Crocs, page 3
“Come back here and build a tree house,” the girl said.
This was unexpected.
“Why?” the boy asked.
“Because it would be fun. We could camp out for the night. Build a fire, catch fish for dinner, and gather our own food. Why not?” She batted at the cloud of mosquitoes that had found them.
Maribel loved the idea. “When we get back, we’ll ask our mom for permission. And once Hannah hears our plan, I’m sure she’ll say yes. Doc, too—he’s all for us exploring.”
Sabina chimed in, “Of course they will. The marina’s only a mile or so away. Practically in our backyard. And Thanksgiving vacation is in a few weeks. That would be a perfect time to camp here.”
Luke felt nervous. Could he really build a tree house? He looked up. There were oranges on the ground, but none visible in the tangle of limbs overhead.
He knelt and picked up a couple. Hannah had told them that fruit from diseased trees was shriveled and green. These oranges were large, knobby, and healthy. Yet they looked nothing like oranges sold in a store.
Belted to Maribel’s waist was the same fancy multi-tool that Captain Hannah carried. He handed an orange to Maribel. She cut it into wedges, and a mist of juice sprayed out.
“Smells like spicy lemonade,” Sabina said. When she tasted the orange, though, her lips puckered.
Luke took a bite. It was sour but good. There were hundreds of seeds inside the thick skin. Fun to spit—sort of like darts, the way they shot out of his lips.
“That’s gross,” Sabina snapped. “Stop it.”
“The tree has to be around here someplace,” the boy replied, then wandered off.
No luck, though. Not an orange to be seen among the limbs overhead. When he came back, the sisters were even more excited about spending the night in a tree house that the boy wasn’t sure he knew how to build.
Sabina asked if Luke could make a sleeping platform big enough for three people. What about hammocks? Was it cheating to use rope instead of vines?
Maribel said, “A hundred years ago, farmers probably had rope. But when the first people were here, thousands of years ago, they had to make everything from plants that grew wild. Luke, did they teach you how to make rope?”
Sabina pressed, “And what about a place to cook? We should dig a firepit so it’ll be ready when we come back. Smoke from a fire would help keep these stupid bugs away.”
This started a whole new conversation. Aside from catching fish, what else could they have for dinner?
Luke thought, Crapola. Just what I deserve for stretching the truth.
“How long before we have to call the lab?” he interrupted, hoping to change the subject.
He knew it hadn’t been long, but it was a fair question to ask. When tagging sharks or exploring alone, their team was required to make contact every two hours. Cell phones were undependable, so their boat was equipped with a small VHF marine radio. The signal couldn’t travel far, but Doc’s stilt house and the marina were just across the bay.
As team captain, Maribel had to keep track of the time. She checked her watch. “We’ve only been here half an hour. Let’s find that orange tree; then I’ll radio Doc. He’ll know right away if that thing we saw is an alligator or a giant lizard, or something else.”
Sabina insisted, “It’s a dragon, not an alligator. Why doesn’t anyone ever believe me?”
A gust of wind rattled the treetops. A sudden coolness carried the scent of rain.
Maribel held up her hand, signaling the others, Be quiet.
She stood and waited. After another gust of wind, she tested the air with her nose. “Smells like a storm’s coming,” she said. “We’ve got to get back to the marina right away.”
In Florida, thunderstorms could appear fast. The first warnings included a wind change and a drop in temperature.
When a rumble of distant thunder confirmed it was true, Maribel said, “Okay. We’ve got to move.”
The kids grabbed a few wild oranges. They hurried through the tangled brush to where their boat was anchored in the shallows.
Luke noticed that a large bird was following them. It soared high overhead as Maribel steered their boat through a narrow, twisting creek into Dinkins Bay.
He nudged Sabina. “Fish hawk,” he said over the noise of the engine.
Sabina looked up and replied, “It’s called an osprey, farm boy.”
Luke was used to her teasing. To him, Sabina was the irritating little sister he’d never had. “Osprey, yeah,” he said. “I saw the same one earlier when we split up to look for oranges.”
Sabina had been watching a mountain of thunderous clouds behind them. “How can you tell? Ospreys all look alike. There are thousands of them in Florida.”
Luke shrugged.
He still wasn’t ready to talk about the rattlesnake. Or the osprey that had saved him.
FIVE
GOOD GRADES AND A STINKY DOG
The kids beat the storm to the marina by thirty minutes. On the walk to Doc Ford’s lab, they discussed the chances of being allowed to return to the island and camp for a few nights during Thanksgiving vacation.
“We found oranges,” Maribel reasoned. “A survivor tree must be there somewhere. Captain Hannah will want us to go back. If our mom says it’s okay, I’m pretty sure Doc and Hannah will say yes.”
Luke didn’t have an opinion.
Sabina had an opinion about everything.
“You know how adults are,” she warned. “We can’t give them a reason to say no. All our chores need to be done. Our homework, too.” She gave the boy a pointed look. “How bad are your grades this term?”
“Not as bad as usual,” Luke said. Usually, he got straight Cs. But there was a chance he might get a B or two.
“That helps,” Maribel said. “We’ll have a whole week off for Thanksgiving. They shouldn’t mind if we ask to camp for just a night or two.”
Sabina was the youngest. She was also the slyest when it came to dealing with adults.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” she said. “We’ll tell them we want to spend at least six nights. That way, camping for two nights will seem more reasonable. They’ll feel like they won the argument and say yes.”
Luke was impressed. Being sneaky wasn’t something he was good at.
“Maybe she’s right,” he said to Maribel.
“Of course I’m right,” Sabina said. “In fact, let’s tell them we want to camp there for the whole week. Doc’s easier to talk into stuff than Hannah. He might even say we can stay for three nights—but it has to seem like his idea. Our mom trusts Doc. She’ll go along with anything he says.”
Luke rolled his eyes. Sometimes the way Sabina’s mind worked was spooky.
They were almost to Doc’s lab. Maribel was carrying their waterproof camera. “First we have to show him the video I shot. That was a pretty big alligator—or whatever it was.”
“A dragon,” Sabina insisted. “Dragons aren’t dangerous. Everyone knows that.”
The boy frowned when she added, “Once Doc hears about the tree house we’re gonna build, he’ll like the idea. Besides, my birthday is next week. I’ll tell them it’s the best present I could ever have.”
Doc’s dog, Pete, greeted them on the path through the mangroves. Pete was a retriever with a block head and cinnamon-colored curly hair. The dog enjoyed swimming in the bay, which explained why his coat was wet and splotched with mud.
“Yuck—get away from me,” Sabina hollered as the dog galloped up. “You’ve been rolling in dead fish.”
There was a swirl of wind from the approaching squall. It carried a foul odor. Maribel wrinkled her nose. “Whew. That dog needs a bath. Luke, do something, or we’ll all need a bath.”
Pete was an unusual dog. The biologist had found him in the Everglades with a snake’s head and fangs still buried in the dog’s neck. Pete seldom barked or wagged his tail. He could swim underwater like an otter, and he loved to stun fish by jumping off the dock.
Pete was also stubborn. Luke had spent hours with the retriever working on basic commands and hand signals.
The boy slapped his left leg, a nonverbal command: Heel. The dog pivoted in midair and landed at the boy’s side.
“Good dog—yes, you are,” Luke said.
Pete had yellow eyes like a wolf. His head swiveled from Luke to something invisible, high above the trees. The dog was shivering.
“He’s afraid for some reason,” Maribel said. “Maybe his nose told him there’s a giant alligator out there in the mangroves.”
A moment later, lightning grumbled from clouds sailing across the bay. Sunlight dimmed. The air had a chill. The wooden walkway to Doc’s old house and lab awaited at the end of the path.
“Pete’s not afraid of anything,” Sabina said. To block the terrible smell, she pinched her nose closed. Her voice sounded like a quacking duck when she added, “Especially if it’s something stinky enough to roll in.”
“He’s nervous, I can tell,” Luke said. “Maybe something was chasing him.” The boy searched the sky above the trees. “You guys go ahead. I’ll hose Pete off and make him stay on the porch.”
Luke was on the lower deck of Doc’s old house, washing the dog, when a shadow dashed close to his ear. Pete was startled by the bird that had just dive-bombed them, and dropped to the deck.
Peep-peep-peep! Sar-Sarrr! The osprey that had saved Luke from the rattlesnake circled twice and dived again. This time its talons snatched a tuft of curly hair from the dog’s rump.
Pete gave a yip of surprise. Wolfish yellow eyes glared at the osprey. The dog turned to Luke as if to ask, Is that bird nuts?
“Hey, knock it off,” the boy yelled to the circling osprey. “Pete’s a friend of mine. Leave him alone.”
Peeep-pee-peep was the response.
Pete stood stiff-legged, no longer scared. Just interested. He often caught seagulls by surprising them from beneath the water. Retrievers had what hunters called “soft mouths.” He never hurt the gulls, but he enjoyed the game.
When the osprey dived again, Pete was ready. The dog took a loping stride. He launched himself off the dock and came within inches of snatching the bird from the air before splashing down into the bay.
Peep-peep-peep SAR-SAR-SAR, the osprey taunted while Luke had to hose the dog and dry him again.
From the top of a nearby tree, the bird watched as Luke and Pete went up the steps to Doc’s lab. At the door, the retriever stopped, turned, and made a cheerful whining sound.
Yeah. Pete definitely wanted another chance at the playful osprey.
SIX
SALTWATER CROCODILES AND THE RECLUSE
Dr. Ford was sitting at the computer in his lab. Aquarium tanks bubbled. Seahorses clung to bits of grass with their prehensile tails. Colorful fish drifted and darted.
The kids circled around the desk while the biologist reviewed Maribel’s video of the gravestones and the strange creature they’d seen. Outside, the first fat drops of rain began to hammer the tin roof of the old house.
“You’re right, this isn’t an alligator,” Doc said. “It’s an American crocodile. A Florida saltwater croc, most call it.”
Sabina tugged at her braided hair. She was disappointed. “How can you be sure it’s not a dragon?”
The man smiled. “You’ve got a point. I’ve never seen a dragon. Either way, I’m proud of you kids. You knew it wasn’t an alligator. Most people wouldn’t have noticed that the nose is too pointed. Almost like a spear. And the jaws look a lot toothier than an alligator’s. Crocs are rare in Florida. You were lucky to see one.”
Maribel wondered if it was wise to go back to the island, let alone camp there. “Aren’t crocodiles dangerous? I saw a TV show about them grabbing zebras in Africa. Buffalo the size of horses, too, and dragging them underwater.”
“Same in Australia,” Luke put in. “Saltwater crocs are man-eaters. I saw a movie where a big one knocked some guys out of a boat and ate them both.”
Doc had spent a lot of time in Australia and Africa. “That happens more often than people realize,” he said. “Crocodiles kill hundreds every year. But in Florida, saltwater crocs tend to be shy. Not nearly as aggressive as alligators. In fact, some experts call American crocs the ‘sweethearts’ of the crocodilian family.”
In his head, Luke sounded out the word—croc-o-dill-ian—while Sabina scoffed, “Sweetheart? Even in English that’s a silly name for a giant lizard with teeth.”
“Maybe so, but it’s true,” Doc said. “In the state’s whole history, I’ve only read about one, maybe two people being attacked by crocs.” He added, “They’re very territorial, though, when it comes to protecting their babies. Keep that in mind. Florida crocodiles are a lot different from those found in Australia. Or the Nile crocodiles of Africa. They avoid people.”
The man paused, muttering, “Let’s hope so, anyway.” He began to type on the keyboard.
Maribel didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean, you hope so?”
The biologist explained that several Nile crocodiles had been found in Florida. That was bad, he said. Nile crocs didn’t belong in Florida. They grew to twice the size of alligators. Their bite was eight times more powerful than the bite of a great white shark.
Not only did Nile crocodiles attack humans, but they could destroy all sorts of native wildlife.
The Nile crocs weren’t invaders, the man added. They had been captured and smuggled into the United States. Florida was a long way from their real home, but an ideal habitat. Now they were reproducing.
“Some people get a kick out of owning dangerous pets,” Doc said. “That’s probably how Nile crocodiles got here. It’s against the law, but that doesn’t mean people don’t smuggle dangerous reptiles into the country. Not just crocs. Rare turtles—venomous snakes, too. They sell for a lot of money.”
On the computer screen appeared a photograph of a giant Nile crocodile. The biologist placed a photo of a Florida crocodile next to it.
“They both look like dragons to me,” Sabina said. “I can’t tell the difference.”
“Me neither,” Luke said. “Is there a chance what we saw is a Nile crocodile?” He sounded hopeful. A dangerous croc would be a good excuse not to build a tree house he wasn’t sure how to build.
“Truthfully,” Doc said, “only a crocodile expert can tell the difference. And I’m no expert. But I know someone who is.”
He typed at the keyboard, then hit the Enter button. “There—I just sent him a copy of your video. He’s a pal of mine. He usually gets back to me right away.”
Luke said to Maribel, “Until we’re sure, I don’t think we should risk camping out for even a night unless—”
Sabina cringed. She tried to silence the boy with a burning look.
Too late.
The biologist looked up from the computer. “Camping? What do you mean? Camp where?”
Sabina took over. “On the island where we found the oranges. They were lying on the ground, but we didn’t find the tree. Know why? Because we were too mature and careful to stick around.”
“I’m sure you were,” Doc said wryly. “What’s that have to do with camping?”
The girl motioned to a window. It was raining harder. “We knew a storm was coming. Maribel felt the wind change. We always follow the safety rules. So now we have to go back and look for that orange tree. It’ll take a lot of time.”
Doc was amused. “Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to soften me up? Camp out by yourselves, you mean?”
“Just for six or seven days,” Sabina said. “We get a whole week off school for Thanksgiving. And the island’s only a mile from here.”
“A whole week, huh?” The biologist chuckled. “You kids out there alone in the heat and the mosquitoes. No TV and cooking your own food. You’re sure that’s something you want to try?”
Maribel decided it was time to step in. “I think we’d learn a lot about how hard it was for Florida’s early settlers to live here. The oranges we found look healthy. That might mean there’s a survivor tree out there somewhere. The island is so overgrown, it could take us a while to find it. Here—look for yourself.”
She placed the bag of oranges on the table next to the computer.
The man liked the idea after he’d inspected the oranges. Luke was surprised.
“You kids have grit, I’ll say that much for you,” Doc told the group. He tilted his wire glasses onto his forehead and held an orange to his nose. “Nice … smells good. You’re right. These oranges look fine. There’re what old-timers call ‘Spanish oranges.’ Nothing like the ones sold in stores. From what I’ve read, citrus greening disease has killed most of the modern groves. So maybe you really did find a survivor tree.”
“Grit?” asked Sabina. After nearly two years in Florida, her English was good. But American slang was still confusing.
In Spanish, Doc replied, “It means you have courage. Determination.”
“We have tons of courage,” Sabina agreed. “We’re smart, too. Even Luke—sometimes.”
For Luke’s benefit, the biologist spoke in English. “Camp out on an island, huh? Interesting. Sort of like going back in time. Most people have no idea what Florida is really like. They travel in cars with the windows up. They sleep with the AC blasting. You kids would experience something that almost no one else does. I don’t know, though—a whole week could be too much.”
“Four nights would be okay,” Sabina suggested. She flashed Luke and Maribel a smug look when the biologist seemed to nod his approval.
“You have a few weeks before Thanksgiving vacation,” Doc reasoned. “Maybe we can find someone to teach you about camping in the mangroves. Hannah and I can help with the basic skills. Fire starting. Where to set up your tent. What to do if there’s an emergency. But in Florida there’s a lot more to it than that.”
Sabina chimed in, “Luke says he learned survival skills at that 4-H club. He’s going to build a tree house. Right, farm boy?”
Doc gave the boy a veiled look of affection. “Luke knows more than most folks realize. If he says he can do it, I’m sure he can. Even so, a mangrove swamp is different from camping in Ohio.”
