lights. Once her decision is made, the mother begins plowing
her way across the beach in a tank-like crawl. All signs of her
gracefulness in the ocean are gone as she bears the burden of
gravity on her more than 350-pound shell.
Nesting is a long ritual. Using her rear flippers, she
laboriously scoops out cupfuls of sand until she has dug a
hole approximately 20 inches deep. Shortly after, she begins
laying her eggs. One after another, the loggerhead drops
some 60 to 150 leathery, ping-pong ball shaped eggs into the
sandy nest. Thick tears stream from her eyes while she labors.
Science has revealed that this is a saltwater cleansing of the
eye. When I see this, however, the writer sees a mother’s
tears—tears of relief and joy and, too, the pain of leaving.
After the loggerhead lays her eggs, she covers them with
sand, attempts to camouflage the scene, then makes the
arduous crawl back to the sea. She will never return to the
nest again. I am in awe to witness 180 million years of instinct
at work here on a stretch of sand that I, too, call home. The
eggs incubate in the sand for 42–75 days, during which time
the sex of the turtle is d etermined. Warmer sand produces
females and cooler sand males, or as we on the Turtle Team
like to say, “Hot chicks and cool dudes.” Come July, the
nests begin to hatch! Instinct guides the tender three-inch
hatchlings toward the brightest light, which in nature is the
natural light of a moonlit ocean. The advent of electricity has
changed everything. Artificial lights shining from homes,
hotels, restaurants and streetlamps near the beach confuse the
hatchlings and lead them away from the sea toward the streets
and certain death. So, on muggy summer nights, under the
cloak of darkness, we check our nests like midwives to make
sure they have a fighting chance at life.
Sometimes the hatchlings emerge in dribs and drabs over
a couple of days. But when they tumble out over each other
in a mass exodus, we call it a “boil” because it resembles a
pot boiling over. It’s a marvelous sight! The hatchlings are
creatures of instinct. They fearlessly scramble through rough
terrain that includes footprints, trash, vegetation and the
thoughtless holes left by beach visitors to reach the sea. And,
of course, the dreaded ghost crabs are ready to pounce on
them. The dive instinct kicks in the moment the hatchling
begins to swim. Once in the water, they swim for three days in
a “swimming frenzy” to reach the great Sargassum floats that
act as nurseries during the early years. By October, the last
nest has emerged. When I watch the final hatchling reach the
first fingers of a wave my heart swells with myriad emotions—
affection, concern, hope. I whisper “Goodbye and good
luck” as it dives under the water and begins its long, perilous
journey. It is always bittersweet when another season ends.
I am honored to be a part of the effort to protect the
loggerhead sea turtles. These ancient mariners inspired my
first nationally bestselling novel, The Beach House, and
the book series. I hope that by reading my books readers
will know not to use flashlights on the beach or touch the
hatchlings, or leave large holes in the sand, or do anything
to impede the turtles’ scramble to the sea. They will turn off
beachside lights, or volunteer or donate to sea turtle hospitals.
We will take care of what we know and understand. I believe
that the power of story can help preserve the species for many
more generations.
In the end, only a lucky few of those hatchlings will survive
to adulthood, approximately one in a thousand. The female
survivors will one day return to this beach of their birth to
carry on their ancient life cycle. God willing, I plan to be here
to walk this stretch of beach as a “turtle lady” and to welcome
my Caretta caretta home for many years to come. NK
Background photo by Sue Corcoran
41