“You can’t see it very well. It looks like a big gray blob.”
“Should I hop out and see if I could nudge it even closer to the surface?”
“Can you do that?”
“Not a chance.”
I watched as she rolled her eyes, then she suddenly got excited. “Oh wow! It’s surfacing! Can you push my kayak a bit?”
Using my paddle, I gave her kayak a gentle shove; she closed the distance to the manatee. Even though I was farther away, I realized that it did indeed seem to be rising. The amorphous shape began to clarify, revealing its head and the wide, circular fluke as it rotated first in one direction, then the opposite. My eyes drifted from it to Morgan, who was busy taking pictures as I maneuvered my kayak.
“It keeps moving farther away!” she lamented.
I used my oar to push her again. After a few more photos, she lowered the camera.
“Do you think we’re bothering it?”
“I’m sure they see kayaks out here all the time.” From the corner of my eye, I noticed another shadow off to the right.
“I think we’re about to have company. There’s another one.”
It was slightly smaller than the first one, and Morgan squinted to make it out.
“Do you think they’re related? Like a mama and her baby?” she asked.
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“Will there be more? Like, do they usually swim in pods or whatever they’re called?”
“Why do you keep asking me these questions? I’m a farmer from North Carolina. I know nothing about manatees.”
Her eyes flickered with mirth. “Would you mind taking off your glasses while I’ve got my phone out? And lifting the brim of your hat?”
“Why?”
“I want a photo of you in the kayak. You look all sporty.”
I complied and she took a photo, though the way her thumb was moving, it was probably closer to a dozen. She immediately scrolled through them. “Okay, perfect. There are some good ones here.”
We stayed with the manatees until they started migrating toward deeper water. Taking that as our cue to head back, I led the way to the opening.
“Do you want to go first or should I?”
“You lead this time. But like I told you before, don’t leave me behind.”
“What kind of guy do you think I am?”
“I’m still processing that question, but I promise to let you know the answer as soon as I do.”
I grinned, heading into the mangroves, paddling slowly and peeking over my shoulder regularly to make sure I wasn’t going too fast. Meanwhile, Morgan kept up a stream of unanswerable questions about manatees. Did I think the two manatees were going to mate? When was the mating season? Did they spend most of their time in places like this or in the open ocean? In response, I told her that I’d google the answers and get back to her. To which she said, “Stop for a second.”
I did, rotating in my kayak. She had her phone out and was tapping, then began to scroll. “Manatees can weigh up to twelve hundred pounds,” she read aloud, “and they breed year-round, but most are born in the spring and summer. They generally inhabit marshy, coastal areas like this and can be found as far north as Virginia. They demonstrate abilities similar to dolphins’， so they’re smart. From the pictures on the Web, it looks like a pudgy dolphin crossed with a miniature whale.”
“Look at you, helping the uninformed.”
“Glad I could be of service,” she said. “Lead on.”
We continued to backtrack, and about halfway we encountered two kayakers approaching from the opposite direction. We moved to the right while ducking our heads, the other kayakers veered left and ducked as well, but there were still only inches between us when they floated past.
We finally emerged into the wider channel again, then further retraced our journey, talking easily, both of us recounting some of our favorite childhood antics. As we approached the shore, the attendant spotted us and directed us in, pulling our kayaks onto the hard wet dirt. I felt a bit stiff getting out, but Morgan seemed perfectly limber as we walked back to the truck.
Reaching into the cab, Morgan pulled out her tote.
“Turn around and don’t peek,” she warned, stepping away and leaving a whiff of coconut oil in the air. “My bottoms are wet, and I want to change into my shorts.”
I did as she asked and, at her signal, turned around and saw that she had also pulled her halter over her top.
“My turn,” I said, and we traded places; I changed into my dry shorts and tossed my wet suit into the truck bed. Morgan chose to keep her bikini bottoms on the seat beside her, and I noted that they were so small, I could have hung them from the rearview mirror.