Back in the 1950s, there was no public swimming pool in Deerfield. So in the summertime, my young friends and I would often swim in the Hillsboro River near where the boat ramp in Pioneer Park is today. There used to be a big rubber tree next to the river, with its largest branch extended out over the water. Someone had tied a long rope with knots in it on the branch. We could grab the rope, swing out over the river, let go and fall into the deep water below and swim to shore. It was lots of fun.

We never worried about alligators because it was common lore that local men had killed off all the alligators all the way to the Everglades many years ago. At least we thought that was true. However, one of our neighbor’s dogs had disappeared recently shortly after someone had seen him swimming in the river. Thus, we were on alert, watching for the dog.

One afternoon, I was fishing for mangrove snappers on the west side of the Dixie Highway bridge crossing the Hillsboro River when , suddenly, I saw an alligator about 6-feet-long swimming slowly along the shore almost directly under me. It appeared he was stalking some birds on the water’s edge. I took note that he was only about 100 yards from our swimming hole on the river at Pioneer Park. I instinctively knew it would be all right with my dad for me to kill the gator. However, time was of the essence, since he might swim away and hide.

So I ran as fast as I could to our house (about 150 yards away), grabbed my single shot 22 caliber rifle from the closet, a few hollow point 22 long bullets and ran without stopping back to the bridge. I put a bullet in the chamber before leaning over the bridge looking for the alligator. Sure enough, the gator was only a few feet away from where I’d first seen him. He was still stalking the birds. I leaned over the bridge railing, took careful aim at his temple about 2 inches behind his right eye and squeezed the trigger. The shot hit him right where I aimed. His tail splashed out of the water, his body jerked sideways and he rolled over and sank. I never saw that alligator again.

However, a few days later, I was fishing near the same spot and saw a much smaller alligator, about 3 ½ feet long, lying on shore. I had my gig with me, which is a three-prong spear with a rope tied to the end. I threw the gig at the gator hitting him in his side with one of the prongs just behind his right front leg. I was afraid he would get off if I tried to lift him up to the bridge. So I jumped down to the ground, flipped him over on his back (which automatically puts alligators to sleep) and drug him by his tail all the way home. When I got to our back screen door, I hollered to my mom to come out “and look at something.” She didn’t respond fast enough so I opened the door and drug the alligator up the steps and into the kitchen where mother was cooking supper. She was stirring black-eyed peas and didn’t look around at first. I had the gator, still on its back, about a foot behind her when she looked around. Seeing the alligator, she let out a scream and jumped, throwing black-eyed peas into the air and all over the kitchen. I was laughing, but she didn’t think it was funny.

I put my new alligator friend into a pond we had in the backyard leaving him firmly tied by the rope attached to his tail. But when he went under water we noticed bubbles coming out of his back where my gig had penetrated him. Dad suggested that we should take him to the new Animal Park, which had opened, recently on Federal Highway in Pompano. So we put him in the trunk of mom’s car and drove him down there, always keeping him on his back. The manager of the park seemed glad to get him, said he would fix his wound. He didn’t give me any money for the alligator when I asked, but did give me a year’s worth of free passes to the park. We went to see my gator a few times after that, but I don’t think he ever recognized me.

– David Eller

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