The Washington Post - USA (2022-03-27)

F6 EZ EE THE WASHINGTON POST.SUNDAY, MARCH 27 , 2022

cumbers with snouts,” I think.

But as time passes, a show

unfolds when I zero in on indi-

vidual sea beasts surfacing for

air, their tiny faces and nostrils

briefly exposed; I watch as some-

thing spooks a cluster of man-

atees (known as an “aggrega-

tion”), and they all go bonkers,

flipping, flapping and diving i nto

the water. In a spot where the

water is shallow and clear, I melt

a little when a manatee with two

calves swims by, and I see her

turn to nuzzle one of the babies,

their whiskers touching.

A dose of history and hope

I hadn’t originally planned to

visit Blue Spring State Park,

because it’s about 150 miles from

my accommodations in the

Clearwater area, but after talk-

ing to Rose, I know I have to go.

This is where Save the Manatee

does much of its research. It’s

also the place that gives Rose the

most hope when he thinks about

the future of manatees, because

it draws in such high numbers in

winter — many with calves. On a

chilly day in late January, the

park broke its record for the

most manatees when it counted

740 in a day, beating a previous

high of 624. Forty years ago,

when the Save the Manatee team

began counting, it counted only

36 manatees over the course of

an entire season.

The spring here, which is

transparent with a tint of blue, is

a safe haven for the manatees in

the winter. That means it’s off-

limits to humans (except those in

an official capacity), so the man-

atees can swim, sleep and play in

peace in the 72-degree water,

making their way to the nearby

St. Johns River when they get

hungry. I arrive in the early

afternoon on a relatively warm

day, and most of the 308 man-

atees that were counted earlier

have migrated to the river. But

I’m able to spot about a dozen

manatees — and one alligator —

as I walk up and down the

boardwalk, which abuts the

spring for about one-third of a

mile.

Just before 2 p.m., I make my

way across the green grass of the

state park, past picnic tables and

oak trees dripping with Spanish

moss, to listen to a ranger talk.

There, I learn some fun manatee

trivia: that manatees communi-

cate in “chirps a nd squeaks”; that

there’s a manatee named Gator,

because it likes to hang out with

an alligator; that manatees can’t

simply turn their heads, they

have to turn their bodies. And

that manatees have no known

that mood, just to slow down.

Enjoy the world around you,” she

says.

Past the boardwalk, I lean

against a wooden railing, gazing

down at the brown water below.

The water is alive. First one

manatee surfaces, making that

now-familiar burble as it takes a

deep breath. Then another. And

another. For nearly a minute

straight, it’s like a synchronized

manatee swimming team is per-

forming just for me. Bursting

with awe, I’m fairly certain I’ve

hit peak manatee viewing.

Over the next few days, I visit

two more manatee hot spots, and

I even go on a kayaking tour,

where a few of the gentle giants

swim near the boat. But nothing

comes close to that private en-

counter, which felt so personal

and privileged. As my trip comes

to an end, I think back to what

Rose said about wanting to be

the defender of the manatee.

With all of the threats these

gentle giants face, I’m grateful

for him, and for so many others

who are working to save the

manatees.

Silver is a writer based in Chicago.

Her website is thekatesilver.com.

Find her on Twitter: @K8Silver.

MIKE CARLSON/ASSOCIATED PRESS

CHRIS O’MEARA/ASSOCIATED PRESS

A manatee rises for air at Tampa Electric’s Manatee Viewing Center at Apollo Beach in 2018.

Power plants discharge water warm enough to draw the heat-seeking herbivores.

blob-like creatures for as long as
I can remember, and I had
“adopted” manatees through
Save the Manatee starting at
about age 10: Boomer, then Pad-
dy Doyle and, most recently, Moo
Shoo. I had always taken for
granted that, o ne d ay, I would see
the manatees as they winter in
the warm waters of Florida.
(Manatee season there is approx-
imately mid-November through
the end of March.) It was with a
sense of urgency that I booked a
plane ticket to Ta mpa in early
February. I was relieved when
Rose assured me that, d espite the
unprecedented loss of so many
manatees, he doesn’t think ex-
tinction is on the horizon. In fact,
in some parts of the state, thanks
to ongoing efforts to improve
water quality and restore food
sources, record numbers of the
animals have been seen this
season, including many healthy
calves.
The ongoing tragedy has also
raised awareness of the plight of
this herbivore, which is related
to the elephant and has long
suffered from the threats of
boats, development and cold
weather. This year, it comes as no
surprise to learn that many other
manatee lovers are making trips
to springs, sanctuaries and pow-
er plants (yes, read on) to see
these sea cows in their element.
For Rose, that’s the silver lining
in the midst of the devastation.
“The manatees could use that
extra exposure right now, to keep
telling the brighter side of some
of this while we work to restore
those East Coast habitats,” he
says.

An industrial sea cow
encounter

My first glimpse of the sea
cows is disconcerting. Despite
viewing countless photos and
videos, I can’t really make sense
of their gigantic bodies with tiny
flippers and sad eyes. It doesn’t
help that the scene feels dystopi-
an: I’m at Ta mpa Electric’s Man-
atee Viewing Center at Apollo
Beach, where a boardwalk mean-
ders over a canal and through
mangrove forests, and a tower-
ing, coal-fired power plant
known as Big Bend burps white
water vapors into the air. Power
plants, I learn, are like spas for
manatees, because they dis-
charge water warm enough to
draw the heat-seeking sea cows.
On this chilly morning in Febru-
ary, they are soaking it up.
I walk along the wooden path
with about 100 other people who
also arrived just as the plant
opens for the day, and I claim a
spot by a railing. About 60 feet in
front of me are at least 50
manatees, but at first glance,
they may as well be logs or rocks:
They’re so still, and their backs
just barely break the water’s
surface. Judging from the mur-
murs around me, I ’m n ot the only
one befuddled by the sight.
“They’re like lumps,” says a wom-
an to my left. “Like a mole,” says a
man to my right. “Floating cu-

MANATEES FROM F1 predators — it’s humans that are
the biggest threat. “It’s not that
alligator out there. It’s not that
shark in the ocean,” says the
woman leading the talk. “It’s us.”
Afterward, I approach the pre-
senter, who, it turns out, isn’t a
ranger, but a volunteer filling in
for a ranger. Her name is Hildy
Kingma, a recent retiree who
traveled here from Chicago two
months ago to volunteer. I ask
her whether she’s met a lot of
people who are visiting after
reading all the terrible manatee
news, and she says she has. Some
have gone so far as to bring food
for the manatees after reading
that they’re starving elsewhere.

She recently encountered a

head of lettuce near the road.

“Someone brought a head of

lettuce thinking they were going

to throw it out there, and they

heard they weren’t supposed to

do that and just tossed it into the

woods.” She emphasizes that the

manatees here have plenty of

food — and feeding them is

against the law.

A magical manatee moment

One of the most famous places

to see manatees is a city called

Crystal River on Florida’s Gulf

Coast. The patchwork of warm

springs and sanctuaries here

draws up to 1,000 manatees

throughout winter, and visitors

can pay to swim with them on a

tour, which is a big draw, albeit a

controversial one among conser-

vationists.

I opt instead to visit a place

called Three Sisters Springs,

which is a part of the Crystal

River National Wildlife Refuge.

I’m one of the first to arrive when

it opens at 8:30 a.m., and to the

sound of singing birds, I walk

along a boardwalk, peering into

one of the park’s crystal-clear

springs, and spy about 10 man-

atees. One slowly swims in front

of me, rising to the surface to

take a deep breath. The sound

makes me think of a coffee pot,

sputtering out its brew.

I continue walking around the

boardwalk, and an interpreter/

volunteer with the U.S. Fish and

Wildlife Service tells me I might

encounter more manatees at an

area called Magnolia Springs. We

chat for a bit, and I learn that her

name is Wendy Davis, and she

and her husband traveled here

from Alabama in June to volun-

teer in the park. She had grown

up hearing about manatees but

hadn’t gotten an up-close view

until her stay here. She says she

has learned a lot from watching

them. “Manatees aren’t fast.

They’re just slow-moving ani-

mals, and it tends to put you in

In Florida, visitors can observe manatees in their element

If You Go

WHAT TO DO

Tampa Electric’s Manatee

Viewing Center

6990 Dickman Rd., Apollo Beach

813-228-4289

tampaelectric.com/company/mvc

Manatees seek out the water

warmed by this power plant during

winter. Walk along boardwalks and

trails, visit the environmental

education building and pop into a

gift shop loaded with manatee

souvenirs. Open Nov. 1 to April 15,

10 a.m. to 5 p.m. Tr ails close at 4

p.m. Free.

Blue Spring State Park

2100 W. French Ave., Orange City

386-775-3663

bit.ly/blue-spring-state-park

With clear water that remains 72

degrees year-round, this park

attracts manatees in enormous

numbers during winter, when the

spring is closed to water activities

to protect the gentle giants. Open

daily, 8 a.m. to sundown; $6 per

vehicle.

Three Sisters Springs

123 NW Hwy. 19, Crystal River

352-586-11 70

threesistersspringsvisitor.org/sisters

Wander along trails and a

boardwalk to see manatees

swimming in these springs, which

are protected during winter from

watercraft. Handicap parking

available; others can take a trolley

or arrive on foot or bicycle. Open

daily, 8:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. Winter

entry, $20 per adult; seniors 55

and up, $17.50; military, $15;

children 6 to 15, $7.50; and

children 5 and under, free.

KERRY SHERIDAN/AGENCE FRANCE-PRESSE/GETTY IMAGES

TOP: Manatees, snorkelers and kayakers enjoy the water at Three Sisters Springs, part of

Florida’s Crystal River National Wildlife Refuge, in January. ABOVE: A manatee, also called a sea

cow, swims out of a sanctuary there in 2016. The springs there are protected in winter from

watercraft.

“I need to be

a defender of

these animals.”

Patrick Rose,

executive director of

Save the Manatee Club