The Miraculously Mellow Manatee

What strikes you first about a manatee is not its size, or its enigmatic expression, but its almost mystic aura of calm.

This is all the more striking when you happen to be with a group of excited tourists all eagerly flapping around trying to get close enough to touch and snap pictures of the elusive creature, whose endangered status grants it some degree of protection from its admirers. But perhaps not enough.

When my son encouraged me to join him on a snorkeling adventure to see the manatees up close and personal, I was hesitant at first. Although I enjoy swimming, I’m terrified of alligators, and in Florida they’re everywhere. However, since we would be snorkeling in a group of fifteen, I swallowed my fear and banked on the safety in numbers.

We had to be at the dive shop at the crack of before dawn, since manatees are particularly sensitive to water temperatures. Too cold and they die. Too warm and they stop moving around. To catch sight of them in the shallow lagoons of Crystal River, Florida, you have to get in the 72 degree water before eight a.m. And before you leave the dock you have to get into a wet suit and watch a video informing you of all the rules and “manatee manners” which are strictly enforced to protect the manatees from their hordes of admirers.

In my naiveté I had thought that when we arrived at the site it would be just us and the manatees. But when our guide cut the engine and dropped anchor there were a half dozen other tour boats already on the scene. There were also several observers in kayaks from manatee watch groups to enforce the rules and make sure none of the snorkelers forgot their manners.

At the sight of all these humans and boats my expectations for a memorable manatee moment fell. If I were a manatee I certainly wouldn’t want to stick around while scores of gawking humans stirred up the water. But it seems that manatees are far more mellow than I.

When the first one drifted past me, its little flippers comically small in relation to its portly bulk, it floated so serenely, seemingly without effort, like an underwater dirigible. Its mild demeanor and whiskered nose put me in mind of Wimpy, the cartoon character famous for his fondness for hamburgers, although the manatee is an herbivore, its preference for grass earning it the nickname “sea cow.”

However, unlike clumsy cows, the manatee’s graceful movement and gentle calm suggest an almost magical poise. They are innately loveable creatures. It’s easy to understand how sailors seeing them in the distance long ago might have imagined they were mermaids. Obviously those long sea voyages were a strain for lonely sailors.

For the manatee, whose existence is threatened by loss of habitat, global warming, power boats and reckless human behavior, the hope for continued survival depends not only on managing the threats to its habitat, but on managing the natural human desire to get closer to the things we love. Manatees don’t appear to have the instinct to fight off intruders. Maybe it’s a miracle they’ve lasted this long. But I hope we can keep the manatee miracle going.