| A few times John put his hand in the water to hold up a water flower for me to admire and photograph. I wondered what could be lurking beneath the boat, but John seemed unconcerned as his cigarette dangled from his mouth. I was thinking about the 19-footer and how I would get out of the deadly swamp without Frogger John. We passed a few small islands with shabby hunting cabins. One island was Ike Island because President Eisenhower spent many days and nights camping there during his retirement, mostly duck hunting with friends. I thought, how strange to go from world leader to occupant of a tiny island in the Everglades. Then, on second thought, I understood why a life lived so immensely would retreat to another immensity. John said that we were going to return to the launch and headed for a solitary large tree with an American flag raised above it on a makeshift pole. Another strange Everglades sight. As we neared the bare tree it became even stranger. Charcoal rain clouds moved in from the distance as it began to shower. ”That's Frogger Tree,” said John. “It's a memorial to all froggers, hunters, and airboat pilots, like me, who want their ashes spread in the Everglades after they die. All the toy stuffed animals around it were put there by the families on the day the ashes go into the swamp. You see that big green frog there? It's been there five years and, look, it's still green and in good shape.” “That's amazing,” I said. I was astonished that the swamp hadn't consumed the fuzzy memorials with rot, decay and mold. But the tree was a sacred spot, spared by the mighty swamp. John maneuvered his boat with care around the opposite side. “See that hat on the end of the branch? Now follow that branch a few feet in towards the trunk. Now, do you see that frog on his back with the two beer cans pouring into his mouth?” “Yeah, ok. Yeah, I see it,” and I gave a quick laugh. John took off his sunglasses for the first time, revealing a set of lively eyes. “That means that the owner of that hat, Old Ted, who frogged out here for 40 years, ain't gonna be killing no frogs no more, so that fellah there is celebrating with a few cold beers.” I stared at the bizarre arrangement and nodded my head in understanding. Frogger Ted was a legend here in the Everglades and a true life hero. Back in 1994 when American Flight 401 dipped its wing too low into the swamp and tumbled, breaking apart into burning sections, Frogger Ted was the only other human being within 10 miles of the 1:30 AM catastrophe. As burning fuel and flaming debris exploded into the inky black swamp, Frogger Ted waded into the alligator-stacked waters and single handedly pulled twenty people including small babies and children to safety on a nearby dry island. Ninety-four passengers and five crew perished on that fateful night. Only nine more people survived besides the ones Frogger Ted had saved. Suddenly, I had a craving to try this out for myself. “John,” I said, “when we get back to the launch, I was wondering if you could tell me where I might be able to get frog for lunch.” John put his blue-tinted wraparound sun glasses back on and revved the airboat engine. "I know just the place," he said and we sped off through the swamp. |
| Froggers (continued) |
