“Oh the Hu-Manatee” in Crystal River

Crystal River Day Two

The boat left at 7 a.m. My wife was ready to go, and I had been rubbing my eyes for 45 minutes. We were in Florida, and it was cold. The water was 74 degrees, so they gave us insulated wetsuits to prevent hypothermia.

We managed to get into the wetsuits without putting them on backward, unlike the girl next to us. On the boat, they went over safety or something—I wasn't paying attention. One crew member was a photographer hired by the hotel to get action shots for promotional materials. Dreams do come true. They explained that the wetsuits would make our feet float up and push our chest down. I’m already top-heavy (shouldn't have skipped leg day), so that sucked. If you had facial hair, your mask wouldn’t seal. It would’ve been nice to address these me-specific problems earlier, but whatever. I lasted about eight seconds in the water before I lost it.

I had to push water away from my face to avoid doing a front flip; my mask was full of water, it leaked into my snorkel, and I just smashed my hand on a rock. Wait—why is there a rock by my face? Is it floating? Oh, it’s a manatee. I was mid-front-flip, eyes full of water, actively drowning, and this 1,200-pound manatee was staring at me like it wanted to hang out. No, it was more condescending than that. I looked to my wife for support.

"You look like you're struggling."

Thanks, Wife. I finished my episode and decided to find a shallow area, stand completely still, and avoid drowning. On the boat, they said that even though it’s shallow enough to stand, you can’t put your feet down because it stirs up dust and ruins visibility. I chose life. This choice initially earned me some dirty looks from my new lifelong enemy, the photographer. I must have picked a prime spot because I still got plenty of action. The manatees huddled in one roped-off area, but the babies liked to play with visitors. They swam around my legs, gave me little nibbles, and one even napped on my feet. I had to stand still for plenty of photos. Later, they tried to sell me those photos for $40. Thank you for selling pictures of me to me—for $40. I should’ve demanded royalties for the hotel pamphlet. My wife, meanwhile, snorkeled ten thousand miles before joining me in my manatee hotspot. She abandoned me while I was fighting for my life but conveniently showed up for the baby manatee cuddles and photo ops.

We got back on the boat for coffee and hot chocolate.

We still hadn’t eaten, and adventuring in the early morning made the day feel long. At Grannie’s Country Cooking, they gave us a pager since it was jam-packed. The pager didn’t work, so they screamed for us. They sat the two of us at a table for six. Maybe this explained the crowd—poor planning. We each ordered breakfast and then a third breakfast to share. The table groaned under country-fried steak, pancakes, grits, over-easy eggs, sausage, bacon, hashbrowns, biscuits, and gravy. Hand me the hot sauce.

There was a park wrapping around the same area we swam. From above, you could see the manatees, which was much safer than seeing those ferocious predators up close. The water was so blue it seemed unreal. You could watch the manatees swimming between pools through narrow channels.

Time for a full-on nap.

After our pre-turn-up nap, we got ready and headed to the beer festival. The giant warehouse full of beer also had a silent auction. There were steins, wines, massage packages—is that a wheel of cheese? We were winning that cheese. We didn’t win the cheese.

We tried samples from every brewery we could—except the ginger ale guy. This wasn’t just another IPA festival—there was lots of variety. A brewery club had a booth. They pooled resources to buy equipment and took turns brewing. Each homebrewer named their beer after their first name. It was adorable. Another booth had homemade whiskey. I had to plan our attack with that one. I could drink it all day. My wife said I couldn’t. The Irish band was excellent, and plenty of people danced, which meant shorter lines at the beer tables for us. Suckers. Food trucks served the only food. One truck exclusively sold soft pretzel bites—where’d my wife go? The band wrapped up, and the beer started running out—time to panic.

"Do you have any beer?"

"No, I have homemade ginger ale."

"Eh."

"The guy over there still has whiskey. You could make a Whiskey Ginger."

"Listen here, buddy. Don’t you tell me how to—that’s a great idea."

Until I get dragged somewhere else,

A Lazy Husband.