Killer Manatees

By: Dan Reiter

Article Category: Dan Reiter 3 Comments

Evolution has a strange, sometimes disturbing way of revealing itself. A species, when faced with a threat to its survival, must either perish or adapt to its changing environment. Usually, this modification process will take thousands of years, but every so often an animal will rise to the challenge in a matter of mere decades… and the transformation can be startling.

Just the other day, I was out on the river on my stand-up paddleboard, skirting the periphery of the Thousand Islands, soaking up the last, honey-coated days of summer. I cruised along the warm, glassy waters in the lee of the mangroves — hovering, really, like a blissed-out gondolier — scarcely conscious of my body. It was one of those weightless moments when all seems right in the world, all things perfect and silent and harmonious.

The sunset spread out before me in jeweled ribbons of color — the clouds something out of a Monet painting — and me, lost in the beauty of it all. It was as if the whole river were holding its breath, carrying me to the brink of some fantastic, life-changing revelation… Suddenly, the water in front of my board heaved — a flash of gray — and then, a fin rose up, sliced through the calm, and made a hard line for me.

My board lurched, and I was tossed skyward, like a mullet flicked up by a dolphin. As I tumbled through the air, I glimpsed the algae-coated surface of a manatee’s hump below me, a violent white frothing in the water, and then, at close range, the blunt clamshell of the beast’s tail. This was the last thing I saw before I lost consciousness.

Luckily, I landed on my board. When I awoke, drifting on my back in the dusk, I realized I had been swept south, to the southern tip of Merritt Island, where the paper-mache dragon once lurched its ragged neck over the lagoon. Cool sideways rain was strafing my face. I knee-paddled to shore, retreived my cell phone from my dry-bag, and called my wife. It was a freak accident, I explained. I had been attacked by a manatee… could she pick me up? Yes, I was serious. A manatee, I said. That’s right, attacked.

My brush with death shook me up, and I couldn’t sleep all that night. For some reason, I felt myself drawn back to the river, like Ishmael, in search of this killer beast. Before I boldly took to sea, however, I would need to arm myself with more information about the manatee. Was it possible that my knowledge of the creatures had been predicated on myth and hearsay? Were they not slothful, somehow fragile, peace-loving herbivores? I dove into the internet, demanding answers.

In regards to swimming speed, I found this: manatees are known to travel anywhere from 1 to 2 miles per hour. Reputable scientific studies have not verified it, but when fleeing predators, some claim a manatee may reach speeds up to 15 mph. In one isolated incident, a fisherman in the British Honduras purported to witness a manatee swimming at a speed of 30 mph, though this assertion has been called into question.

There has never been a documented manatee attack. As proof, I encourage you to Google “manatee attack.” You will find links to punk bands, Facebook pages, and blog sites — but nothing newsworthy.

The more I investigated, the greater the gulf between my research and my encounter became. In all of recorded history, I could find no incidences of death by manatee. None. I began to doubt my own experience. Was it possible something else had assaulted me?

After an exhausting, six-minute investigation, I finally came upon a promising article. Only weeks ago, a story had broken in Madeira Beach: Russ Sittlow, a 78-year-old man, had videotaped a 30-foot monster in the canal behind his home. Authorities claimed the alleged monster was a manatee, but Sittlow vehemently disagreed, saying he had seen manatees, knew manatees, had watched them loll around these canals for over fifty years. “Normandy Nessie,” as he called her, was no manatee. A snake, maybe, or some kind of serpent, he offered.

Was it possible I had been attacked by Nessie, or one of her kind? There was only one way to find out. I bought another paddle, tied it to my wrist, and set out carefully into the river. I quickly came across a herd of grazing manatees.

At rest, these animals seemed harmless enough, like large river rocks, or half-sunken beach balls, but as I approached, I realized that even in the shallow water, they could move with suprising speed. After two sweeps around the pack, both times eliciting a furious storm of whitewater, one of the beasts turned its snout toward me, submerged, and with two impressive thrusts of its tail, launched me again into the air. This time, I was ready. I held onto my paddle, assumed a more favorable landing position, and successfully avoided head trauma this time.

As I paddled back in, wide-eyed and drenched, my neighbor called out to ask what had happened. When I told him, he laughed, and told me that his 12-foot catamaran had been flipped by these same manatees some months ago.

Was it possible Wikipedia had its facts wrong? Maybe manatees were really violent, hostile creatures. No… it was useless to doubt Wikipedia. More likely I had stumbled upon an pack of rogue manatees. Potentially, even, a new breed. I proceeded to the next logical step in my Google research; I punched in the term “manatee evolution.”

Accordingly: manatees are highly adaptive, intelligent animals, descendants of the elephant, or aardvark, or the hyrax (which is something like a gopher). Like the dolphin and whale, they made the move from land to water long ago. Scientists do not understand how, but they have an amazing ability to survive hurricanes. Some theorize that they find shelter, or else use their body structure to their advantage during the storms. The manatee has no natural predators, and for 60 million years they have thrived in these waters, until the recent introduction of motor boats, which has abruptly brought them to the verge of extinction.

Boats were really only introduced into these waterways en masse in the past fifty years. Doesn’t it makes sense, then, that a sort of weeding out process might have occurred? A premium suddenly placed on awareness, speed, and the ability to avoid an outboard motor? Perhaps we are seeing a “next generation” manatee — Florida Manatee 2.0 — built stronger, faster… and more deadly.

I longed to get back out in the water, to study these animals in greater detail. My mind raced. I would take a trip to Madeira Beach, meet with Mr. Sittlow, and fit my board with a waterproof video camera. This trend needed to be documented, analyzed… publicized for the greater good of mankind. When my wife caught wind of my intentions, however, she pointed out the potentially negative effects on my health, and demanded I give the wretched beasts a wide berth. I pleaded with her, but as always, her logic won out. What choice did I have? I was forced to watch from a distance.

I suppose I should end with a warning: Never approach a sleeping manatee, and for God’s sake, steer clear of manatee orgies. Do not take these animals lightly… they are not your father’s sea cows.

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