Moorhens and coots move just far enough to allow my passage, and then scramble to scarf up the grass shrimp and minnows stirred up as I pass. Nearly fifty generations of these marsh birds have interacted with the humans and their airboats; by now they seem to know how we think and how much room we need as we share the river valley. Effortlessly, the boat slides across the grass and dollar weed as I make my way to a patch of open water. Small shad thrash the water's surface as bass chase them from below, and birds feed from above. I give the engine a little more throttle as I slide up the bank and power the boat to the edge. The bow is hanging off the bank over thin air, just enough to allow good casting into the frenzied school of fish.
Briefly, quiet settles over the area and then the usual marsh noise resumes as the arrival of an airboat - and its occupants - are accepted as normal. Occasionally, a water moccasin, marsh rabbit, or wild hog will become aggressive when its space is invaded, but I won't be sharing this fishing hole with any human today. The marsh of the St. Johns River displays little impact from half a century of airboat use. Approximately 2,400 airboats are registered in the nearby counties, and many of them are operated on this river