Crystal River Day Two

The boat left at 7 am. My wife was ready to go, and I have been rubbing my eyes for 45 minutes. We are in Florida, and it was cold. The water was 74 degrees, so they give us insulated wetsuits— to keep us from hypothermia.

We got into the wetsuits and didn't put them on backward like the girl next to us. On the boat, we went over safety or whatever. I don't know— I wasn't paying attention. One of our crew members 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 have been nice to address these me-specific problems earlier, but whatever. I was in the water for 8 seconds before I lost it.

I had to push water away from my face to keep from doing a front flip; my mask was full of water, it was leaking into my snorkel, and I just hit my hand on a rock. Wait, why is there a rock by my face? Is it floating— it's a manatee. I was stuck mid-frontflip, eyes full of water, actively drowning, and this 1200-pound manatee is staring at me like it wanted to hang out. No, it was a little more condescending than that. I looked to my wife for some 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, even though it's shallow enough to stand, you cannot put your feet down because it will stir up dust and ruin visibility— I chose life. This choice initially got me some dirty looks from my new lifelong enemy, the photographer. I must have picked a pretty good spot because I still got plenty of action. The manatees were huddled together in one roped-off area, but the babies liked to play with the people visiting. They came out and swam around my legs, gave me little nibbles, and the one just laid down and took a nap on my feet. I had to stand still for plenty of photos. Later on, they tried to sell me these photos for $40. Thank you for selling pictures of me to me— for $40. I should be getting royalties for the hotel pamphlet. My wife was a pro and snorkeled for a total distance of about ten thousand miles before joining me in my manatee hot spot. She took off while I was fighting for my life. But she was on my back while baby manatees slept on my feet and people wanted photos. We got back in the boat with 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 2 of us at a table for 6. Maybe this was why they were so busy— poor planning. We each ordered breakfast and then a third breakfast to share. The table read like this: country-fried steak, pancakes, grits, over-easy eggs, sausage, bacon, hashbrowns, biscuits, and gravy. Hand me the hot sauce.

There was a park that wrapped around the same area we swam. You could see the manatees from above, which was much safer than seeing those ferocious predators up close. The water was so blue it was unbelievable. You could see the manatees swimming from pool to pool using the narrow channel that connects them.

Time for a Full-on nap.

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

We tried a sample from every brewery we could—except the ginger ale guy. This warehouse was not just another IPA festival— lots of variety. There was a brewery club with a booth. They all pitched in to buy equipment and took turns using it. Each Homebrewer named their beer after their first name— it was adorable. Another booth had homemade whiskey. I had to plan our attack with this one. I could drink that all day. My wife said I couldn't. The Irish band they hired was excellent, and plenty of people were dancing. That meant shorter lines at the beer tables for us— suckers. Food trucks served the only food. There was one truck that exclusively sold soft pretzel bites— where'd my wife go? The band was wrapping up, and the beer was dwindling— time to panic.

"Do you have any beer?"

"No, I have homemade ginger ale."

"Eh."

"Well, 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.