible above the water.
One curious eight-footer approached the boat way too close for my comfort. Kate leaned over me and snapped photos while I moved my arm away from the rail. No free meals at my expense. And I didn’t object when she asked to switch places.
Our guide pointed out a pair of ospreys nesting in the top of a giant cypress, brilliant purple gallinules, the rare limpkin, and other feathered inhabitants of southern swampland swimming or wading in the shallows along the banks. The guide really grabbed my interest when he mentioned that several of the early Tarzan movies starring Johnny Weissmuller had been filmed here, as well as the cult classic Creature from the Black Lagoon , one of my all-time favorite flicks as a kid. He even pointed out the huge tree where Tarzan stood beating his chest while belting out his famous “Aaaaeeeeeaaaah!”
I hadn’t felt so relaxed in a long time and was sorry to see the tour end. Back ashore after our hour-long, three-mile wilderness adventure, Kate and I visited the rest rooms and then headed for the restaurant for an early dinner before returning to
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