The summer 1978. Up front were Mom and Dad, in the backseat my little brother and I. The drive, split into two days, was a long one, from Connecticut down Interstate 95 all the way to coastal South Carolina, Fripp Island, a few miles off the coast near Beaufort.

The terrain, as we left the mainland, over bridges and marshland, was indeed quite foreign to us travellers from up north. Here was a world of herons, gulls, shrimp boats, salt water marshes and brackish grey water. And alligators, so were we told.

Along the roads to the coastal islands, each island only a few miles in length and connected by a string of low bridges, were old dilapidated houses, shacks really, with tin roofs, mangy dogs tied up by ropes, and old Chevy's on blocks.

Nearing the last bridge to Fripp Island we spotted a string of docks lined with various fishing boats, the shirtless men off-loading their catch of the day. How these men could work in this Congo-like heat was beyond the two adults and their thirteen and ten-year-old boys from the cooler latitudes.

Dad slowed the car down to watch the flurry of activity a little ways to our right. "Fresh shrimp?" my father asked my Mom, licking his lips.

"We'll have to come back and pick some up after we get the keys to the house," she replied, casually looking out the window.

My little brother, as he did about every half hour, broke in, "Dad, how long 'til we get there? Are we there yet? I really have to go to the......"

The alarm sounded. It was like a radar screen on a NORAD defense grid lighting up. Like a troop of baboons spotting a snake or a troop of kids spotting the ice cream truck. This was Code Red, DEFCOM 4, tsunami, tornado, and the Martians landing all rolled up into one. It was.....

"GATOR !" my mother screamed, her eyes like maniacal golf balls in her head. Nearly smashing her pointed finger into the passenger window she spotted the leviathan, the monster of the marsh, killer of men and beast, the reptilian evil lurking below.

My father smashed on the brakes as if a newborn had crawled in front of the car; left and right it swerved. Turning the wheel frantically like a Le Mans driver Dad brought us to a squealing dust storm of a stop on the edge of the low bridge.

"Where?" my father panted, still with his death grip on the wheel.

"Right there. Right there. Can't you see it?" Mom shrieked.

"My God. You and the boys stay put. I'll check this out."

There was no stopping us in the back seat. My brother went first, nearly tearing the handle off the inside of the car door. I was next, leaping out on the gator side of the car, knocking off my New York Yankees cap.

Mom, seeing not only her husband of fifteen years but her two offspring running to meet certain death, kicked the door open with a strength only a mother protecting her young could muster.

From a few hundred feet away we could hear the fishermen shouting.

"Lawd Jeeeesus, what'sa matter folks? "
"My God, is anyone's hurt?"

The men came running-courageous, brave Southern men.

Jack, my little brother spotted it first. Ahead of us by a good thirty feet he stopped dead in his tracks. Mother was frantic. "Don't go any farther! It could attack. Oh my God."

The fisherman were closing in like the cavalry. I was still running, cursing myself for forgetting my camera. Dad was running behind, shouting to us to keep our distance.

Jack looked like a kid who just spent his last ticket at the carnival. His disappointment was profound. "It's not an alligator," he said between breaths," it's an old tire." He picked up a rock and threw it at the inanimate menace. "What a rip."

My father's eyes met the fishermen's. Sticking out his chest, he informed the puzzled locals, "Er ah, we thought we saw an alligator."

Now southern people are very polite by northern standards, but this was too much for their gentlemanly characters. The first snicker started with the black man on the right.A chuckle squeaked out of the young white fellow in the center, which lead to an eruption of guffaws and knee slapping from the older sunburned fisherman on the left.

Several cars were now lined up behind ours with its Blue Badge of Yankeedom - the Connecticut license plate, there for all to see. The fishermen were still laughing uncontrollably as they waved and turned to get back to work.

It was our first flirtation with disaster in coastal South Carolina. We silently piled back into the car to make the last few miles to our rented beach house. Before getting in, Mom took one more glance over her shoulder. The tire hadn't moved.

The score: Gators 1 , Yankees 0 .