Article and illustration by Rick Scott
The other night I headed out to my dock to view the Hunter’s Supermoon peaking through the clouds over Little Lake Santa Fe. In the stiff wind the Spanish moss was waving from the cypress trees. The recent hurricanes had brought the lake up to flood stage and the wind driven waves were hitting the exposed end of the dock.
The moonlight was sporadic as the clouds scuttled past so I brought a small flashlight to look out for storm loosened dock boards. I was also checking for any alligators taking refuge around the cypress trunks bordering the dock where the waves are softened by the torpedo grass. I have never seen a gator near my dock, but it is Florida after all.
When openings in the clouds exposed the moon it was so bright that it was difficult to see anything that sat in the contrasting shade of the cypress trees or my covered boat lift. Eerie sounds caused by the interaction of wind, waves, and wood filled the darkness beyond. The cabled lift cradling my Sea Pearl Tri creakingly swayed in the gusts. I was on high alert but a fast retreat was hampered by the possibility of a swim caused by an unseen loose board.
A whitecap slapped the underside of the dock, followed by a whispering cry from the boathouse. Startled, I swung my anemic flashlight beam towards the sound but the darkness devoured its weak photons. Chillingly, the cry repeated. No intelligible response came from my “who’s there?” query. Maybe the trick of an overactive freaked imagination? I took a quick photo and beat a careful fast walk retreat to land. The wind off the lake following me felt like an icy breath on the back of my neck.
Later I processed my iPhone images and was surprised to see a pair of glowing eyes near the lift, peeking out from the vicinity of our Adirondack chairs. Maybe they were lights from the opposite shore, or from a fisherman’s boat. Or maybe it was something more sinister, something stirred up from the lakes depths by the promise of the full moon. •SCA•