By Larry Barrett
It was a hot, humid, summer’s day in 1970. Sitting in the aluminum boat with no breeze made it worse. Charles, John, and Larry had been working hard all morning taking soundings on the Intercostal Waterway near Overstreet, Florida. There was a bend there called the Devil’s Elbow. My last real job before entering the Marine Corps.
We had surveyed from Point Washington, Florida to Overstreet by this time, a distance as the crow flies of about 60 miles. We cut brush and trees through every swamp along that canal for miles, summer, and winter, using the tools our ancestors would have. Machetes and axes. We lugged a chainsaw along for a short period and we were usually in a swamp, far from the gas and oil it needed. One of us, in a mild temper tantrum, finished it off like a Western movie where they break the rifle stock against a tree.
We saw and had lunch with every type of poisonous snake and biting insect in Northwest Florida, including large alligators. Swarms of ubiquitous mosquitos and Yellow Flies were plentiful.
You may not be familiar with this character. Cousin to the Deer Fly, but slightly larger and more yellow. A biting fly I have only seen in Northern Florida. He’s a bloodsucker extraordinaire. Unlike other flies of the genus, he never makes a sound. I call him the “Stealth Biter!” You will not know he has lit on you until he has siphoned off a quart or two of blood. I decided to see how many I could kill during our lunch break. With little effort, I exterminated 124. We were bitten so often that we became immune.
I was in the bow of the 16’ workboat and John was recording the sounding depths I called out, while Charles ran the motor. It was then we heard the dogs!
A great sonorous baying, a beautiful sound that only a good hound dog can accomplish. It sounded like a barbershop quartet with fur and tails. We turned to look across the canal. A large Bobcat leaped out of the marsh grass and into an open, grassy clearing along the canal about 200 yards away. We were in awe at the sight of this animal, rarely seen in the daylight. We could see he was a big, mature wildcat. We could hear, but not see, the pack of dogs howling on his trail in hot pursuit.
A sense of fair play rose in me. A righteous indignation favoring the underdog. It was then that I made a momentous decision. “Let’s save him!”
We sat down in the boat as Charles turned the motor and headed us across the canal towards our potential grand rescue victim. We rapidly crossed the smooth, brown water, arriving on the far shore within 25 yards of our target of salvation. He had moved onto the grassy area about 50 yards from the marsh within four or five yards of the canal. He kept turning his large, powerful head back and forth, staring at the water, and then back towards the sounds of the hounds, more tense as the howling came closer.
The boat touched the shore ten yards from the agitated feline. I vaulted out, landing on my feet, within ten feet of the big cat. The lunacy of an 18-year-old boy! I realized I had jumped out of a perfectly good boat to face a scared and angry wildcat with no equipment but bare hands. And worse, I had no plan!
Did I think I would grab him like a housecat by the scruff of the neck? This guy probably weighed 30-40 lbs. He had a big set of teeth and some amazing claws, several inches long. Reality became immediately apparent – the cat leaped toward me!
There we were eyeball to eyeball! Both afraid, but neither one of us giving in. I had a close look at those yellow-black eyes and long, white teeth of this tomcat on steroids. Like two old gunfighters, we were in a stare down. I was more of a scaredy cat than he was. After what seemed like hours, he made his move.
To my astonishment, he jumped into the canal and started to swim for the other side! WOW! Not wanting to let our reluctant evacuee escape his potential hero rescuers, I hopped back into the boat, yelling, “After him!” Charles turned the motor, swinging the bow in line with the fleeing feline frogman. I cast about for something to capture our paddle-pawed refugee. Though he was headed in the right direction, how dare he keep his rescuers from their moment of glory! Then I spied the bow rope.
A thin piece of polyethylene line about 10 feet long. I grabbed the rope, and quickly made it into a lasso. I used a lasso when I was a boy. My dad was one of the ole cracker cowboys.
The Bobcat was making great headway on his swim. Whoever said cats can’t swim! He had flippers for paws! I moved towards the bow, to get slack in the rope. I swirled the line over my head in genuine cracker cowboy fashion. Once, twice, three times and let it go towards the freestyling feline.
The rope sailed out in a nice arc and landed on the water encircling the cat. He paid no attention to the rope and swam over the front end. I quickly pulled on the rope as he swam through the lasso, and it tightened snugly around his waist. I had him!
Boy, oh Boy we had us a Wildcat! John was screaming, “Are you crazy?” I continued hauling in my catch with no thought to consequences. It was only after I pulled the cat into the boat, that I realized that once again, I had no plan. The other end of the bowline was still tied to the boat, and a wet, angry and frustrated giant cat was between me and that attachment!
I had no way to control the cat. I only had this flimsy rope around his back end, which left all his attack apparatus on his front end for just that – attacking!
As a survey crew, we had wooden stakes in the boat. They were about three feet long. Perfect swords for defense! I quickly picked one and did the lion-tamer bit, minus the chair. Ole Bob was very irate for interrupting his swim. Maybe he figured we were taking him back to sacrifice him to the dogs. He was snarling viciously and moving towards us at the stern! I poked one of the stakes at him and yelled for Charles to get us across the canal! The bobcat tore large chunks of wood with teeth and claws, growling and hissing like an old steam locomotive/ I yelled again at Charles, “Faster!”
I looked behind me. Charles and John were both vying to climb on top of the small outboard motor. One person on top, improbable, two, impossible! Nevertheless, they wanted to get to higher ground. Somehow, Charles managed to steer towards the other side.
The cat had torn off most of the wooden stake, so I grabbed another one and fought another round! I wished I had an alligator to throw at him. (Song – Battle of New Orleans)
The bow stopped on the sandy bottom of the canal. The cat ceased attacking the wooden stake, looking at the woods, as if he knew that freedom awaited. John said, “Take this,” handing me his pocketknife. I very carefully reached down and cut the rope a few feet short of the lasso. With one nimble hop, Bob bounced up onto the bow platform. Then, with one small leap for himself, and one giant leap away from mankind, he leaped onto the shore.
He stood, proud and strong, examining the nearby woods. We watched closely, hoping he would not decide to come back. After a few seconds that seemed like minutes, he turned his regal head and cast his gaze upon us, like a medieval king surveilling his subjects. As I stared back into those narrow, yellow and black eyes, I could see in his arrogant look, a smoldering anger, but something else also. Maybe it was an unspoken thank you for the assistance. He then slowly turned and vanished into the woods, becoming only a memory in three young men’s lives.
Meanwhile, the hounds on the far shore reached the grassy clearing. Tails straight up and rigid, noses to the ground, they were milling about smartly, seeking a fur coat for their laborious hunt. Determination slowly became confusion. They couldn’t locate their quarry. Sniffing along the waterline, the pack wandered about aimlessly and eventually ambled, one by one, back the way they had come.
As the sun teetered on the western horizon, the young men turned upstream towards the faraway boat dock, a bit shaken, but secretly very self-satisfied with the perilous rescue. After all, how many had ever rescued a very violent feline victim, against his will, across vast waters, by a slender rope and small boat, to the pleasant valleys and green fields of freedom? Yes sir, they were quite the conquerors and just a little bit crazy!
Larry Barrett’s ancestors reach back about 170 years in this area. He is retired Marine Corps and Navy Seal and back home for good (he hopes).
Author: Sowal Editor
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