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Just had the most unforgettable weekend with my amazing girl cousins — all from my mom’s side of the family, and all forever etched into my heart. There really aren’t enough words to capture the beauty of what we shared: the laughter that bubbled up from deep places, the tears that reminded us of our shared journey, the endless conversations, and the kind of soul-nourishing fellowship that only comes when you’re with your own.

One cousin flew in all the way from Vancouver, while the rest of us — two near Tampa, one in Daytona, and me in Ocala — met in the heart of Florida at a hidden gem called Crystal Springs. It was the perfect backdrop for something we’d dreamed of doing together: swimming with the gentle, majestic manatees.

The swimming-with-manatees experience turned out to be slightly different than the dreamy, crystal-clear underwater ballet I had imagined. Every spring I’d visited before had water so clear you could spot a fish rolling its eyes at you from 20 feet away. So, naturally, I expected something similar—maybe even a graceful underwater photo with a manatee photobombing in the background like a sleepy potato.

But oh no. Not today.

I will say, the tour company was top notch. They took one look at each of us—like some kind of wetsuit sommeliers—and handed us wetsuits that fit so perfectly I briefly considered inviting mine to Thanksgiving dinner. Things were off to a good start.

Then we got to the spot. The boat slowed down, and instead of some grave-faced guide delivering a solemn speech about respecting wildlife, ours was cracking jokes like it was open mic night. “Alright ladies,” she grinned, “this is where the magic happens—and by magic, I mean where the manatees turn the river into a giant salad bowl.” She had a punchline for everything, and somehow managed to make algae sound like an exciting feature.

We peered over the edge, and instead of the sparkling blue spring water I had envisioned, we were greeted with what can only be described as slightly soupy guacamole. Apparently, manatees enjoy redecorating the riverbed by churning up grass and sediment as they eat, creating that authentic manatee mist vibe.

Splendid.

With great caution (and even greater bladder control), I slid into the green abyss, heart pounding, wetsuit suctioning itself to me like a second skin. I couldn’t see more than a foot in front of me, and that’s when my imagination, unhelpful as ever, decided it was the perfect moment to cue the theme from Jaws. You know, da-dum… da-dum… Only, instead of a great white shark, it was a half-ton sea potato with flippers and a salad addiction.

We had been firmly told: “Do NOT touch the manatees.” Which, I thought, was perfectly reasonable until you’re suddenly floating next to something the size of a reclining La-Z-Boy that could brush up against you at any moment and send your soul directly to Jesus.

I tried to stay calm, but the combination of cold water, nerves, and a rogue underwater leaf brushing my leg nearly made my bladder file for early release. I floated, frozen, trying to look calm and reverent, while internally praying, negotiating, and humming worship songs in case this was the day I met my watery end.

We were each handed a pool noodle—as if this neon-colored foam was the only thing standing between us and being swallowed whole by a curious sea cow. The instructions were clear: float flat, stay calm, don’t kick, and most importantly, stay near the tour guide, who—despite the murky water and zero visibility—somehow knew exactly where these giant river potatoes were lurking. She had a sixth sense, like some kind of manatee whisperer. I’m convinced she could hear underwater vibrations or perhaps communicate with them telepathically.

As we floated in formation like very confused aquatic ducklings, weird squealing noises began erupting around me. Not manatees—humans. Apparently, some of the others were getting lucky with close encounters. Meanwhile, I was just trying not to hyperventilate into my snorkel. I couldn’t see a thing… but every now and then, just on the edge of my vision, I’d catch a slow, speckled shadow gliding beneath me—like a couch-sized submarine silently plotting its next move.

Then it happened.

Out of nowhere, something grabbed my foot. I nearly evacuated every organ in my body. My brain immediately flashed to the story of Jonah—except this time, I was the one about to be swallowed whole by a sea beast for reasons I hadn’t quite figured out yet. I braced myself for the slow journey into the belly of a giant, aquatic creature, fully expecting to be spat out somewhere near Tampa two days later, slightly pickled and forever changed.

Just as I was preparing to repent for whatever had led me to this moment, I heard laughter.

It was my cousin.

Floating smugly behind me, she had decided it was the perfect time to test the strength of my sphincter—and our relationship.

By this point, my back was absolutely screaming from all the stiff, noodle-assisted floating. I wasn’t alone—my equally tall cousin was also quietly dying from the awkward “hover like a sea otter” position and had made a wise, dignified exit back onto the boat. She was now observing the murky madness from above, squealing with delight every time a manatee surfaced like it was SeaWorld meets spa day. Clearly, she was having a much better time from her dry, upright position than I was marinating in swamp soup.

So I made the executive decision to abandon my noble underwater post and join her. I was halfway through my dramatic retreat when our ever-joking, all-knowing tour guide spotted me attempting my dignified exit. She suggested I take just one more look. Before I could protest, she was right next to me, gently guiding me by the shoulders like some sort of mystical snorkel guru. “Just put your face in right here,” she whispered, pointing to a very specific patch of greenish nothingness.

I did as I was told—lowered my face into the water—and there it was.

Right there in front of me, filling my entire goggle lens like a potato-shaped angel, was the tiniest, most adorable manatee you could imagine. It was chewing thoughtfully on the rope that anchored the boat, looking as if it had been born to star in a Pixar movie. And then—oh my heart—as if it knew I had come just for this moment, it turned ever so gently toward me, glided up, and brushed its soft, whiskery, leathery nose against my cheek.

And then… it blew in my ear.

I kid you not, it exhaled a little puff of warm, manatee breath straight into my ear canal. It was equal parts magical, bizarre, and faintly unsettling. But I’ll tell you this—it was a moment. The only thing I could compare it to was the day the doctors lifted my baby girl from my stomach and introduced me to her for the very first time. That same “everything else fades away” feeling. Pure, unexpected joy.

The whole experience—though completely different from what I had pictured in my imagination—was something deeply precious. A memory wrapped in laughter, murky water, and manatee breath, forever etched in our cousin storybook. It may not have been the serene underwater fairytale I’d envisioned, but it became something far better: real, unexpected, shared. One of those odd, slightly ridiculous moments you talk about over and over again for years to come—laughing harder each time you tell it.