Pflugie the Lonely Duck

It is sometimes said that there's a fine line between heaven and hell. I experienced this today. 

I met a few friends out at Pflugerville Lake, a man-made, mostly non-de-script-yet-generally-beautiful fresh water reservoir, 3 miles in circumference. I've been swimming all the time lately at Austin's beloved Barton Springs. After a lifetime of adequate swimming, it has recently occurred to me that I don't actually know how to swim at all. (I hope to someday try my hand at some triathlons so I've been working on this weakness.)

Both my swimming technique and endurance have improved dramatically in just a few weeks. In fact, we simply hung out in the water for perhaps an hour or so, about a quarter mile away from land, just swimming and treading water and floating. The water was warm and inviting, clean and bluish green. Out in the middle of nowhere, out of my element, just swimming. Heaven.

Then this duck approaches us, just swimming casually towards us. A common duck. My friend Melody informs me that she has seen this duck before and that it is famously friendly, that it likes people, that it allows people to pet it. Note: There are no other ducks in the entire lake. Literally. Zero. This is the only duck. Melody had named him "Lonely Pflugie". 

From afar, Lonely Pflugie paddles towards us. We're delighted. As he approaches, it becomes clear that he has chosen to swim directly to me. We laugh. I greet Pflugie. Pflugie continues to swim closer. And closer. Ten feet, five feet, arm's length. He slows. I am shocked at this duck's extraordinary confidence, his lack of fear. If only I knew. 

I timidly reach out and gently pet Pflugie's feathers. He seems to like this. He comes closer...he comes too close. He seems like he would just swim until he bumped into my face. This is a little too much random confident duck interaction for me. I back away. He follows. I back away more. He follows, but more aggressively. I gently splash him. He is undeterred by my water attack. Probably because, oh, I dunno, he's a duck. 

I splash harder, but it's no use. My wussy attacks are no match for millions of years of evolution. I reach out to Pflugie, but instead of petting him, I push him away. It seems like everything I do simply fans the flames of Pflugie's fire. By this point, I'm getting freaked out: Out in the middle of nowhere, out of my element, just swimming. Hell.

As the laughter of my "friends" rings in my ears, I attempt to escape. I swim as fast as I can towards shore, but Pflugie out-swims me without breaking a sweat. Probably because, oh, I dunno, he's a duck. I panic. I am not proud of what I did next, but desperate times call for desperate measures.  I punched Pflugie. Punched him right in his little duck body. It had no effect. This duck was like the fucking terminator, except with little cartoon hearts in his eyes.

I swam like crazy towards the shore, and it is at this point that Pflugie caught up to me and climbed on my back. I shook my feathered foe loose and gave him a thunderous kick to the ribs. While it surely stunned him, I was terrified to think what Hellish duck fury would now be unleashed upon me. It is at this climactic moment that I looked up and saw my savior: a big dog swimming close to shore. Sure enough, as I approached the dog, "Nanook", Pflugie slowed and eventually stopped, keeping his distance. The nightmare was over.

Epilogue

Pflugie was not hurt by my water karate. We watched him happily harass other swimmers for a while, and eventually swim off into the distance, all alone. Who is this Lonely Pflugie? What made him the way he is? How did he get separated from his family? These are questions that may never be answered. But I, for one, will tell Pflugie's story, the story of a brave young duck just trying to find his place in the world, trying to spread love and getting kicked in the ribs. All I know is, if you're ever up at Lake Pflugerville and a friendly duck swims towards you, swim like hell.