Pilgrimage To Gentleness

-by Daniel Caron

     I remember being twelve years old and sitting with my family in the living room watching an Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau television special about manatees. Like many nature television programs of that day this one captured my attention and imagination.  My first face-to-face encounter with a manatee came many years later in 1990.  At the time I knew very little about these marine mammals. I knew nothing of manatee physiology and their relationship to the ecosystem.  I was also unaware of the threat manatees face from watercraft and especially boat propellers.  All I could recall from the Cousteau television program was that some early European explorers first mistook manatees for mermaids.  Captain Cousteau introduced me to manatees when I was a boy.  As an adult I now enjoy the privilege of introducing others to West Indian manatees.

    Artist Mary Ann DiNella's painting, "Manatee," portrays the essence of what we hope to experience on our annual trip to Crystal River, Florida.  The watercolor depicts a mermaid gingerly supporting a baby manatee with her arm amidst the seaweed, fish and other life on the river bottom. The painting's serene connection between a mythical woman and a wild animal appears more fantasy than reality.  Seven college students, my colleague Lynn, and I soon discover that the relationship between human and animal illustrated in this painting is more than the folklore of sailors and the fantasy of artists.  The painting models a lifestyle that, with practice, is possible for each of us. 

The hopeful theme of DiNella's painting is not new to me, although rediscovering its importance is no less exciting.  Over the past ten years I have traveled with students from Wheeling Jesuit University in West Virginia to Florida's West Coast, to experience gentle West Indian manatees in their watery home. During these visits we come to understand the manatees and the ties that connect us with all life.  Ignatian spirituality refers to this as "seeing God in all things."  We will experience this lesson in the water through our interactions with these giant mammals.

For many of the freshmen students this is more than a trip. The students come from a variety of academic disciplines.  They are also culturally diverse, though many are from Appalachia.  Several have never been on an airplane before this trip. For them simply getting to Florida seems half the fun, although it does not compare with the excitement awaiting them in Crystal River, 80 miles north of Tampa.

    A day later, warmed by our thick wetsuits and with snorkeling gear in tow, our boat lazily motors down the river to avoid colliding with any surfacing manatees.  Our only instructions concerning manatee etiquette come from a required videotape that we have watched at the marina.  Once on the water we are the visitors in their home.  The students are on their best behavior but, like little children taken to a new playground, it is hard for them to control their excitement.

   Some people think this is a strange way to spend an early morning in Florida.   Traveling at a snail's pace in an open boat for 20 minutes in 36-degree weather seems ridiculous in itself.  Getting into a river to swim with endangered mammals that grow to 14 feet in length and weigh up to 2000 pounds seems beyond ridiculous to others.  These sentiments are valid until you live the experience first-hand. 

   We stop our boat and ask a local fisherman about the best locations to spot congregating manatees. He gives us directions and, with a sense of certainty, refers to manatees as "God's creatures" because they are not aggressive and are so gentle they will "not even defend their young."  This description seems contrary to the behavior of most mammals.

   We arrive at our destination, a quiet canal cove where two other boats are already anchored on the muddy river bottom.  Ospreys call to each other from the treetops.  A Great Blue Heron stares at us while we don our masks, snorkels and fins. 

    Two students, unable to wait any longer, slip over the side of the boat and lie back in the water.  Their groans signal the cold river water seeping down the backs of their wetsuits, prompting every muscle in their bodies to tense.  Soon the rest of us enter the water and we quietly swim to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife sanctuary buoys, an unsupervised roped-off area restricting human and boat access.  This space allows the manatees a place of privacy.

   As we pass a large boulder along the bottom I stop, signaling to Lynn and the students.  What first appeared to be a boulder is actually a large, sleeping manatee.  In a few minutes this half-ton giant will slowly surface, fill its lungs with air and then submerge to continue its slumber.

    In an attempt to videotape the students swimming behind a school of snapper, I dive down 12 feet, point my video camera housing at them and surface. The red light on the camera indicates a problem.  I discover that water is leaking into my supposedly waterproof video-camera housing.  This is an expensive accident, although a gut feeling tells me that it happened for a reason.  I swim back to the boat, place the camera on board and then rejoin the group.

   For what seems like an hour, we observe children and adults chasing any manatees that dare to exit the sanctuary.  Observing this behavior is both embarrassing and frustrating.  Manatees sleeping on the river bottom receive no rest from the poking hands and kicking fins of unconcerned swimmers.  I try to imagine how I would feel if someone stumbled into my home and began poking me while I was sleeping. The students, appalled by these discourteous behaviors, take immediate notice of the manatees' reactions.  Every manatee that is chased, awoken or bothered quickly swims away. 

We position ourselves away from other swimmers and quietly remain near the edge of the sanctuary.  In less than a minute, a baby manatee swims out and approaches me.  I stand perfectly still in the water with my arms open.  The curious baby playfully stares at me and then swims toward my chest.  Its flippers reach for my hands.  The baby manatee then gently presses its face against my snorkeling mask.  You can hear the breathing from the students' snorkels cease in unison. The group then exhales with a sound of amazement.  The baby manatee and I continue the interaction for over ten minutes.  It rubs against me and seems to beckon my embrace whenever I lower my arms from gently supporting its weight. It then turns and approaches Kathleen, a student in our group.  Kathleen momentarily hesitates, unsure how to respond.  Her posture quickly adjusts as she realizes that this gift of connection requires only her openness and gentle touch. 

The students rest motionless, observing the baby manatee interacting with Kathleen.  My mind wanders to thoughts of the waterlogged video camera. These interactions would make a wonderful video clip, but a thought flashes through my head.  Holding the video camera equipment would have prevented me from sharing the magical connection with the baby manatee.  You cannot hug when your hands are full!  That little flash of wisdom creates a smile around my snorkel as I watch the baby manatee swim to the other students before disappearing back into the sanctuary.  The remainder of the morning we share other memorable encounters with several manatees interested in our patience, gentleness, and desire to connect with them.

While eating dinner that evening I ask the students about their impressions of the trip.  Each of them writes a few sentences in a notebook and we discuss their thoughts.  Kelly, another student in our group, writes:

The thing that amazes me is why aren't the manatees afraid of me? 

Here I am intruding in their environment.  I clumsily bobbed around

their home with my awkward flippers and they welcomed me.  How

beautiful to be invited to experience a piece of their lives with them. 

I felt a wonderful peace just being near them.

    We discuss how something so large and powerful can practice gentleness even in the face of aggression or what would seem to be an intrusion. We consider the necessity of patience, gentleness, and how we want others to treat us.  As a closing consideration, I ask the students what they have learned from their interactions with the manatees and how the experience might influence their daily lives.  A moment of silence descends around the dinner table.  They will need to discover those answers on their own.

    Nearly every year after returning home from these pilgrimages to Crystal River, Florida, I sit in my office exhausted, contemplating if I will make the trip with a new group of college freshmen the following year.  The months of planning, preparation, and vivid images of chilly open-air boat rides wearing a cold wetsuit on winter mornings seem to influence my decision.  Should I drop the trip and move on?  I glance up at Mary Ann DiNella's "Manatee" painting on my office wall.  The baby manatee, gently resting in the mermaid's arm, playfully stares back at me.  Then I pick up an empty folder and start my file for next year's trip. 

To learn more about Mary Ann DiNella's beautiful artwork visit her website