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In August of 1963, two Atlanta men entered the Okefenokee Swamp Animal Refuge after the park concessions had closed, unloaded a small boat from their car, and disappeared into the swamp, never to be seen again. This story is one possible explanation of what happened to them... 1963
The peach-colored Cadillac glided to a stop at the far back end of the parking lot, in an area of pavement dappled and overshadowed by a canopy of mixed oak, willow, and cypress. It was late evening in the Okefeenokee Swamp, hours after the swamp park and concession stand had closed.
Behind the Cadillac on a small trailer was an aluminum boat with a three horsepower motor, precisely twice as powerful as the park rules allowed, a fact known to at least one of the two campers. Cecil Rampart, a divorce attorney from Atlanta, most certainly knew about the power limitation, for in conceiving and planning the trip, he had sent for and received an information pack detailing the park's policies. The Cadillac and small boat were his.
Jeff St. John, Cecil's cousin, was a dentist with a prosperous practice in Conyers, Georgia. Jeff had brought the fishing gear, the wriggly crawlers they planned to use for bait, and the beer, two Igloo coolers of which were in the car's trunk. A third cooler, deplenished during the two hundred mile drive from Atlanta, was overturned on the back seat of the car.
Jeff went to the back of the car and started to unhook the boat.
Cecil went from the Cadillac to the edge of the pavement where he noisily and satisfyingly urinated into the blackish water. "This is part of the Suwanee Channel," said Cecil."We'll follow it to Billy's Island where we'll set up camp."
"Un-huh," said Jeff. He had the tongue of the trailer on its dolly. "Where do you wanna put her in at?"
"How about right there?" said Cecil, rezipping and pointing to a spot where the tangled growth seemed less dense.
"Sure."
"We got everything?" asked Cecil, walking over to look in the Cadillac's trunk.
"Beer, tent, sleeping bags, canteen, bug repellent, fishing poles, bait, lanterns," inventoried Jeff.
Cecil rummaged in the trunk and threw a small yellow package into the boat. "Snake bite kit."
"Oh, yeah," said Jeff, who in his thirty six years had never actually seen a rattle snake or coral snake and would be pleased to keep that statistic intact.
"You think your Caddy'll be safe here?" said Jeff, voicing a persistent worry of his.
"Sure," said Cecil. "We got your park guards and your forest rangers down here. In fact, they'll probably have the car staked out by the time we get back tomorrow afternoon." Cecil grinned at the stricken expression on Jeff's face. "Here," he continued, "help me turn the boat around."
"What kind of, uh, laws are we breaking?" asked Jeff as he bent to push on the nose of the boat.
"Oh, just misdemeanors," said Cecil. " Hmm. That reminds me." He went back to the car and retrieved a silver-colored pistol from beneath the front seat. Tucking it in between the folded-up tent and the side of the boat, he explained, "In case a 'gator comes after us."
"Un-huh," said Jeff. He blinked, instantly imagining being chased by an alligator. They could, he had heard, briefly outrun a man.
"But this is registered to me," said Cecil. "It's not even a misdemeanor to have it here, unless I have to fire it, I think."
 Click photo to enlarge
"It's gonna be dark soon," said Jeff, looking at the placid, lily-covered water. A turtle with webbed feet and a long, evil-looking snout swam by.
"All the more reason for us to get going, cuz," said Cecil. "Lock up the car, and let's go!"
"Okay," said Jeff. His boots were in the boat. He slipped out of his loafers and hopped up and down until the knee-length rubber boots were on.
Cecil had to go back to the trunk to get his boots, and then he circled the car, making sure that all four doors were locked.
Jeff pushed the trailer until the back wheels were among the floating lilies.
"Ready?" asked Cecil, reaching for the nose chain.
"Un-hunh," said Jeff. "Shall I do the honors?"
"Sure," said Cecil, and watched as Jeff carefully climbed into the back of the boat. Jeff picked up an oar and held it expectantly.
"Here goes," said Cecil, as he gave the nose of the boat a shove. Together, with Jeff pushing on the shore with the oar and Cecil pushing on the boat's nose, they floated the boat off the trailer.
"Alrighty!" said Cecil. "Let me put the trailer up, and I'll join you."
"Sure thing," said Jeff. The water between the lilies was as black as oil and as reflective as a mirror. There was a pervasive odor of both living and rotting vegetation. About a hundred feet away, a duck was bobbing, butt-up for something in the water. Jeff briefly wondered if the duck was worried about the evil-looking turtle, and then he slapped at a mosquito on his arm that left a bloody splatter.
When Cecil returned, Jeff was shaking repellent out onto his arms. In the slanting evening light, it was almost invisible on Jeff's fair skin.
"Hey, save some of that for me," said Cecil as he stuck one foot among the lily pads and climbed into the boat.
"Here," said Jeff, holding the can out. He glanced down the channel and saw that the duck was gone. Maybe the turtle...
"Let's use the oars until we get further out in the channel," said Cecil, meaning further away from the concession stand and the park headquarters. "Then we can crank up."
"How far's this Billy's Island?" asked Jeff, as he dipped the oar and started the boat around.
"About five miles, I think, but the channel leads to it. I think there's even street signs out here."
"Street signs, in a swamp!" laughed Jeff.
"Why not?" said Cecil, taking the other oar. "This channel's man-made. Part of a project back in the thirties or so that was gonna link the Suwanee River with some other river, the Altamaha, maybe. They never finished it."
"Why'd they stop working on it?"
"Malaria."
The channel soon broadened, and the shore became indistinct, lost in the encroaching tangle. Oak trees gave way to cypress trees, with their strangely shaped "knees" jutting out at irregular intervals. Cecil spied a long-legged, white-plumed heron stalking through the lilies. A raccoon sat on a stump, more interested in fastidiously cleaning the morsel of food in his forepaws than in the two men in the boat.
"I think we can crank up now," Cecil said.
"Alrighty," said Jeff. Cranking the boat motor involved wrapping the starter rope around a pulley and giving it an enthusiastic tug.
"Remember to prime it," said Cecil, as he pulled a long-necked beer out of a cooler.
"One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three," said Jeff, operating the plunger of the primer. "That oughta do her." The engine banged once or twice when he yanked, and then it was still. The raccoon fastened beady eyes on the boat.
"Give it more prime," suggested Cecil.
Jeff gave it three more strokes and rewound the starter. It rewarded him with a series of small explosions before becoming still. The raccoon turned tail and abandoned them.
Third time lucky, thought Jeff, and he was. The motor roared, loud in the near-silence of the swamp.
"Thataway," said Cecil, taking a draw on the long-necked beer bottle and pointing down the channel. He glanced at the Bulova watch on his wrist. Almost eight. They'd better get a move on. He relayed this thought to Jeff.
They proceeded for several minutes, and then they came to a sign. It pointed to the left and said, "Billy's Island 1 mile." Jeff motored the boat to the left and they entered a broad lake that was covered in lilies and the tall, slender grass called monkey grass. Some of the lilies were blooming, and the pinkish flowers added their fragrance to the odors of the swamp.
"There it is," said Cecil, spotting a cluster of cypress and willow. "That's Billy's Island." 
"Un-huh," said Jeff, throttling back. "Where you wanna park this thing?"
"Anywhere that looks good. I think there's a dock on it."
Not only did the island have a dock, but also a usable campsite with a clearing and a fire pit. Beside the campsite was a cluster of waxy "never-wet" plants. Cecil and Jeff were able to pull the boat up to the dock and off-load their camping supplies directly to the campsite.
"Tomorrow, we'll go fishing out there in the lake," said Cecil. "For now, what say we dip our lines off the dock and down some brewskies?"
Jeff soon had the tent spread out on the ground and was unpacking what seemed to him like a very complex tube framework. An unopened beer sat on a stump beside him. "Maybe we oughta put the tent together first," he suggested.
"It looked real easy in the store," said Cecil. He was using the tip of a bowie knife to open another beer.
"Un-huh," said Jeff. "It was also assembled in the store."
"Oh, hell," said Cecil, getting up.
Thirty minutes later, an example of a "Sear's Best" four-man, fully-screened vacation tent was standing on the campsite, only slightly atilt, and Cecil had drank another beer.
It was fully dark, and a spangle of stars were visible over the lake. Cecil had one of the Coleman lanterns hanging over the water from the edge of the dock in the hope of attracting fish. Jeff had hung the other lantern on a convenient tree branch, and it provided a half-circle of illumination for the campsite. The swamp was slow to release the warmth that it had gathered during the day, although a slight breeze did rustle the leaves of the slender willows lining the campsite.
"Won't gators be attracted to the light?" asked Jeff. He was using a foot-operated bellows to inflate an air cushion.
"Gators don't usually mess with humans," said Cecil, "unless they're defending their nest or they think you're trying to take food from them."
"Just as well," said Jeff, prying off a beer cap, "you're so scrawny, no gator'd go for you anyway. Probably taste like chicken, too."
"Well, I'm not gonna let my feet dangle in the water!" said Cecil.
"Me, neither." Jeff laughed.
For two hours, they drank, fished, and talked about alligators, tax law, the lamentable decline of the Milwaukee Braves, and lawn care. Then mellow, but fishless, they tired of swatting mosquitoes and retired to the tent. Cecil pulled his boots off and was asleep within minutes. Jeff tossed and turned in his sleeping bag, listening to the raucous song of crickets and frogs, the unmelodiously melancholy call of a hoot owl, and some other nearby swamp sounds that he couldn't identify. After an hour or so, he too fell asleep.
Mid-morning, the swamp fell silent. Out of the willows and into the silence trod a long-limbed creature. He stood upright, but was not a man. He paused at the edge of the clearing, sniffing, listening.
The Coleman lantern had gone out minutes before, leaving the campsite illuminated only by the westering moonlight. A brushed fingertip found it still warm. From his vantage point, the creature saw the aluminum boat, the unused fire pit, and the brown and beige tent. On the lakeshore and scattered around the campsite were empty beer bottles. The smell of alcohol was strong on the breeze, almost as strong as the smell of the lantern's wick.
He sensed the men within the tent. After a moment's hesitation, he shambled forward and stood at the lip of the tent. The zippered entrance was no obstacle. It fell open at his touch, but he did not step inside. He did not need to step inside.
The taller sleeper had a knife. Knives were well understood by the creature. The knife was almost the length of the creature's foot. A good length. It lay beside the man within easy reach. It would do.
The man's name?
Cecil. A very old name, meaning blind. The creature smiled. His misshapened lips exposed long canines. The other man was... Jeff. A name unfamiliar to the creature. He soundlessly tried the name, but it felt strange on his tongue, more a huff than a name.
He reached for the knife.
The storm began over central Alabama when a swiftly moving mass of dry, cold Canadian air encountered a stagnant mass of moist, hot Gulf air. Dark thunder clouds sprang up along the line of collision, spawning heavy lightning and hail, and a few nasty, furious little tornadoes that hissed, spat, and clawed their way through the more densely populated mobile home parks.
Most of the energy of the storm was expended over Alabama, but a remnant of it marched into Georgia early on Sunday morning. A ragged chorus line of thunder clouds gathered over the Okefeenokee. There they waited, rumbling and conspiring throughout the hot afternoon until the evening came, and then they released their burdens in a sudden, torrential outpouring that briefly overran the city of Folkston's drainage capacity.
As happens during periods of heavy rain, the promontory of trees and soil that was Billy's Island became subsumed by the swamp. Small creatures that could neither swim nor flee took to the trees or succumbed to the swirling, dark waters.
On the following day, a Monday, the Charlton Eagle reported that park officials were searching for two Atlanta men believed to have become lost in the Okefeenokee swamp on the weekend of the freak storm.
Their bodies were never found, but one grizzled old swamp rat who participated in the search opined to a reporter from Atlanta radio station WSB that the two had most likely become "gator bait."
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Utterly spellbinding! I couldn't stop reading from start to finish of the story. I hope you'll be writing more like this one? Lou Harper - Sunday, August 05, 2001 at 18:13:46 (EDT) A very chilling tale! Your accompanying pictures were beautifully done. Molly <mollyg1@gateway.net> - Thursday, August 02, 2001 at 10:47:09 (EDT) |
