The night before I ventured to Panama, I went for a walk with the chef and his wife. We found ourselves at the junction of river and ocean and turned back from whence we came, except this time on the sandy beach. Before long, we came upon an Olive Ridley sea turtle flapping her flippers on the sand.
Possibly she was burying a partial nest. Possibly making a false nest marking. Possibly determining the spot was not quality enough for her shelled offspring that she may never meet and rear.
She walked. Maybe in a perfect straight line towards me. I held my squat. I pet her, pivoted, and kept at petting. The others petted, too. In stride, maybe always, we followed this waddling wonder.
She found a spot. Began digging. She had her systems down. She wouldn't have seen her mother do this. Was this her first time? If so, we'd say she as a human was "gifted," "a natural." Even if she'd done the birthing thing a couple times previously, it was clear that she had skills.
Front flippers began in the middle and flapped sand outward in about a 3 foot diameter. This went on 'til the hole was about 6 inches in depth. Took maybe 5 minutes. She shifted. Now her precision was more noted by us onlookers of this ancient reptilian remnant. Trading off left and right flippers, she reached down to scoop up sand like a human hand would or an elephant's trunk could. Deeper and deeper. Never not changing the left and right trade off. Not that we saw, anyway. Using precise body thrusts in and out at key moments, in a noticeable repeated pattern. She did this for a further foot of digging, making the hole about 18 inches in total. Then she adjusted her position.
She now began a pattern of breathing. Loud breathing. Are there turtle Lamaze courses 3000 ft below sea level? After a breath thrust combo, an egg drops. She continues this mode for awhile, as she, and 1000's upon 1000's of turtles yearly, lay about 100 eggs per nest. Less than 1 of these eggs, on average, will survive the many challenges awaiting it over the next two months or so. And still, enough survive that there are 1000's and 1000's, maybe hundreds of 1000's, of births per year.
About 80 eggs or so into this process, a couple of kids working with a local turtle conservation corp. arrive on the scene. I'd seen them on my turtle walk that morning, where they kinda sorta assisted me with standing guard for the 19 baby turtles I'd dug from their nest and hoped to help assist into the sea. 18 made the 35 foot beach.
1 newborn drifted out of the sand walking zone the conservation kids were watching over. Sometimes when a wave takes the turtles, it doesn't take them into the sea, but rather sweeps it further to one side or another. This one drifted about 10-15 feet to the left of the kids, about 30 some feet from me. I thought to myself if the kids don't adjust, this lil tot will become breakfast for a nearby perched mangrove black-hawk. The kids didn't adjust. The hawk swept in, very precise itself, grabbed, and finished an arc to land, and probably eat, in a nearby tree.
To punctuate this AM experience, a black vulture made an attempt to breach my safety circle for the last turtle. I was only about 5 feet from the kid, which has proved to be more than enough space to keep any predatory birds at bay. The wave was coming, it made move, It had it in its talon, apparently not firmly, dropped it, the turtle landed on its shell, its feet flapping wildly, possibly from before it even landed, and the next wave came and swept the kid away; if it survives the vicious pounding pacific waves over the next 30 feet, it will have learned a couple important lessons about coming to land. I talked some smack to the vulture, like a good mother/father/midwife figure would.
Back to the birthing.
One of the first things these conservation society kids do is strap on their latex gloves - the natural touch barrier. They take some empirical information. They prepare to tag it. I ask the girl a couple questions and in response my friends and I come to understand that tagged turtles are rarely ever seen, thus the data is pretty irrelevant, though occasionally a researcher or their disciples will find a turtle with scarring where a tag would have been. Scarring. Basically, upon hearing that word, I become anti-animal tagging.
They tagged the turtle as she finished her birthing and commenced the burying of her nest. This was the only time I noticed the turtle break from its patterns; it seemed to attempt to wiggle from the human's grasp of its flipper, but this wiggle was not heeded by the young lass. She rattled off the numbers associated with her durable plastic tag, then struggled to press and staple it into place on the flipper. Then she did the same with the other front flipper. We humans have our left-right systems, as well.
I commented to my friends how the kids' "conservation" actions kinda took the beauty out of the experience. We were in agreeance without having to verbally express that full sentiment. Moments before this cruel, unusual, and unnecessary torture, I was laying in the sand next to the new mom, cheering and soothing and offering words and a slight touch infused with love. Perhaps there is beauty and love in the staple, in the inflicted pain, and we were pridefully blinded to the larger picture. Probably not.
And yet, these kids - 18-20ish, too old for Hitler's youth status - represent the rule making and enforcing power establishment. When mama turned to return to the ocean, I walked beside her. I offered a couple words. I pet her gently. The turtle gal spoke up, saying "I'd rather you didn't touch the turtles without gloves on." The natural barrier.
"It's already happened," I state.
The chef jumps in on cue, "We'd prefer that you not stab them with those tags." Like I said - we were in sync without having to express that in words. Mom proceeded on in much the same way as the babies I often see into the ocean: stops and starts that seem to have everything to do with the waves coming in at them. She entered the water with the first large wave coming to land and was gone - that was when I left her side.
Will the conservation youths be haunted by visions of bleeding and pleading turtles? Maybe. Considering they're likely paying a hefty fee just to volunteer with this near-sighted organization that I say tortures the very same animals they purport to benefit, they might find a new bill, $100 each, on top of what they already pay, for the unique turtle nightmare experience.
For the lovely price of freedom of conscience, I may find myself dreaming of underwater experiences with my new shelled lizard friend. I think she'll have me, gills or not.
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