Raising kids often seems like a blur. Changing diapers, hitching car seats, tending skinned knees, organizing the dreaded Christmastime school wrapping paper fundraisers, endless Little League and football games, college applications, and then they’re gone…until they need money. It is what it is, and the blur has an inherent joy, let alone the all-encompassing fatigue.
And then there are moments that grab your soul and become the legends and stories shared forever; the “do you remember whens” forging bonds more lasting than the boatloads of Rice Chex that kept the kiddos fueled for their days at school.
One of those moments occurred in the mid-1990s, shortly after we had permanently moved back to the Lowcountry from South Florida. We rented a house on Turkey Hill Plantation in Ridgeland while building our house on Brays Island. We had access to parts of Turkey Hill that didn’t interfere with the plantation’s quail hunting program.
On a beautiful fall weekend day, I rounded up a small jon boat and a tub of worms to take my two youngest sons fishing on one of the plantation’s large ponds. The kids were about six and ten years old respectively, and only a few weeks into a new school and adjusting to their southern natural and cultural surroundings. The boys were excited about the prospect of catching some large bass, and they were a tad uneasy about the possibility of seeing an alligator up close and personal.
We pushed off from shore, and I rowed out to a cluster of partially submerged tree stumps. I explained how bass like structure and hang out under sunken limbs…but the structure can also snag hooks, requiring frequent remedial knot tying.
As I was getting rods prepared and hooks baited, I noticed a bald eagle perched in a tree near the shore. I pointed it out. “Pretty cool, huh?” I said. “You guys are going to see some amazing stuff in the Lowcountry. We live a lot closer to nature here than we did in Miami.”
Things got even better when another eagle flew over our heads and landed next to the one in the tree. They sat there like ornaments on a gatepost, surveying their domain.
My youngest showed some concern. “Daddy, will they try to grab us?”
“No, but they might try to steal your fish if you catch one. And so will a gator, so be ready.”
“What should I do?”
“If it’s a gator, just hang on. The line will eventually break. If it’s an eagle, it’ll be like flying a kite on a windy day until you run out of line or the bird drops the fish. Whatever happens, hold on tight to your fishing rod.”
My kids sat pondering those alternatives, and I noticed them attending to their fishing gear with a heightened intensity. Lowcountry fishing can have its challenges.
Suddenly, a hapless snowy egret flew into view, unaware of the two raptors in the tree.
With the precision of aerobatic pilots, the eagles swooped off their perch and began an aerial assault on the egret. One eagle soared above the treetops while the other herded the egret toward the trees at the end of the pond. The egret bobbed and weaved as best it could and tried to fly up and away only to be snagged by the high flight eagle…the classic fighter pilot’s High/Low “Lover’s Leap” attack, right out of Top Gun.
My kids were open-mouthed in their amazement. They had just witnessed nature in its rawest state.
The two eagles flew back to their perch in the tree and began devouring the egret with ravenous enthusiasm. White feathers soon filled the air, blowing across the water, some landing in our boat.
All three of us sat silently contemplating what we had just experienced, and I sensed we were done fishing for the day. The fish weren’t biting anyway, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw my youngest son pick up a feather from the deck and put it in his pocket; enough of a trophy from a day in the Lowcountry.
