AAA Colorado ~ EnCompass Magazine

November | December 2006
Volume 80 Issue 6

Feature Article Close encounters of the watery kind
By Jeff Miller

Photo: Jeff Miller

Through our masks, my wife and I scanned the murky Florida water with some apprehension. Our breathing came quick and shallow in the snorkels, and the wetsuits couldn't stop an occasional shiver. Bill, the tour guide, had said they could come from any direction, straight out of the silt and algae clouds like ghosts. But these weren't ghosts — they could grow up to 13 feet long and 3,500 pounds.

Treading water quietly — they don't like loud noises or overactive swimmers — I felt vulnerable and very small. My eyes strained to see into the foggy water. I knew my wife must be getting nervous when I felt her nudge me in the back. Turning, I found myself face to face with one of the beasts — more than twice my size.

Any trepidation disappeared the moment I looked into the gentle, curious face of the manatee just inches away. The big, bulbous snout came closer and the tiny black eyes looked me over. I reached out with one arm, palm open, as I had been instructed, and rubbed under one of its flippers.

The massive gray creature began a slow roll onto its back, exposing a large blubbery stomach. The little eyes did a slow roll of their own into the back of its head. One of the flippers gently but insistently moved my hand to just the right spot, and I swear I heard a sigh of contentment.

As I rubbed the big guy's belly, I suddenly remembered my wife. Looking around, I spotted her making friends with her own manatee, while another inched forward hoping for some attention.

With the look of a Pillsbury Doughboy and the personality of a friendly dog starved for affection, manatees in the wild actually seek out contact with humans. They touch and want to be touched. And it's all truly amazing.

"When you think of it," Bill said as we were heading back to the dock in Crystal River, Fla., "it's incredible. Here's an animal in the water that chooses to be around you."

At times, manatees don't look so much like animals as people dressed in thick Halloween costumes. At one end is a huge squared-off head; at the other is a flat, wide tail that moves up and down. They have no shoulders, so their backs merge into their heads like old TV wrestlers gone to seed. Two front flippers cover human-like arm bones that include elbows, wrists, four fingers and a thumb, giving the impression of human hands inside heavy mittens.

Ancient mariners — with vivid imaginations and poor eyesight, no doubt — mistook the gentle, air-breathing mammals for mermaids. Today, manatees congregate in Florida during the winter, with one of the highest concentrations in the warm spring-fed waters of Citrus County.

Citrus County is on the Gulf Coast — less than two hours' drive north of Tampa or west of Orlando. It's also a world away from the mouse with the big ears. In fact, Citrus County is completely different from most people's perception of Florida, which is usually of endless miles of white sand and high-rise hotels, or the swamps of the Everglades.

Citrus County has neither. What it has are rolling hills covered in thick forests of pine trees, cabbage palms, red cedar, scrub oak and hickory, many dripping with the gray lace of Spanish moss. The moist air is laden with the sounds of thousands of birds: seagulls, pelicans, cormorants, herons, ospreys and the ever-present circling turkey buzzards. Close to the Gulf, the land flattens, the forests thin, and numerous rivers and springs create a huge estuary of inlets, canals, bays and islands. Large expanses of chest-high grasses move with the wind and tides. The only beach is a manmade strip a few hundred yards long at Fort Island Gulf Beach.

Since the mid-to late 1800s, Americans have carved thin ribbons of roads through the thick vegetation and founded communities such as Crystal River and Homosassa. In many places, rows of houses back up on canals. Fishing is the major industry, although since the '80s tourism has grown — due in part to the manatee.

Visitors can go out in rental boats, but it's best to go with an established tour guide who knows where to find them and knows the laws governing contact. With a population of around 2,500 manatees in Florida, and many killed every year by collisions with careless boaters, manatees are a threatened species. We watched a U.S. Fish & Wildlife video describing proper interaction: one-hand, open-palm petting only; no swimming after them or riding them; no getting between mother and calf; and no disturbing those feeding or sleeping on the bottom. Manatee rules are also posted along many of the waterways.

My wife and I went out on two different days with two different tour operators. Both showed a deep understanding, respect and concern for the manatees. We learned that manatees are warm-blooded mammals that live in fresh or salt water and come up for air every few minutes. In the winter, they stay around natural springs for warmth. Eons ago, they were land animals; they share a common ancestor with the elephant. Similarities include the prehensile lips like those on an elephant's trunk, fingernails on the manatee's flippers, and the leathery skin.

"Manatees are a touch-oriented species," David said. "They like to be touched and they like to touch. But it needs to be done properly and gently."

David took us to the headwaters of Homosassa River. The actual spring that feeds the river is in Homosassa Springs State Wildlife Park and is off-limits to boats and swimmers. When we anchored at 10:30 a.m., most snorkelers had already come and gone — manatees are most active in the early mornings. We took our chances and slipped quietly into the clear water. It was only three or four feet deep and the bottom was sandy with lots of sea grass.

Immediately, we saw five or six manatees eating or sleeping on the bottom. As we watched, one frisky manatee began disturbing the others as if looking for a playmate. When there were no takers, he spotted us and headed over. For the next hour we played with this mischievous creature.

On the tour with Bill, we went to Kings Spring, where buoys and lines keep swimmers and boaters away from the actual spring. Arriving at 7:30 a.m., we found lots of playful manatees, but the water was deeper and visibility was poor. There were few snorkelers when we arrived, but by the time we left there were numerous boats, swimmers, and many noisy, rowdy people. The manatees have learned, however, to swim across to the other side of the buoy lines when they're tired of human contact.

Sadly, every manatee we saw had numerous and pronounced scars — strings of straight white gashes running parallel across their backs where motorboat propellors had dug into their flesh.

A ranger at Homosassa Springs State Wildlife Park explained that unlike dolphins and whales, manatees don't have internal sonar and find it hard to determine the direction of sounds. That makes it difficult for them to avoid speeding boats. All of which means that humans have to be the caretakers of manatees. This is especially true because they have no natural predators, except for man — the Alaskan manatee was hunted to extinction in only 27 years.

After learning about the manatees at the park, and swimming with the trusting creatures, we hoped that the same fate doesn't befall Florida's manatees. It's a sure bet that everyone who swims with them and looks into their lovable faces will want to do everything possible not to let that happen.

Jeff Miller is editor of EnCompass.