GUEST BLOG
I’ve had my share of crushes before, but it was only this
year that my heart was stolen so completely that I became a stalker.
It was the adorable occupants of 3A. I couldn’t stop
thinking about them. I found excuses to cruise by their place
every morning and every evening. I scrutinized the minutiae of
their existence. Had anything changed since yesterday?
Had they had any visitors? Who were these other women hanging around?
No, 3A wasn’t an apartment of virile young men.
It was a loggerhead sea turtle nest located on Isle of Palms beach
between third and fourth streets, and I was in love. I’d been
floating on the fringes of Charleston’s “turtle society” for two years,
introduced by friend and fellow writer Mary Alice Monroe. I arose
at the crack of dawn to attend every inventory, my sleepy son in tow.
I met the wonderful turtle team, formidable wielders of the Red Bucket,
whose dedication and passion for these creatures is selfless. And
most of all, I fell in love with the turtles. There is nothing
more adorable than a hatchling sea turtle; nothing more inspiring than its
determined trek across a fraught beach; nothing more heartening than the moment
they catch a wave.
I loved every encounter, but I craved the zenith of turtle
monitoring. I wanted the boil – hatchlings pouring out of a nest like a pot
bubbling over. Then along came 3A. A convenient
ten-minute walk down the beach from my house, this became MY nest. I’d find
excuses to wander by (“It rained a drop . . . better check the nest!”). I sent
unsolicited “updates” and photos to team members. I pestered them
about the schedule. One day, my stalking was rewarded.
The sand showed the first signs of emergence, kicking off a series of
evenings camped beside the nest.
(concave in sand = activity)
(ghost crab predation!)
The team indulged me.
The first few nights, nothing. Then a handful.
Then came Friday.
This was the night. I was sure of it.
I was provisioned like Lewis and Clark: I had my four year old, his DVD
player, a beach blanket, chairs, bug spray, snacks, kindle, water.
I was there for the long haul. I sat in the company of the
team, chatting merrily. So much that we were startled to see a turtle crawling
by. We hopped to action, shepherding seven “scouts” safely to the
sea. The sun had just set. After that, stillness.
Indications of emergence ceased. All the hot action was
going down on Sullivan’s, a nest poised to go. 3A was a
sleeper. The rest of the team headed home or to Sullivan’s. There
would be no action here tonight. I decided to keep company with my
nest a little longer, popped a new DVD on for my son, and settled into my
kindle. At 11:30, I flashed the red light over at the nest,
intending to gather my things. And saw the hole. Which became a
diminutive turtle head. Then two. Then three. Small
beaks poking from the sand. Waiting.
I grabbed my son and we watched the magic happen, just the
two of us. Under the remnants of a supermoon, we saw a tiny army assembling
under the sand. Finally, the leader crested, and turtles poured from the nest in
his wake, wave after wave. It was enchanting. We
were breathless when the flow stopped, then raced down the beach with the light
to play false moon, luring the hatchlings to the sea. I was a
proud mama when the last dove out of sight.
I didn’t think it could get more magical than that, but I was
wrong. Friday had been a “half boil” of about sixty, with another
sixty eggs remaining. The team continued to monitor the nest, none so zealous as
I. The next day I popped up at 6AM to scrutinize the sand;
loitered at sunset; and returned around midnight, prime turtle “boiling
point”. And repeat, the following day. And
repeat. For three days, I sat on that nest like I’d laid the eggs
myself.
It was an unusual nest. Turtles ventured out in
small clutches. The team fretted. I hovered. Sunday
night – turtles on the beach. We all raced at the 911 call, but it
was a troop of only eight. Monday no action was expected, but a
humdinger of a storm. I was stuck on a call with Comcast.
Knowing I’d be on hold forever, I trotted down to the nest, phone pressed
to my ear, wind whipping. Team members were in situ.
The signs were there. Comcast became unimportant. I dropped
to the beach, and chatted. Lightening danced across the sky to the west.
Our time on the beach would be abridged. We were debating
how much, when I saw shadows on the sand. An endearing mini-mob of loggerheads
crowding out of the nest. The last wave. By this night, the tide was miles away,
so we gathered our new friends into the trademark Red Bucket.
The turtles were three-deep, teeming to go.
When the last was collected, they passed the bucket to me.
I, team newbie, was handed the Red Bucket. It was a
reverent moment. We hastened to the water’s edge, where I
carefully released my charges. I was proud and relieved as each
dove into the next phase of its journey.
The next morning at inventory, the team recovered a
dawdler. My son and I gathered with the usual crowd to bid our
last ward farewell. The lone occupant of 3A scrambled toward the
ocean, turning at the waterline to crawl over my son’s foot in farewell, before
disappearing with a flap of his flipper.
It was bittersweet as the little guy disappeared from
sight. Tomorrow I’ll find another nest to fuss over, but for now
there’s a little hole where 3A used to be. I’ll always remember my first.
See you in thirty years, my friends. After this taste of being on the
Turtle Team, I know I’ll be here waiting for you.
My personal favorite, Circle Unbroken, paid homage to the
prized art form of sweetgrass basketweaving here in the Lowcountry of South
Carolina. Raven’s words are lyrical, her
stories are emotional, and her work is inspiring. 
