July 20, 2024
Florida, U.S.A.
January 2024
These firsts came this past January on the western coast of central Florida. It’s a region that’s incredibly pleasant during the day, but at 6:00 a.m., it’s hardly a place that has you rushing to put on a wetsuit in preparation for a swim.
My days began early and consisted of a drive either north to Crystal River or south to Homosassa on Highway 98. On each of those three mornings, the air temperature hovered around 50°F (10° C) with gusts of winds that made me thankful I had brought my dry robe from my previous trip.
It’s this temperature change in the winter months that makes them the most favorable for manatee encounters. Below 68° F (20° C), these animals can suffer from cold stress—similar to hypothermia—that can lead to weight loss, a weakened immune system, and ultimately death. But there’s a homeopathic solution—as the ocean temperature drops, the animals move into the natural springs where the water stays consistently warm.
Warm, of course, is relative. My prior trip had taken me to the frigid fjords of Norway. Even there, with a water temperature a little more than half of what it was here in Florida, I didn’t remember my core feeling cold in the water. Much of this is due to gear—in Norway, I was sporting an 8 mm arctic free dive suit, whereas on this trip, I had a 3 mm suit to keep me warm. I distinctly remember the full-body shivers that hit on the first day when the water seeped into my wetsuit. The following two days, I doubled up and squeezed into a second suit. A makeshift 6 mm setup that left me struggling to move my arms and floating at the surface like the Goodyear blimp, but kept me noticeably warmer.
I’ve loved the water since I was a kid. Growing up in Miami, I could spend hours in the pool at a time. It was impossible to get me out. My hands and feet turned to prunes, eyes bright red from the chlorine. I would swim laps, testing how many lengths I could make on a single breath. I floated at the surface or sprawled out on the pool bottom. I cherished the quiet beneath the surface and I loved the feeling of being completely enveloped by the water.
On these three days, though, I experienced that same hesitation when your body just won’t let you take that first jump into a pool. Temperature was a significant factor, and the lack of clarity also played a role. But when your captain is staring at you after saying I was good to get in, you can only stall for so long.
Recent storms that hit Florida had wiped out much of the seagrasses in the springs, which normally filter particles in the water. Coupled with algae growth from increased fertilizer in runoff, the water was far murkier than it typically is in the area. We set out early—a deliberate decision to reduce the likelihood of encountering other boats in the area and to spend more time with the manatees when they are more active. However, this would mean less ambient light, which heightened challenges with visibility and for capturing images.
It took a good amount of deliberation, but I finally lowered myself down the back ladder and into the water. With my fins and mask on, I decided the best way to stay warm was to keep moving. I was greeted by a setting far different from what I had seen in images previously. The water wasn’t necessarily deep—maybe between 10-15 feet (3-5 m) at the deepest, but under an overcast sky, it was dark, drab, and a bit eerie. I finned around the area slowly to minimize any silt getting kicked up, but struggled to spot a manatee.
After a good 15 minutes of searching the area, I spotted my first—an unassuming grayish mound resting at the bottom of the spring. I fired off a few images, a habit I’ve developed for the initial encounter with any animal, fully aware that these photos would, and should, never see the light of day. There’s always a period where you want to observe your subject’s movement and behavior, understand the conditions, and also diali in your settings before you start to create anything meaningful. But, if I happened to run out of luck and didn’t see anything else for the rest of the trip, I’d at least head home with some dark images for the memories.
I began reviewing those initial photographs on the back of the camera’s LCD screen and adjusted the settings while floating at the surface. As I turned my head to continue searching, I nearly jumped out of my wetsuit. An animal the size of a Smart car was floating in place within arm’s reach. No movement, just staring at me. A look that seemed to ask, “What are you doing here?”
Not aggressive in the slightest. Merely curious.
Over the remainder of that morning and the next two days, I spent a number of hours with these special mammals. I was fortunate to have ample sunlight on the following two mornings, making for ideal conditions in the water. I was also presented with a number of close encounters with the animals.
What I saw in those springs in Florida is reflective of what I’ve observed in other parts of the world across a number of species—the concept of “wild” appears to be blurring. Those settings you envision from images in National Geographic magazines often reveal a different reality when experienced firsthand. Those springs you thought were remote and isolated are actually bordered by homes and docks. You see the effects of this in the deep wounds on the backs of the manatees.
While these locations might differ from expectations when you visit in person, I don’t think it detracts from the moments you spend around the animals. And I do think these moments are important—encounters beget interest, and interest begets action. Where that line should be drawn between proximity and privacy, between recurrence and respite, remains to be seen. It’s a topic I’d like to write more about down the road when I have the right images to accompany the words.
Manatees seem a simple species. They are simply shaped. Large and rotund with wrinkly, leathery looking skin that is often covered in algae. Would-be champions of the body positivity movement in the animal kingdom. Between appearance and personality, manatees would appear to fall somewhere between a hippopotamus and a dog (though their closest evolutionary relatives are actually elephants). Aside from the few moments at the surface to take in air, they are almost silent. They may be large, but they are oddly graceful. They glide through the water as they socialize with each other and with their visitors. They have no natural predators – threatened only by the aluminum alloy and steel of propellers.
Submerge yourself in some of Florida’s coastal waterways, and you may encounter these unique creatures. Better yet, you may also learn a few things. Maybe it’s that looks can be deceiving. Maybe that it’s okay to take things slower and observe the world around you. To spend time with those close to you. Maybe it’s that the quiet ones still have something important to convey.
Maybe that despite bearing deep wounds of the past, you can still welcome and accept others into your world.
-EK
7/20/24
