THE RIVER IS AS BLACK AND FLAT as freshly screeded tar. Submarine visibility is at a distressing half-inch or so, max. Anything could be down there.
I'm floating the Wekiva River north of Orlando, moving at what feels to me like a pretty good clip, when a husky teenager in a decrepit red kayak slips up alongside.
"Excuse me," I say. "Are there alligators in here?"
"Yeah, kind of," he replies. "Just saw one back there. Not too big. Seven feet, about."
"Back where, exactly?"
Obviously more intrigued by my vessel, he halfheartedly jerks a thumb upriver.
"Where'd you get that boat?"
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