Hey -- that story was the stone cold truth, except it took us too trips up to Crystal River to actually dfind a pod of the rubbery guys. We were gonna scuba among them but the local wisemen let us know they would flee from the sound of the regulators, so we went in with snorkels only. Well, and wetsuits.
We were swimming from a rented aluminum bass boat with a 7 1/2 horse Evinrude on the back, and I still had my pre-neoprene rubber wetsuit back then, I remember it well. Had to charm the guy into renting me an air bottle because I'd enver bothered getting a cert card back when I was diving in the Med. I swear it's all true. Now I know the point you guys balk at is the part about talking to the manatee. And of course, they don't talk. But I have a sensitivity to the kind of compassionate but silent exchange of thoughts that most anyone has with a well-beloved dog, or cat, or what have you, or even a close companion of the H. sap variety, where a high degree of certainty of communication occurs with no noise. Empathy, is what. Don't you guys got no empathy? Sheesh. That's how Joe Manatee and I had our little exchange and he was every bit as good at it as I was.

'Course since then, having been tossed around by life and had rough times, I am probably more scarred and less sensitive than I was those many years ago. But back then, it happened just like I tole you-all.

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