The swamp airboat skimmed across the beer-bottle waters of the Atchafalaya Basin in a putt-putting bluster of noise. The vast wetland east of Lafayette mirrored the large Louisiana sky, cloud-smudged and cornflower blue. Shards of dried cypress punctured the wrinkled waters like fish teeth, distracting my unpractised eyes from spotting our elusive quarry.
My skipper was Armond Berard – a delightfully unvarnished bayou boatman complete with hoary beard and a voice like a double bass. Unlike Armond, I claim no expertise in alligator spotting or swamp tours, but had always assumed that the gators generally stayed on the outside of the boat: not so.
Armond waved over the only other vessel in sight: a black tin shell that looked like it had seen battle. A couple perched on its gunwales, laid-back in camo shorts, daisy dukes and the burning midday sun. As our boat drifted alongside, I could see they were not alone. Three alligators engulfed the hull, their prehistoric skulls sporting crimson bullet holes.
“The big ones need to be hunted,” explained Armond. “If we don’t keep them in check, they eat everything here, they come into town…” he trailed off…