Alligator, alligator-- eat 'em up, 'eat em up!

I ate a gator.

Not like found one on the side of the road, shot it and carried it back to the trailer to put it in some stew. But all the same, I did it.

I ate a gator.

As a child, my older siblings had a couple of nicknames they'd occasionally toss out. "Cautious," which is pretty self-explanatory and "Flail."

For my lack of swimming skills. I'm sure that could also be applied to ice skating and any attempts at skiing. But those attempts are few and far between.

Give or take a decade and a couple of years, I was finally ready to shed my nicknames. So when Seth brought up the idea of getting gator for an appetizer at lunch on Sunday afternoon, I happily obliged. Partially because Shea likes alligator and I figured it wouldn't hurt to score some brother points as we awaited their arrival.

It looked a lot like my beloved mozzarella sticks. But at first bite I discovered I was far from the land of cheese.

*Chew....chew....chew...*

It wasn't half bad.

Working my way outside of my food bubble and not being so cautious, the next task to accomplish was getting rid of that pesky name "Flail."

Well fine. Maybe I wasn't quite so good at that. But Seth did get me out into waist high water along Madeira Beach and had me riding the waves.

As it turns out, like Florida drivers, you can't control those either.