Brittany Borges Guardians Of: The Glades Bikini

Then, a rustle in the sawgrass. Crockett, a grizzled man with a snake tattoo on his neck, waded into view. He didn’t say a word. He just dropped to his knees beside her, grabbed the python’s tail, and began to carefully unwind it.

She pulled the kayak alongside a mud bank and stepped out, the cool muck squelching between her toes. Her python hook was in her hand. Ten feet away, half-hidden in the roots of a giant strangler fig, was a mass of scales. It wasn't one python. It was three. A large female, easily fourteen feet, and two smaller males, all tangled in a breeding ball.

Brittany Borges had spent countless hours beneath the blazing Florida sun, navigating the twisted mangroves and tea-colored waters of the Everglades. As a key member of the Guardians of the Glades , her days were usually measured in snake hooks, muddy boots, and the satisfying weight of an invasive Burmese python bagged. But today was different. Today was about reaching a remote shack of a herpetologist named Crockett, who had radioed about a nest of pythons so large it threatened to destabilize a critical wading bird rookery. brittany borges guardians of the glades bikini

The bikini was surprisingly practical. It dried almost instantly in the oven-like heat, and with no heavy fabric to weigh her down, she moved silently, gliding the kayak around submerged logs and through curtains of floating vegetation. She was a ghost, a streak of tanned skin and turquoise against the green labyrinth.

Brittany had no choice. She lunged.

Brittany peeled off her usual field gear—the thick gloves, the heavy cargo pants, the reinforced boots. She tucked a compact satellite phone, a multi-tool, and a small first-aid kit into a dry bag. For clothing, she opted for a high-SPF rash guard and a pair of durable, quick-drying shorts. But as she looked at her reflection in the side mirror of the truck, she paused. Her typical swimsuit was back at the base. The only thing clean in her go-bag was a bright turquoise bikini she’d thrown in for a rare day off. She shrugged. Function over fashion—or in this case, function with a side of tropical flair.

The problem was the route. The only way in was a two-mile paddle through a series of tight, shallow creeks too narrow for their airboat. And in the brutal, shimmering heat of a Florida July, that meant one thing: she was going in the water. Then, a rustle in the sawgrass

She slipped into the bikini, tied her dark hair back into a tight braid, and slid the narrow kayak into the water. The moment she pushed off, the world closed in. Towering cypress trees draped in Spanish moss blocked the sun, casting dappled shadows on the water. The air was thick, buzzing with dragonflies and the distant, prehistoric bellow of an alligator.

An hour later, the three pythons were safely bagged and tagged. Brittany sat on the front of the airboat, rinsing the mud off her legs with a water bottle. The turquoise bikini was now more brown than blue. He just dropped to his knees beside her,

Then she heard it. A deep, ominous hiss followed by the thrash of heavy coils.

Crockett handed her a towel. “You know,” he said, a rare grin cracking his weathered face, “most folks wear a little more armor to wrestle a fourteen-foot snake.”