Turtles

There’s a round hole in the white sand, deep, the size of a large bucket. An elderly man is bent over it, a pair of surgical gloves pulled over his bony hands, delicately brushing the sand away from the centre.

He uncovers what looks like a flat black pebble, the edge pointing upwards. It moves, lifting up out of the sand towards the light. A newborn turtle emerges from its sandy nest followed by another, and another.

The old man continues to brush away the sand, unearthing a heap of flippers and outstretched necks, moving for the first time. Their heads push forwards, sensing the ocean nearby. They scramble up to the rim of the hole and slide down the slope towards the sea.

Their movements are wobbly, clumsy, child-like, comical. A footprint in the sand becomes a crater to fall into, a pebble knocks one onto it’s back, four flippers waving desperately, it’s whole body arched in an attempt to right itself.

On either side the crabs are gathering, eyes alert, waiting for their opportunity to attack. It will not come today, there are too many humans on guard.

Others in the nest are dopey, lacking the strength to pull themselves over the edge. And some are dead. We stroke their silky smooth shells and velvet necks. They fit into the palm of my hand.

The old man gathers the weakest into a bucket with the remains of the round white egg shells, evidence of how many hatched from that nest. He will release them tomorrow or the next day, once they are strong enough to make their journey to the sea.

The first turtle has reached the shore line and stops, hesitates. The sea pulls back from the beach and draws itself up into a wave, towering above the turtle’s head. The vulnerable turtle confronts the all powerful ocean, tiny in the face of this immensity. Trusting. The wave comes rushing in, the turtle disappears inside it. Gone.