Gator Tales-By John Elderkin There is no disputing that the state of Florida is the unchallenged king of major theme parks and amusements. We all know the big names, and many of us have paid a visit to at least one of these attractions. The big parks deliver on their big promises, and world-class amusements have become the backbone of the state’s economy. But Florida’s economy, and its culture, had been shaped by tourist attractions long before Disney paved the way for huge venues in the early 1970s. In fact, the state has been home to hundreds of small roadside and riverside attractions that date as far back as the 1870s, and the industry experienced terrific growth following World War II, as family incomes and mobility increased. Of course, times have changed, and while many roadside attractions have been unable to survive, a surprising number remain, and even thrive. How do they endure in the shadow of the big parks? It appears that one key factor is that many of these operations offer a dose of reality in place of the fantasy offered at larger attractions. Live and exotic animals, for example, often serve as a compelling change of pace from animatronics. Miami’s Monkey Jungle, which opened in 1935, is typical of the attractions that remain. Located in a lush jungle setting, the monkeys run free while the human guests wander through a protective cage set on the park’s 19 acres. For something a bit more exotic, there’s Parrot Jungle, located south of Miami. Opened a year after Monkey Jungle (and on the site of a former nudist colony), Parrot Jungle became one of the first attractions to advertise on billboards across the country, and for years it was a landmark for travelers interested in seeing trained macaws, a flamingo lake, and more than 1,200 tropical birds. And as for aquatic attractions, no park can match the fame and reputation of Marineland, located a few miles south of St. Augustine. Now listed on the National Register of Historic Places, the “Oceanarium” was one of the first roadside attractions to take a theme park approach, with its own restaurant, lounge, marina, gift shop, and motel. So there is still plenty of wildlife on offer throughout the state. But in this age of Fear Factor and Croc’ Hunter Steve Irwin, no roadside attractions are more popular than the ones offering face-to-face encounters with potentially dangerous alligators, crocodiles, and snakes. In fact, some attractions advertise “real, live gator wrestling shows,” which offer guests a chance to wrestle an alligator themselves. This I wanted to see. And so I hit the road in Florida to find out for myself why gator wrestling, snake handling, and the like had become a growth industry in Mickey Mouse’s backyard. But first I did some research. For one thing, I wanted to know whether or not such a practice was considered inhumane. I hadn’t heard of any public outcry or complaints, so I put the question to Ron Magill, public relations director at Miami MetroZoo. “I’ve been aware of alligator wrestling shows for 30 years or so, and I can’t remember hearing of any public complaints. It’s one of those traditions that continues without calling a whole lot of attention to itself,” he says. “As for the gators themselves, they do get used to the wrestling routine.” Maybe that’s the trick, I thought—the animals get domesticated. It’s simply a cold-blooded version of teaching a dog to shake hands. “No,” Magill said. “It’s dangerous. A year or two ago, Seminole chief James Billie had his finger bitten off during a show. There’s footage of it happening, and it’s a serious incident.” Billie’s spokeswoman says that although he survived the bite, he hasn’t returned to the wrestling pit since. He has, however, testified before Congress about the merits of the tradition, and he keeps his lost digit, now preserved, in his pocket at all times. So the danger is real. As I drove south from Orlando toward the giant alligator jaws entrance of Gatorland, I had to admit that I was looking forward to seeing something wild. Of course, that’s the draw. “My theory is that the wrestling is popular the way auto racing is popular,” Magill had told me. “People like the action, but they are really waiting for a wreck.” Gatorland Gatorland is a sprawling, 110-acre park and wildlife preserve. The first step out onto the boardwalk that runs over its swamp leads to a slithering mass of more than 100 gators relaxing in the sun. These are big animals, many five- or six-feet long, and plenty look to be 10-footers or larger. The park, which is home to more than 1,000 alligators, numerous crocodiles, a snake-handling station, an aviary, and a breeding marsh with observation tower, allows visitors of all ages and from around the world to wander through an unspoiled habitat. More than 400,000 people visit per year, which has been open since 1949. Gatorland is also the home of Florida’s “Dean of Alligator Wrestling,” Tim Williams. Williams is friendly and engaging, and when he talks about the alligators, it’s obvious that he loves and respects them. He’s got a lifetime of experience with them, he’s worked with alligators for more than 30 years, and he has trained hundreds of gator wrestlers, or “wranglers.” Williams has developed educational programs, and he’s appeared on dozens of television programs and documentaries with his animals. He even taught David Letterman to handle a gator. Sounds like interesting work, but it still leaves open a big question—why wrestle them? “Historically, the Seminoles wrestled them as part of their hunting technique, so they did it for survival,” Williams told me. “The tradition comes from that need.” “But why do you wrestle them?” I asked. “I’ve been around gators all my life and I like the unpredictable nature of the work,” he said. “It’s dangerous, but it’s also fun. If you know what you’re doing, you can sit on their backs and talk to them. “The thing I tell my people is, when an accident occurs, it’s always the handler’s fault,” he continued. “Gators are just going to be gators, so it’s the humans who have to be on guard all the time. It’s serious. The adrenaline pumps and the mouth goes dry. But the fact of the matter is that if you drive race cars, you’ll eventually be involved in a wreck; if you’re a carpenter, you’re going to hit your thumb with a hammer; and if you wrestle alligators, you’re going to get nipped.” “Nipped?” I asked, thinking that nipping is something that puppies, not massive gators, do. “It happens.” “And what kind of people volunteer to risk this?” “We get all types of people and personalities,” Williams said. “Some folks have been around animals their whole lives; others come looking for some excitement. We get men and women. There’s a long training process. We start them out in a low-stress environment, and they learn the craft over time. When they’re finally ready to perform, they start out as a backup, then they do late shows. All that has to happen before we let them handle the gators in front of large crowds. Come with me, and I’ll let you get a feel for what it’s like.” I hoped Williams meant that he’d let me watch him work with a gator, but as I followed him through a wooded area to the back of a large pond, I was pretty sure he meant something else. He unlocked a gate and led me to the edge of the water, and then, in a deep drill-sergeant growl, he began calling the gators. “Come here, gator. Come here Roscoe. Come on Buddy. Where are you, Buddy?” “They know their names?” I asked. “They know me. They know when I’m calling them.” Sure enough, from around a corner, several huge alligators started toward us. “That’s Buddy,” Williams said, still growling. “Come on over here, Buddy.” Buddy was a massive animal, easily 10-feet long, and as he approached he opened his huge mouth. He swam right into the shallow water and looked us over from three feet away. I took the opportunity to jump up on a large fallen tree and watch from a height. Williams continued to call the gators, and they continued to come toward us. When about 20 of them were gathered, Williams insisted that Roscoe, another huge animal, make his way right up front with us, and with some encouragement, Roscoe obeyed. Apparently he was expecting some food. By this time a crowd of Gatorland visitors had gathered outside the fence and was watching us. “Now, John, come on down from there and let me take a picture of you petting Roscoe on the head,” Williams said. The people behind us gasped and murmured. “I’ll just take pictures of you. That’ll work fine,” I told him. “No, no,” he insisted, and he bent over and patted Roscoe right on top of the jaw. “You come over here and do this, it’ll make a great shot.” “Holy cow, I’ve got to get this on film,” someone said behind me. This would’ve been a good time to admit to Williams that I’ve always been edgy around reptiles. As a kid I once nearly stumbled over a huge rattlesnake shedding its skin and almost passed out from shock. As an adult, after an ill-advised excursion to one of Florida’s fine drinking establishments, I was considering a swim at a local watering hole when, from out of nowhere, an alligator grabbed an unsuspecting bird and pulled it under. To the delight of the Floridians with me, I gathered my belongings and returned immediately to my original watering hole for another round, alone. I didn’t want to get any closer to those big gators than I already was, but I also didn’t want to admit so easily just how big a chicken I was, so I climbed down off the tree. Williams handed me a large pole he’d been carrying, and I kept it between me and the animals until I got to within a few feet of Roscoe, but I hesitated. When Buddy snapped his jaws open in my direction for no reason, I knew I wasn’t going to be petting any gators, much less mastering any wrestling fundamentals. Williams, ever the good sport, promised me he was watching closely and wouldn’t let me do anything unsafe. He suggested I just squat down next to Roscoe, to prove I’d learned something on my trip. “You can get down there nose to nose with him if you want to,” he said. I tried. I really did. And as Williams had promised, the adrenaline pumped, and my mouth went dry, but I only got within a foot or two of the gators before jumping back and having a photo taken from what felt like the relatively safe distance of four or five feet. Wrestling the Gators Though I’d exposed myself as a chicken, as I watched the Gatorland crowd pack into the bleachers for the afternoon’s scheduled gator wrestling event and as I listened to their excited conversations, I couldn’t help feeling like an old pro. Interestingly, of the several hundred spectators, perhaps half of them were foreigners. Williams had said that Gatorland hadn’t had much luck with advertising in other countries, but apparently some of the people flying to the big parks had found their way here. Most of Gatorland’s visitors were, he had estimated, people who lived in Florida and had had their fill of the major attractions. The gator wrestling stage was a sand-filled circle surrounded by a moat that was filled with alligators. A young woman acting as emcee gave the audience some history, then introduced Bret Chism, the wrangler. Chism wore a microphone and explained his moves to the audience as he grabbed a six-footer by the tail and pulled him from the water. He managed to sit astride the animal’s back and, with practiced showmanship, grab its jaws and hold them shut. That is the real trick to dealing with alligators. Although they can exert upwards of 3,000 pounds of pressure per square inch while snapping their jaws closed, they are relatively weak when it comes to opening their mouths. The show remained family friendly, with plenty of educational information presented while Chism demonstrated various moves on the gator, including a traditional Seminole hold in which he clamped the gator’s jaw shut with his own chin and neck (this allowed the Seminoles to use their hands to tie the gator with rope). Chism also turned the gator over onto its back and put it sound asleep by stroking its underside. The grand finale, however, came when he asked if anyone in the audience would like to sit on a gator. A line, mostly of children, formed immediately. I watched as kids happily petted the animals and sat for a moment on the back of a gator whose mouth had been taped shut. I figured I could get in line, but that would hardly redeem my earlier failure of nerve—not only was this gator’s mouth taped shut, but it was half the size of Roscoe and Buddy. Redemption At other roadside attractions, I found more people excited by the thrill of getting close to the animals. People paid to sit with large snakes draped around their necks or have their picture taken with albino alligators. At the Alligator Farm, a zoological park in St. Augustine that is thought to be Florida’s oldest tourist attraction, the guests offered the same explanation for visiting—where else could they get so close to dangerous animals? With that in mind, I wandered to the end of the Alligator Farm’s long boardwalk, which stretched over a swampy area. Some of the gators there looked like real monsters; they were significantly larger than Roscoe and Buddy. A group of German tourists stood looking out over the water as I walked up. After saying hello to these people, I told them, “Watch this,” and began calling the alligators as Williams had. “Here, gator, gator. Here, gator boy, come over here,” I growled. The gators came. Within minutes a pile of slithering giants assembled just below our feet. The tourists seemed shocked, but after backing away, they stepped forward again. “Are you an expert with alligators?” one of them asked me. “Sure, what do you want to know?” I asked them.