There is nothing like walking the beach at night looking for the tracks of sea turtles coming up to make their nests. The sky overhead is punctured with the light of uncountable stars. The ocean hisses and cracks. On the Caribbean beach, coconut palms cast their shadows. On the Pacific coast bioluminescence like fractured colored glass spills from your footsteps. These words below are expressions of my experiences working with Earthwatch and other Biology projects that invite participation from non-professional to share in the work of sea turtle conservation in Mexico.
Turtle Trail It takes a long time for your eyes to become accustomed to the dark, and you think that every footprint is a turtle's track, or that you will never be able to distinguish the symmetrical trail that looks like a tractor came up the beach, but is really the path of the ponderous journey of a female sea turtle, dark as the grey air, as she sighs and propels her heavy body from the tide line, over the coral — which cuts your feet when you try to follow her — up the undulating beach to some spot she will know because of a breeze or a shadow, or the taste or texture of the sand, which she will dig from under her, still sighing, viscous tears issuing from her almond eyes, first with all four flippers, spraying clouds of sand, and finally, with only the rear two scooping rhythmically, first delicately curving to the right, then the left in an instinctive dance, to dig the damp, vase-shaped chamber, 18 inches deep, like a well under her cloaca, into which, while in a laying trance, she will drop perhaps 80 round, white, leathery eggs; and you, waiting behind her, holding your breath, will catch them in your slippery hands, and rebury them in the nursery pen, and guard them for the time it takes them to harden and develop into hatchlings, who, if they are lucky, and are not eaten by flies, will scrabble to the surface of the sand for you to gather into a bucket and set back at the tide line, hoping the waves will take them safely, and that you will be allowed, years later, to stand on this white sand, under these stars, and wait for those who prospered to come and climb the beach and begin again.
Night walks Under the dark sky, punched with stars like a tin lantern — I plant my feet at the beginning of the patrol: white beach a little ambient light, stars, moon, depending on the night enough to see, enough to feel the undulations of soft sand identify the footprints; At the end of the cove the hermit crabs are clattering. We hear them far down the beach. When we reach them they are scrambling claw on shell over each other — piles of them on their way to the ocean. We have learned to identify the parallel trail of the turtle's flippers as she paddles up the beach to lay and we are saving turtles lying in the sand catching the slimy eggs from under her to bury in a safer place. Who knows what we do for better or worse — those little creatures breaking through the sand to go to sea; it gives us purpose to believe we save them from the poachers from the vultures from ourselves who want a reason to be on this beach under the stars— for romance to catch the eggs bury them keep them safe take them to the tide. The ocean hisses luminescent curls of foam: Swim hatchlings through the surf. Swim turtles though the waves: Swim and save us
Letting them go Into my cupped palms Like those perfect sculptured models New sea turtles, Loggerhead hatchlings with fine ridged Shells and sleepy eyes All of one color opaque and gray; The little flippers paddling in my hands: We take them to the tideline (my young companion's grin of pleasure wide enough to break my heart) And put them gently in the sand. They lie there, dots on A small shore, and when the Wave comes in the strong ones paddle, Strike out, return, Strike out again; We urge the weak ones on Then pick them up and put them In the surf: Small turtles swimming out to sea Cradled in the waves that rock Us all.
At the hatchery In the moonlit yard black turtle hatchlings scramble and run wild, crochet the sand between the sticks that mark their ruined nests. Orion watches, the moon swings in its cradle, candles the wired corral, fractures the sea lights up the surf their hearts are after; the fencing holds them in. We will gather them in buckets to take them down and set them free. The hatchlings scuttle toward the light of an oil lamp set in the sand, . The shadows it casts embrace a sleeping child, who works the beach; burrowing under turtles, catching eggs and bringing them soft and wet, for pay, to safety; a labor that steals his sleep and sends him home along the ocean's edge at dawn. In yellow light the child sleeps, small turtles turn at his feet.
Doña Casimira and Juan Tamaño Doña Casimira, a poacher from Colola went down in the dark in her soft cotton shoes through the brush, the sticky grass, the tall palms to steal turtle eggs from nests in the sand. The turtle, a shadow in the shadow of the night breaks the surf, rises to cross the tide line, sighs deeply and climbs the berm above the water, makes the track to her bed, her flippers spraying sand. Repeating an ancient dance she digs the nest — the deep chamber like a vase — rests for a moment only, drops her white round leathery eggs, covers, turns and heaves herself back to the sea. Doña Casimira knew the signs, followed them, and stripped the nest of eggs; her hands covered with mucous and coarse sand, she filled torn plastic bags to market up the coast. Dona Casimira came up the hill, heavy with eggs, slipped by the bored Marine patrols. In thick Mexican air, she breached the shoulder, breathing hard, she reached the road. and was blinded by headlights at the curve. Eggs flying, shoes flying, Doña Casimira immediately dead — an accident of fate: there followed wailing, a family bereft, burial and the requisite mourning. They say she still walks hunting turtle nests We watch a turtle leave the waves, black silhouette crossing the littoral, testing our eyes. We wait for her to make dry beach, searching in the dark - gray ocean; sand; gray beach. Her bulk moves slowly — if disturbed she will turn back — we hold our breaths. A spectral figure runs along the sand approaching quickly on the left, whirling, almost lifting off the ground - sand devil poised above the silent beach - speeds closer, passes close behind her, disappears. Turning on transparent feet, he is the smallest child working on this shore — they call him John the Giant. Juan Tamano, little phantom, warding off the ghost.
El Farito The jade wall rises, pales to celadon and curls, shatters in oyster spray. The foam dances, leaps like the lost unicorns, settles, and rolls in. The marbled ocean licks the sand. Beyond the breakers flat blue sea reaches for the curve of the horizon. Crabs skim the mirrored tide line while vultures clean the carcass of an eyeless leatherback. Frigate birds struggle over scraps of fish, dive at each other to steal the leavings, screaming at the gulls. My feet, accustomed now to this burning beach are covered in brown sand.
Palapa Dawn It’s almost morning and Orion hangs pale in a pale sky. The ocean begins to reflect the light from the sun that will rise soon. The waves are moving shadow on milky glass. The sea is calm. A coral outcropping rises in the near water like a sleeping lion and the wreck still broods black at my left side. Day fingers stretch into the ocean defining its curve here and the black silhouettes of the coconut palms are at my back. In the corral, small turtles wriggle through the sand to the surface where we can take them out. Only the morning star remains high in the sky and at the horizon above the cloud bank, pink shows in islands between dark clouds. The sounds of morning and beginning bird flights opening the air to small noises muffled in the dark. The coral out-cropping has become a Mayan mask half sunk in the water at the level of his mouth. The shadows describe high cheek bones and a sharp nose; the left eye looks north. A black bird chirps on the corral fence post. The colors of everything are discernable – dark green wire fence against the yellow green sea vine, coconuts green and brown and yellow stacked behind. Little waves race into the shore like predatory fish. The sky is light. The clouds, a smoke trail of blue grey. The coral is an uprooted tree. Turning down the kerosene lantern hanging in the palapa is an act of great moment, of satisfaction and peace. When I awake again the sun is a golden disk that spreads joy over the sky, throws a shining path across the water.
Flag My friend in El Salvador is considering therapy: I told him it might relieve his tension. He will not carry a white flag to the psychiatrist's office dodging bullets from the insurrection. He does not wish to be a rebel; though he approves, I think, of the cause. he is not one of the indigenous oppressed and only wants to save the world. He teaches people to plant trees where they have cut them down to cook their meager meals, and brings them to watch the sea turtles pushing up the beach to drop their eggs in sand; to learn from them and guard them. It is my country, my turtles, my people he says so much work to be done At home I need not be afraid of rebel or government fire. I need a white flag only to remind my therapist that I am her prisoner: to offer me gentle alternatives since I have no turtles, no work to do.
Of a Mexican sky The memory of a Mexican sky hangs over my city. Closeted in the mind awaiting the opening of a door; high clouds an iridescent wind the blinding sun. the body furniture filled with memory a knock, the tug of a knob I am back laughing feel gritty with sand a bright pinwheel turning eyes stung with salt – this ordinary city stepping over broken asphalt waiting for lights to change listening for the click of the latch
Oh yeah, it was love alright. Not just for this beautiful unattainable boy, who would go on from this night to fulfill some of his promises, disappoint in others, and before that, show other traits: complicated and unattractive, startlingly mean. In his maturity, he would lose his delicacy and when she saw him later she would wonder where that beauty went and what the physical attraction had been. But this night, in the yellow light, she was in love with all the beauty of the world, a gift he gave her without knowing. And she would be so forever.
finding my voice 