When I was young, some Sunday mornings after church we’d drive over to a spot on the Indian River and watch the manatees.
West Indian Manatees
I think we mostly called them sea cows, though they are somewhat related to elephants and not bovines. The great risk to them at that time were boat propellers that would cut the slow moving creatures. You’d often see scars where cuts healed. Like the mom and child above, barnacles would grow on their backs and the large flat tails that propel them would collect all sorts of creatures.
Yesterday, I listened to a disturbing story on the radio about manatees in this area. Lawn and farming fertilizers have polluted the water and caused algae blooms. That, along with warming temperatures, have killed off the sea grasses that grow in the Indian River lagoon. The Indian River is, or at least was, one of the most productive estuaries in the country. We’d also watch the dolphin jump, the brown pelican dive for fish, the white pelicans circle to concentrate the fish and scoop them up, and in the winter the River would turn black with thousand of American Coots floating on the water.
If you were lucky, you’d see the rare Pelidolphin.
You can listen to the NPR story here. The story starts at Satellite Beach. We had some friends from the neighboring high school at Satellite Beach and some times we’d launch canoes from their place and camp on the islands in the river. A scar on my forearm reminds me of one of those trips when as a unthinking guy I decided to cut a watermelon while holding it in the crook of my arm—not wanting to put it on the sandy, scorpion-filled ground. The knife cut right through and into my arm. After some panic, I realized it wasn’t a serious cut, but it left me with a reminder I can look at today and I still go camping with that knife but treat it with more care.
In junior high we took a science class field trip to a county park on the river. A friend and I used a seine net to see what creatures we could collect. We got lots of fish and crabs, but the prize catch was a little sting ray who came back to live in an aquarium in our classroom.
The estuary runs 156 miles along the east coast. We lived near the north end. Probably all the guys I canoed with up in Satellite Beach were in the Key Club. The state club sponsored a canoe race at Jonathan Dickinson State Park near the south end of the Indian River. I think we finished in the middle of the pack, but at the end my feet slipped getting out of the canoe and I caught myself with my hands. Unfortunately, my hands found all the oyster shells, so I left lots of blood in the river, and I still look at the scar that runs right under my wedding ring.
My brother got a commercial fishing license, and occasionally I’d join him on a night of fishing on the river. We’d leave near sunset and set out a few hundred yards of gill nets. My favorite memories are watching the incredible colors playing between the clouds and water reflections. After a few hours, we’d pull the nets in, collect the fish, move to a new area, put out the nets again and fall asleep looking at the stars.
The New York Times also ran a story this week on the crisis on the Indian River and the starving manatees. I think of all my memories on this water, and look at those etched into my skin, and morn what we’ve done to this special place.
