A dark

night in a swamp is dark indeed.

I've just

come in from such a night and want to tell you about it

while the magic is still with me.

The moon

has gone from first quarter to past full while we've been

on the St. John's and her tributaries, and except for the

night it rained, there has always been some light in the

sky. Twice we were startled awake when the boat swung

around and the moon shone its spotlight through a

porthole.

But tonight

we are on a very narrow creek in a very deep swamp, the

nose of our boat snubbed close to a mossy stump, the

sides tied to trees to keep from bumping. Enough goes

bump in the night in a swamp. More about that later...

So. Dishes

done, charts checked for tomorrow's adventure, we don

jackets, turn off interior lights and step out into the

rear cockpit. In a few minutes our eyes accommodate, and

it appears we are in a canyon of trees stretching in two

directions. Its bottom - sluggish Sixmile Creek

- is only a paler shade of black, reflecting the

sky. Which itself is ebony scattered with diamonds, many

tangled in the lacy treetops.

So bright

they are, and the water below so black, that they are

visible on its surface. The constellation Pleiades

appears both above and below me. The profound darkness is

a surprise after so many nights of moonlight whitewashing

the world. Tonight's moon has not yet risen, and any

light it may be tossing over the horizon is blocked by

the dense vegetation of the swamp.

A few stars

blink yellow on the water. No. Those are fireflies. In

February! Their slow, swooping lights weave through the

trees, while high overhead a blinking red light betrays

an airliner threading its way among the stars, its

distance damping out all sound. We are not so far from

civilization here - can hear distant traffic, barely

- but the swamp around us is silent.

Before we

tied up, in bright daylight, we heard barred owls cry.

Even they are quiet now. "Plunk." So close I

thought I felt the splash. The size of a frog, I'd guess.

A few yards upstream, the tiniest trickle, the creek

slipping between the roots and cypress knees along the

bank. And that's all. Not even mosquitoes disturb the

profound, cool silence.

Our

moorings have varied from this snug tie-up to beaching on

a sand bank to the relative luxury of a small marina in

Palatka. (Think hot showers. Groceries. Clean laundry. A

hike for seafood, breakfast in a diner.)

Our

favorite mode of anchorage is swinging from the hook in a

sheltered cove along the river or creek. When we've

dropped anchor on the east side with the setting sun

against the shore, a panoply of habitats like reeds,

water lilies, and tall Spanish moss-laden trees spread

before us - it doesn't get better than that. In such

a setting, we can usually count on a gator coming out to

swim a wide circle around us, just checking, ma'am, thank

you.

Twice or

more we've spent the night near trees where egrets and

white ibis were roosting. They arrange and rearrange

themselves; even after settling in, they grunt through

the night. Tied in close, as we are this evening, might

not be wise in hot weather when snakes hang from trees.

We haven't seen a single one this trip, and presume it's

still too cool - although the gators don't seem to

mind.

Twice,

however, we've been visited by night-roaming natives of

the swamps, and both times we were anchored at least 100

feet from shore. Just last week, on a still night, we'd

gone to bed and become engrossed in Tom Clancy novels. A

persistent sound from overhead finally got my attention

and I finally got Dave's. Something was on the roof of

the boat. When I stirred to take a look, the sound of

claws on non-skid stopped. Went back to bed and in a few

minutes it returned.

Although I

never saw the creature, I am sure it was one of the owls

we had heard earlier. Nothing else could get on the boat,

and its departure was silent. Owls fly silently.

The other

night visitor came on a likewise quiet, windless night on

a cove off the Tennessee River last fall. We were

awakened long before dawn by the sound of scraping on the

hull and loud bubbling sounds - like the noise a

water cooler makes when you draw out a drink. There was

absolutely no doubt something was under the boat -

but what? We found out next day when we headed toward the

boat ramp for the trip home.

"My

depth gauge and mileage meter aren't working,"

observed Captain Dave. With the boat up on the trailer,

we could see why: The wires linking sensors to instrument

panel had been chewed through in several places. A nearby

fisherman confirmed our suspicions: "Yup, it was a

mush-rat."

Once home,

Dave worked for tedious hours to repair damage a muskrat

inflicted in mere seconds of snacking on our boat.

Tonight is very dark indeed. And - so far -

very quiet...

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