Back to the Island (barrier that is)

For the last couple of years I have had the opportunity to spend a few summer days on the Florida shores along the Gulf Coast.  Depending on your perspective, I am either one the of those fortunate people who “knows someone” or I am the jerk who gets a cheap vacation because he “knows someone”.  Whichever side of the fence you reside in forming your opinion of someone like me; you’re right.  As you may have figured out by now, I am a beach bum who is stuck in the midwest.  So actually having a connection at the beach is a rarity and an opportunity that MUST be taken advantage of. 

This year I boarded a southbound plane with zero expectations other than to take a few days to breathe the satly air, take in some sun, and get my gills wet enough to sustain me through my midwestern existence until I return again to the sea.  That is exactly what I did. 

Every time I fly, I attempt to stake my claim on the cherished window seat.  I am in my mid thirties and have racked up thousands of air miles.  I have yet to get tired of seeing city lights from 35,000 feet in the air, or from looking down (rather than up) at a canopy of clouds, or my personal favorite, seeing palm trees along the local roads as the plane is landing.  I mentioned to a friend several years ago that I know that I have arrived where I want to be when I see palm trees.  (my theory is based on the fact that palm trees can not thrive in cold climates - I know how they feel)

This trip began as all beach vacations should; a direct trip from the airport to a beach side open air bar/burger joint.  Max, my partner in crime for this trip, took me to Crabby Bill’s where we both feasted on grouper and cliche fruity boat drinks that tasted like liquid tropics.  The air was warm and thick in the restaurant as locals trundled in and out in such a carefree manor that I couldn’t help but think their days consisted of nothing but ocean, sun, booze, and friends.  It never rains in their world.  They probably don’t even have jobs.  There is some sort of government grant that allows them to stay tan, good looking, and buzzed, perhaps funded by the Florida department of tourism.  …I plan to apply. 

Except for a single excursion, I would not venture from the barrier islands that reside just off the western coast of central Florida.  That excursion was a little trip that we affectionately dubbed: “ManaTEASE - They Were Here Yesterday”.

Whenever I vacation I try to check something off of my “haven’t done that” list.  A buddy of mine from the fire department recommended a swim with the manatees while down there.  It sounded intriguing.  Max was kind enough to drive me two hours north of Tampa in order to catch a boat on the Crystal River - the alleged home to hundreds of manatees. 

The 4 a.m. wake up was brutal and other than the conversation, the drive was thoroughly uneventful.  We arrived just in time to be almost late.  The crew seemed rather impatient and was as anxious as the boat full of tourists to get this trip underway.  There were 25 - 30 people on our boat.  We all were wearing our requisite wetsuits and were clutching snorkels and masks.  The morning air was warm and the water was…. well…  I’ll just say that Crystal River is somewhat of a misnomer.

After watching the brief mandatory movie about mana-dos and mana-don’ts we ventured out into the Crystal River.  The next two hours were filled by gently trolling back and forth along what appeared to be a manatee ghost town.  We saw every place they had been “yesterday”  Apparently we arrived mere hours after the great manatee migration of 2009 because there was not a single one to be found.  The anticipation that had draped the boat at the beginning of the excursion had been replaced by disenchanted looks, bored, pestilent children, and whispered conversations inquiring as to the money-back policy of Captain Bill.    …then it happened. 

One of the other boats spotted a manatee.  Not a “group” or “herd” or “gaggle” or whatever the name of a whole bunch of manatees is; A single manatee.  We hurried over to where the sighting had occurred.  What happened next could only be described as borderline mana-rape.  There were several boats, all carrying 20 - 30 people.  All of which were climbing into the river and swimming as fast as they could over to the poor beast that was just trying to get the hell away.  Despite my blatant disgust of the indignity to nature I jumped in with the rest and swam like hell.  About halfway to the sea of snorkels that were breaking the surface of the water, I had second thoughts.  This was NOT the intimate experience that I had envisioned in my head.  I stopped mid-stroke and bobbed in the water is a pondered the degree of my disappointment.  Then I decided that I may never get this chance again and cut through the crowd of swimmers like Walter Payton cutting through the O line.  Although I never quite made it.  The sea of pasty tourist flesh proved to be too much of an obstacle and I retreated back to the boat in defeat.  Unfortunately Max was already there.  Because of a recent neck surgery, he could not snorkel and opted to watch from the boat. (which proved to be the best vantage point anyway).

To Be Continued…