This past weekend, we invested into learning about Florida's wildlife. While the
Mote Marine Aquarium was a fantastic introduction to Floridian aquatic life, I think the most disturbing event of the day was traveling to a "Manatee Viewing Center" outside of St. Petersburg. Here, I expected to encounter a serene, isolated inlet where manatees could bask in the sun and silence, free from the influences of the outside world. As we were nearing the location, however, I noticed a few large smokestacks in the distance indicative of a power plant, and I was flabbergasted to realize that we happened to be heading right for these behemoth belchers of pollution. Once arrived, we opened our van doors not to the soothing sounds of a quiet pond but the incessant clinking and churning clamor of a power plant. In what felt like a surreal episode of LOST (another Dharma Initiative experiment gone horribly awry?), I hesitantly approached the power plant to find a modestly-sized reservoir of water simply packed with the bobbing masses that signify a manatee's presence--I heard counts of 30 or more. Apparently the warm-water discharge from the plant attracts these indolent creatures to its front porch, and the plant has hospitably offered to host their guests. Despite the plant's innocuous acquisition of their friends, such a juxtaposition of nature and industry seemed to me in some ways the epitome of man's desecration of the earth.
In all fairness, the viewing center seemed quite aware of and concerned for the health and wellbeing of their manatee denizens--indeed, they argue that their balmy home is much safer than places such as the nearby Boca Ciega bay, where manatees face treacherous boat traffic, nefarious propellers, and limited opportunities for food and fresh water. And those belching smokestacks I was concerned about earlier turned out to be emitting nothing more than water vapor. Supposedly. Perhaps I am too much of a malcontent, but in any case, I've had two menacing dreams since about genetically mutated manatees that glow in the dark and have come to take over the world.
The towers that release "water vapor."
Gazing out on the manatees.
Monday, then, brought us back into the realm of sailing. It wasn't just any other day of meandering in keelboats, however, but the pinnacle of our competitive sailing experience, as we embarked on our very official (read: not official at all) FJ regatta. The key to winning a regatta is your start. The officials indicate when there are three minutes remaining before the race begins and smaller increments as it approaches. Meanwhile, the boats are all sailing around the starting line, attempting to block other boats, to avoid hitting other boats, and to cruise past the starting line at impressive speed just as the officials blow their whistles. This in itself is a stressful process, rendered even more so by instructors growling commands at you muffled by the wind so that you can't hear or understand them anyway. Once again, we sailing neophytes picked up on the habit of cussing (and trust me, in such conditions I can almost certainly assure you that you would have, too) that resulted in some pretty hilarious altercations that I just wish I could repeat on this blog.
We raced seven heats in all, and by the end I was one big bruise, after collapsing into the hull of the boat following one-too-many roll tacks and catching the boom with my head too many times to remember after such cranial trauma. And as the second law of thermodynamics led us to expect, the day devolved into entropy, with rules being reiterated and protestations arguing fouls and disdainful if-looks-could-kill expressions flying about the room until, finally, the ever-candid Patty broke through the cacophony and exasperatedly yelled, "Just someone tell me when can I EAT?!" which awakened the latent appetites of these tired sailors, halting all arguments and sending us in a horde toward the dining hall. Food, of course, revived us from our fatigue, as did our spirited renditions of the day's events.
Today is expected to be the coldest day of Florida's winter, so we have taken the morning off to salvage our digits and to relish in the inauguration excitement. Gobama!
Erin Campbell
