By SALLIE SATTERTHWAITE
sallies@juno.com

A dark night in a swamp is dark indeed.

I've just come in from such a night and want to tell you about it while the magic is still with me.

The moon has gone from first quarter to past full while we've been on the St. John's and her tributaries, and except for the night it rained, there has always been some light in the sky. Twice we were startled awake when the boat swung around and the moon shone its spotlight through a porthole.

But tonight we are on a very narrow creek in a very deep swamp, the nose of our boat snubbed close to a mossy stump, the sides tied to trees to keep from bumping. Enough goes bump in the night in a swamp. More about that later...

So. Dishes done, charts checked for tomorrow's adventure, we don jackets, turn off interior lights and step out into the rear cockpit. In a few minutes our eyes accommodate, and it appears we are in a canyon of trees stretching in two directions. Its bottom — sluggish Sixmile Creek — is only a paler shade of black, reflecting the sky. Which itself is ebony scattered with diamonds, many tangled in the lacy treetops.

So bright they are, and the water below so black, that they are visible on its surface. The constellation Pleiades appears both above and below me. The profound darkness is a surprise after so many nights of moonlight whitewashing the world. Tonight's moon has not yet risen, and any light it may be tossing over the horizon is blocked by the dense vegetation of the swamp.

A few stars blink yellow on the water. No. Those are fireflies. In February! Their slow, swooping lights weave through the trees, while high overhead a blinking red light betrays an airliner threading its way among the stars, its distance damping out all sound. We are not so far from civilization here — can hear distant traffic, barely — but the swamp around us is silent.

Before we tied up, in bright daylight, we heard barred owls cry. Even they are quiet now. “Plunk.” So close I thought I felt the splash. The size of a frog, I'd guess. A few yards upstream, the tiniest trickle, the creek slipping between the roots and cypress knees along the bank. And that's all. Not even mosquitoes disturb the profound, cool silence.

Our moorings have varied from this snug tie-up to beaching on a sand bank to the relative luxury of a small marina in Palatka. (Think hot showers. Groceries. Clean laundry. A hike for seafood, breakfast in a diner.)

Our favorite mode of anchorage is swinging from the hook in a sheltered cove along the river or creek. When we've dropped anchor on the east side with the setting sun against the shore, a panoply of habitats like reeds, water lilies, and tall Spanish moss-laden trees spread before us — it doesn't get better than that. In such a setting, we can usually count on a gator coming out to swim a wide circle around us, just checking, ma'am, thank you.

Twice or more we've spent the night near trees where egrets and white ibis were roosting. They arrange and rearrange themselves; even after settling in, they grunt through the night. Tied in close, as we are this evening, might not be wise in hot weather when snakes hang from trees. We haven't seen a single one this trip, and presume it's still too cool — although the gators don't seem to mind.

Twice, however, we've been visited by night-roaming natives of the swamps, and both times we were anchored at least 100 feet from shore. Just last week, on a still night, we'd gone to bed and become engrossed in Tom Clancy novels. A persistent sound from overhead finally got my attention and I finally got Dave's. Something was on the roof of the boat. When I stirred to take a look, the sound of claws on non-skid stopped. Went back to bed and in a few minutes it returned.

Although I never saw the creature, I am sure it was one of the owls we had heard earlier. Nothing else could get on the boat, and its departure was silent. Owls fly silently.

The other night visitor came on a likewise quiet, windless night on a cove off the Tennessee River last fall. We were awakened long before dawn by the sound of scraping on the hull and loud bubbling sounds — like the noise a water cooler makes when you draw out a drink. There was absolutely no doubt something was under the boat — but what? We found out next day when we headed toward the boat ramp for the trip home.

“My depth gauge and mileage meter aren't working,” observed Captain Dave. With the boat up on the trailer, we could see why: The wires linking sensors to instrument panel had been chewed through in several places. A nearby fisherman confirmed our suspicions: “Yup, it was a mush-rat.”

Once home, Dave worked for tedious hours to repair damage a muskrat inflicted in mere seconds of snacking on our boat. Tonight is very dark indeed. And — so far — very quiet...

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