Ten thousand isles

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There's something sinister about the sound of a big man trying to sneak through mangroves. On the foggiest night of the year, standing alone on the porch outside my lab, I heard the crack of a branch, then silence. Heard the rustle of leaves. Then I strained to hear through a longer silence that implied observation and careful breathing.

The platform that supports my house and laboratory is built on stilts over the water, thirty yards from land, Dinkin's Bay, Sanibel Island, Florida. The only way on or off is by a rickety boardwalk. Someone was working his way toward that boardwalk, getting closer.

I waited, head tilted, and heard branches move once again. The sound of a snapping twig is an ancient alert. It fires all the limbic alarms that enable direct communication between the ears and eager feet. An unknown primate was out there in the gloom.

I touched a button on my watch and saw that it was 2:07 a.m., 2 October. Very, very late for a friend to come a'calling. Very, very late for me.

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