Fly Creek in the autumn months tended toward lower temps and humidity, a welcome relief from the oppressive summer conditions in gulf coast Alabama. Toward sunset the docks in the marina nestled in the bayou would often host mariners and visitors for drinking, jawing, and just general relaxation.
Bobby was off-duty this evening from his job running the boatyard, so he sat in comfort on the dock sipping a cold beer, shooting the shit with a few of his neighbors, and just generally enjoying himself.
The baby Cottonmouth lay upon a plank support member just below Bobby’s feet. She was hidden from view, but was confused and scared by all the activity above her. She sensed the warmth her instincts had taught her were potential prey, or worse yet, potential threats to her safety. Just as she poked her tiny head between dock planks, a warm foot shifted slightly and startled her. She quickly struck with youthful enthusiasm and fear, injecting a full quota of venom into the foot above her. She then made her way to the water and swam off.
“Damn!” Bobby declared as he felt a sharp sting to one of his feet. “A damned fire ant got me! I reckon I’ll have to treat the docks tomorrow to get rid of them.” There was laughter from his drinking buds and they quickly returned to arguing politics and sports.
After sunset the drinkers parted ways. Bobby boarded his sailboat, where he lay in his bunk and fell asleep. He woke round midnight to a burning feeling running up his leg. He was worried. Fire ants hurt but not like that! He fell asleep again, but only for an hour or so. He was sweating buckets and the burning pain was in his groin now. He was worried. He got out of his bunk and made coffee and ate a couple aspirin.
Into the morning his mysterious pains continued and increased their intensity. He took the day off from work and had a few shots of whiskey, hoping he’d be feeling better. Come evening there was no let-up of the pain, so he called the local health clinic wanting advice.
“Can’t be fire ants Bobby. Sounds more like some kind of spiderbite or snakebite! You’d better get yourself in here quick,” he was told, so he dragged himself out to his truck and drove to the clinic.
“I thought it was fire ants,” he told the doctor, who responded, “I see two tiny punctures on the side of your foot. Had to have been a baby snake, probably a Cottonmouth.”
“How bad is it doc?” Bobby asked, expecting the worst.
“If you’d come in right away we could have helped you Bobby, but by now the venom has made it’s way throughout your body. That baby gave you her full load. She must of been scared. I’m not sure what we can do now.”
Bobby’s kidneys gave out first, while other organs fought, but one by one failed. For almost a year he was paralyzed and wheelchair bound. I saw him mid-winter the next year, and we sat in the sun having a smoke, ruminating on life and death.
“After my long life of seafaring adventure, here I am at 74,” Bobby told me, “Just to be done in by a baby Cottonmouth I never even saw. Who would have thought. Oh the irony in life huh, Ned!”
Bobby died a few months later. All for a scared baby Cottonmouth.
CP Butchvarov
2024