Swimming with the homely, come-hither manatee

From my vantage point, here in Crystal River, Fla., it's hard to see how Christopher Columbus - no matter how long he had been at sea - could possibly have mistaken a manatee for a mermaid, even if he did describe them in his journal in January of 1493 as being "not half as beautiful as they are painted to be."

And my vantage point is pretty conclusive: only six inches away from the wrinkly, puffy gray face of a decidedly Rubenesque, half-ton adult, her (or is it his?) heavily whiskered jowls drooping in what can hardly be described as a "come hither" look. Only the large fan-shaped tail at the end of her 10-foot body is even vaguely reminiscent of the legendary sirens of the sea.

But there's still plenty to be smitten with in these docile, aquatic mammals that are perhaps most accurately described as a cross between a seal and a cow. And smitten we all are on this chilly December morning in Citrus County, Fla., the self-proclaimed "manatee capital of the world" - me and the five other "swim with the manatees" tour participants from Crystal Lodge Dive Center and the dozen or so others who have booked their tour from other local operators.

Our (very) up-close and personal encounter had begun shortly after dawn with the six of us struggling to get our own somewhat Rubenesque bodies into neoprene wetsuits. A 20-minute video had then introduced us to the endangered species, and explained the dos and don'ts of swimming with them. (A ranger in a kayak would be making sure we didn't violate any of the rules.)

Equipped and informed, we board Capt. Darren's pontoon boat for the colorfully narrated 20-minute ride out into Kings Bay. Our destination: the gaping underwater mouth of Kings Spring, a 72-degree natural Jacuzzi where manatees, which despite their abundance of fat have very little tolerance for cold, congregate overnight during the winter months.

Capt. Darren moors well away from both the other boats and the designated encounter area, a roped-off keyhole of dark water abutting the Crystal River Preserve State Park, and instructs us to don our masks, fins, and snorkels and jump in. We do, though there is clearly a little hesitation about making our way over to where a small, disorganized flotilla of rubber-coated backsides and half-submerged snorkels indicates that our objective awaits.