Boys' night out takes on a new meaning on a St. John's River slough.

It started as an early evening, warm-weather bass fishing trip. My sons and I lowered the skiff from our St. Johns River dock, cranked the engine and eased away into the swirling, falling water as the last 30 minutes of day gave way to night.

The plan was to cast around docks, working topwater plugs near pilings and the fringes of lights illuminating the water. It turned out to be a good idea, and we caught several fish, but as we ran our skiff up a large feeder creek off the river, my oldest son Eric panned our navigational spotlight along an undeveloped shoreline and noticed something that would distract us from our angling.

“Man look at all those eyes; must be a dozen gators hanging against that bank,” he shouted over the purr of the outboard. “That’s sure no place to go for a swim.”

The light reflected a lot of bright eyes along shore. The tide was low, and it dawned on me that the eyes were well above the water. I backed the skiff off plane, and turned toward the bank at idle speed.

“Let’s get a closer look at those gators,” I told the boys. Thirty yards from the bank we did, indeed, spot a couple 4-foot alligators, and they sounded as we approached. But the many glowing eyes closer to shore remained fixed. The spotlight soon revealed they were frogs, not gators.

“Man, I wish we’d put the frog gigs in the boat,” Matt, my youngest son, said. “It’s been awhile since we brought home fresh frog legs for dinner.”

The seed was thus planted for a night of tidewater frog gigging. So I turned the boat, ran back to our dock, and quickly went to the house, returning with a pair of frog gigs. In less than an hour we were back in the creek, ready for a go at frogs.

We stealthily maneuvered around mid-creek brushpiles and lily pads, beneath an old highway bridge, and finally into a narrow, deep portion of the creek, surrounded by an undeveloped cypress swamp far from the main river. Away from crowds and marinas, houses and blaring car horns, my son Eric manned the 12-volt spotlight, illuminating the swamp for hundreds of yards. Matt moved to the bow, sitting carefully with a long canepole with a gig attached, safely held half in and half out of the boat. The skiff moved quietly along, powered by an electric motor. The bright light shone far out in front, and Eric swept it back and forth in an effort to see the surface of the water and the nearby swamp banks. Sleeping herons flushed from the shallows, and a hen wood duck with her brood fast-kicked away from the intruders. Two hunting raccoons stared into the light, then ignored it and went back to their business of foraging.

Finally, we spotted a pair of red eyes 70 yards out. The boat closed fast, and we tensed in silent anticipation.

“Oh, it’s jus’ a ’gator,” one of the boys said disappointedly as a 5-foot reptile glided, then dove as we neared. “Dang! I thought it was a big ol’ bullfrog.”

“Yeah, but there are more eyes over there,” Eric said excitedly while panning the light to several small pairs of white eyes on shore.

I quickly turned the boat and kicked the motor on high. As we neared one target, I slowed the skiff. The night was as quiet as a church at sunrise. Thirty feet from the eyes our beam highlighted a plate-size bullfrog, head broad as a man’s open hand, body black-green as swamp muck. It sat between two oil can-size cypress knees, with its back protected by a solid cypress trunk.

Running the stern-mount electric motor, I moved the boat just enough to barely close the distance between Matt at the bow, and the bullfrog on the bank. Twenty feet from the frog, Matt knelt intently, poised to strike like a lineman ready for the snap. Matt’s canepole was held tightly in both hands, eyes focused on his target. Suddenly he jabbed with the pole, but the frog was faster, and the deadly four-prong metal gig buried with a shuddering thud in solid cypress. “Quick! There’s another frog to the left of the tree, hurry, get ’im before he spooks...hurry!” Eric shouted.

“I’m tryin’,” barked Matt as he struggled awkwardly to pull the barbs from soft wood.

“Too late, he’s gone,” I said from the stern, not hiding my amusement at the boys’ excitement, and Matt’s missed opportunity. “That ol’ bullfrog you missed was big enough to feed half the family. At this rate, though, we might have to eat chicken instead. Maybe you guys should run the boat and let me try the gig.”

“Yeah, right, I’m sure you can do better,” the boys chimed in sarcastically, then they laughed and I traded places with Matt, but fared only marginally better. I went one for three on frogs, before Eric took a turn.