It's a placid, balmy South Florida afternoon, the perfect sort of day to hang out along a canal, feed the ducks and contemplate life. The tea-colored water is perfectly still with the exception of an occasional soft breeze curdling the surface. You can't see more than a half a foot below the surface of the water, where tiny fish flit and dart.

Suddenly, you hear a sharp noise, like air being released from a tire. You turn just in time to see two rather dilated nostrils and a pin cushion of whiskers staring at you from inside the canal. You hear the noise again, and again, and again. Just when you thought you had a moment to yourself, it seems that a herd of West Indian manatees has decided to come up for air.

The manatees float closer to the surface now to better take in the sun before traveling out to the bay to feed at night. They are gentle, odd-looking creatures, somehow both grotesque and graceful at the same time. They seem to have a wisdom in their innocence, a special secret to life, much like E.T., who they remarkably resemble.

You wouldn't be able to tell the aquatic giants apart were it not for what you realize are some pretty hideous scars on their backs, flippers and tails. Some are missing appendages or parts of them. And you wonder, who would harm these sage-like creatures, these buddhas of the sea?

Few people would on purpose, but like most endangered species, the manatee falls victim to the byproducts of modern life. Habitat destruction, entanglement in fishing line, ingestion of plastic waste and outboard boat motors all threaten West Indian manatees, so much so that only about 2,500 are left in the world. About 30-40 percent of manatee deaths each year are human-related, mostly caused by speeding boats.

Despite the odds, a passionate network of scientists, veterinarians, environmentalists and animal rights activists are working to ensure that the manatee does not become the stuff of legend.

Kit Curtin is included in this network. A part-time Key Biscayner and granddaughter of late island residents Peg and Ellsworth Curtin, Curtin has spent half a year for the past 11 years tracking and photographing for the public record what are commonly known as sea cows. The other part of the year finds Curtin doing the same thing for whales and seals.

Photo identification of manatees from their boat scars is especially crucial to tracking individual creatures. Curtin makes all her photographs available for inclusion into the National Geological Survey's Biological Resource Division's statewide catalog of distinctly scarred manatees. She has also contributed to the records of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Florida Department of Environmental Protection, New England Aquarium and Miami Seaquarium.

Curtin doesn't make much money. In fact, her grant-dependent position pays several income brackets less than her university and corporate counterparts. But she truly loves, in the most profound sense of the word, what she does.

"Why wouldn't you come here every day?" Curtin said as 15 or so manatees fed, rolled, swayed, nursed, nuzzled and napped beneath the dock where she stood along a South Florida canal.

By now, the manatees probably know her, although it's hard to tell. But she certainly knows them, by name: there's Roxy and her calf, there's Clockwork, there's Matilda, there's Mr. Slash, Texas, Moon, Arabella, Booger, Napoleon, Carl, Giraldo, Sickle, Box, Pythagorus, Rolando, Crescent, Magnum and Whatta Mess, a/k/a Mr. Splittail, many of them named for their scars.

"I've worked with them for so long," Curtin explained of the estimated 250 manatees she photographs annually in the southeastern portion of Florida, "they're just part of my blood. People say, 'You must know manatees really well.' It's like saying, 'You must know your family pretty well.'"

While the animals look fairly similar at first glance, a trained eye can distinguish them by their scars, 90 percent of which are caused by boat propellers. Most manatees are scarred by age four. These war wounds are actually one of the ways scientists trying to save the endangered creatures can identify and track them.

"If manatees didn't get hit by boats, we wouldn't be able to tell them apart," she said. "So, it's ironic that one of the things that is hurting them is also what's allowing us to save them."

But, of course, a lower mortality rate will likewise save the diminishing manatee. "The best defense for a manatee is for people to go slow in their boats," Curtin explained, "because that gives the manatee a chance to maneuver around the boats. We can't expect the boaters to see them because they're too hard to see."

Curtin recommended boaters obey manatee wake zone signs and wear polarized sunglasses for better vision on the water.

Part of the reason the slow-moving manatee is so susceptible to harm by boats is because of gawking humans. Once a wild animal becomes desensitized to humans, it will actually seek people for food handouts. Although this is not dangerous to humans--as is the case with alligators or bears--it is lethal to the manatee.

This is the precise reason why Curtin, who has seen fleets of boats surround basins where manatees rest, keeps manatee hot spots top secret. "Parents feel this is an opportunity for their children to play with an animal that may be extinct soon," she said, adding that people must resist the temptation to pet or try to rescue the gentle manatee. "I think people should educate their children but not at the risk to the manatees. It would be better for people to teach their children to step back and respect the animals.

"In general, we've found that the more you leave them alone, the better off they are. We've learned that the hard way in a lot of cases."

By being on the front lines of the manatee preservation effort, Curtin tries to carry this message first hand.

"We might not make as much money as other scientists but we get to educate the public more because we interact with people," she explained. "We hang around the boaters."

Curtin, a down-to-earth woman whose uniform appears to be shorts, sandals, sunglasses and a 35-millimeter camera and sketchpad, is neither an amateur nor an extremist. She got her bachelor's degree in environmental studies from Florida International University, and she worked three years with the Miami Seaquarium's manatee rehabilitation program before venturing out on her own at the mercy of state, federal and non-profit funding.

Curtin's expenses run about $25,000 a year. She shares a house with two other people on Key Biscayne to meet the rent and has been known to waitress on the side when needed. This year, she received $8,000 from the non-profit Save the Manatee Club.

Curtin got a lucky break this past year when the Miami Museum of Science sponsored her efforts and assisted her with fundraising, mostly by allowing her access to the organization's not-for-profit status.

The Museum's collaboration will help to educate the public about these creatures by incorporating Curtin's research into its youth development programs, future museum exhibits and public lectures.

"This is a golden opportunity for us," said Russell Etling, the museum's executive director. "Showcasing Kit's research will be invaluable in our efforts to promote careers in science, especially to young women. It will also provide us with a vehicle to spread the message that it is illegal to feed or disturb manatees, and that these activities can threaten their very existence."

Curtin said the museum's backing is vital to her efforts. "It will help save this important research from being eliminated and aid in the recovery of the species," she said. "I've observed a number of individual manatees for more than a decade. If research efforts aren't maintained from year to year, the data from each animal's life loses value."

Dr. Greg Bossart, veterinarian with the Miami Seaquarium, which rehabilitates injured and orphaned manatees, said the threats to Curtin's hard work are a sad statement.

"It's very frustrating to deal with an animal that is the state marine mammal and we're killing it off and we can't seem to get anyone's attention from it," said Bossart, who at the time of the interview had been tracking an animal in a canal that had been hit so hard that it had blue hull paint down the middle of its back.

Bossart said manatees suffer from an insidious human frailty: the cute and fuzzy syndrome. Since manatees meet neither of those criteria in most people's eyes, they become the forgotten stepchild of public protest.

"If there were 2,500 dolphins left and 40 percent of the annual deaths was caused by humans, there would be a public outcry," he explained. "It's an unfortunate fact of human nature and the one that gets caught in the middle is the manatee."

Hopefully, with the efforts of scientists like Curtin and Bossart, and organizations like the Museum of Science and the Save the Manatee Club, the manatee will not be the monkey in the middle for long, and our grandchildren's grandchildren will squeal with delight at an exhaling herd of West Indian manatees sweetly disturbing their moment of solitude along a canal on a placid, balmy South Florida afternoon in the wintertime.

Contributions for Curtin's research can be made to: Miami Museum of Science, Attention: The Manatee Project, 3280 S. Miami Ave., Miami, Fla., 33129. For more information, call Jonathan Ullman at 854-4247,

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