The Lady or the Gator

Mighty Mike lives at Gatorama in Palmdale, Fla. He is 14 feet long, weighs 1,200 pounds and is completely undetectable in 18 inches of water.

And I am going to put my hand in his mouth.

I exaggerate. Mike isn’t quite 14 feet. He’s 13 feet, 9 inches. He would be 14 feet long, but he lost three inches of his tail in a brawl with another gator. Now he lives alone, enclosed by masonry walls topped with wooden fencing. He sunbathes in a shallow concrete pond surrounded by grass. Visitors view him from the safety of a caged walkway.

Mighty Mike is the star of "When Gators Attack!" a live show at Gatorama. Twice a day, he performs with Ben Register, his 24-year-old trainer.

Here is the plan: During today’s 11:30 show, Ben will put his hand in Mighty Mike’s mouth. Then it will be my turn. Ben promises to do his best to get the gator to keep his mouth open. But he cannot hold it open for me. (I asked.)

Alligators have a natural fear of humans. They lose that fear when they are fed. Mighty Mike has been fed.

"That’s why the show is called ‘When Gators Attack!’" says Allen Register, Ben’s father and the co-owner of Gatorama. Allen is missing the end of his middle finger. "Female croc," he says.

It’s time for the show. A crowd has gathered at Mighty Mike’s cage. Ben introduces me. "This is Linda," he says, getting my name wrong. I don’t bother to correct him. "She’s a journalist doing a story on personal challenges. During the show, she’ll come into the cage with me and stick her hand in the gator’s mouth."

I take a long look at Mighty Mike. On his snout is a wad of white bread, thrown by a visitor. He has an ample throat. In fact, he appears to have a double chin. This gives him a look of satisfaction—as if he recently ate a van full of tourists.

Ben hands his phone to a woman in the crowd. "If anything happens," he tells her, "call for help. Dial 911 and press the green button. Tell them we’re going to need a helicopter," he says. "Got it? The green button." She nods.

When Ben enters the cage, the alligator hisses. It sounds like steam escaping an enormous valve. Ben waits for the hissing to stop, then approaches slowly.

"I’m going to try to grab his tail," he says. He extends his arm, and the creature thrashes, sweeping a wall of water through the fence and onto the crowd. A young girl hugs her mother’s legs and starts to cry.

Ben moves to Mike’s mouth. "This is the most dangerous part of the gator," he says. "The working end. It has 3,000 pounds of pressure per square inch."

This is my cue. Allen ushers me inside Mike’s cage. "Stay behind Ben," he says in a low voice. I step inside the walls, sneak behind a flimsy tree and keep my distance.

"I’m going to show Linda how to stick her hand in a gator’s mouth," Ben says. When you are in mortal danger, it is disconcerting to be called the wrong name.

"It’s real easy to do," Ben says. He strokes the top of the gator’s snout with a branch. The animal lifts its head and opens its jaws, revealing a sizable yellow tongue.

Ben puts his hand just inside the gator’s teeth. It isn’t there long. Mighty Mike’s jaws slam shut with a mighty pop. I scream. Ben yells, "Whoa." He has jerked his hand away in time. Mighty Mike’s mouth is closed in a crooked smile. "That usually doesn’t happen," Ben says.

Again, he strokes the gator’s snout with the branch. Again, Mike’s jaws open and, again, Ben sticks his hand inside. Pop! Ben’s hand is safely free.

Without taking his eyes off the gator, he says to me, "Your turn." I can’t move. "Come on," he says. "You can do it."

I am 15 feet away from Mighty Mike. About the length of one alligator. Someone in the crowd hollers, "Don’t do it."

I step forward. Now 13 feet away. I am holding my fingers against my lips. My right hand—I am left-handed, so I decided to use my right—feels utterly absent from my body.

I take another step. Twelve feet. From here, I see subtleties in the texture of Mighty Mike’s hide. It’s black and gnarled—like a lava flow that has hardened.

A strong wind seems to blow against my gut. I stop. Unable to go closer. Can’t. When Allen comes into the cage to escort me out, I am disappointed in myself.

Later, after the crowd has dispersed, Allen and Ben tell me they weren’t going to let me go through with it. Had I tried, they would have stopped me. It was a practical joke. Even the gator was in on it. Ben caused Mighty Mike to pop his jaw by touching the roof of his mouth.

Happy, I cruise the gift shop for a souvenir to remind me of my trip to Gatorama. There are alligator hide wallets. Rings made of hematite and mother of pearl. I briefly consider buying 10 of them, one to celebrate each of the fingers I kept. I choose a wooden gator, carved from pine and stained dark brown. Its mouth is permanently open.

One more thing. That night at dinner, I ate fried gator.