Nest 51

Turtle season is in full swing at Guana. I did make an ill-advised promise not to bore the readers of Eat Here with this detail, and am still avoiding writing about The Spill. I can't help myself, though: this week, we noted a nest labeled "N 51". It was there Tuesday of this week, when we went to the beach as we always do for peace and comfort. It had not been there Sunday.

Judging by the tracks, we surmised the female turtle had made the long, slow, danger-frought trek Monday night during the high tide. By the time of our visit the tide had fallen way out, and the evidence of her determined incursion to the very beach, perhaps, of her own birth could be seen a long way out. I was standing at the low tide line when I took this. It's a phone camera so the quality isn't great, but you get the idea; if you look closely you can see the nest, marked that very morning by the Turtle Patrol. It's a long way from where I was standing. When I got close enough I could see a spot where it looked like she might have rested. "Oh, surely she did," Rodney said, "If you've ever seen a turtle walk up from the water and dig her nest...they look like the need to rest." And this raised another topic, one from the history we share as members of families and communities where conservation and the protection of natural resources were notions seldom considered, and when they were the tone ranged from humor to skepticism to outright sarcasm. Here's a photo found in Rodney's family archives (read: shoebox) taken in 1968 of a just-laid clutch of eggs in a turtle nest. You can't see it in this faded old second-generation photo, but they are definitely speckled, perhaps even leatherback turtle eggs. He remembers clearly seeing, more than once, turtles coming up onto the beach in the South Ponte Vedra/North Vilano area, and recalls the casual indifference of his parents and their friends as the parties carried on into the night, while the turtles fulfilled their destiny, unchanged by millennia.
Fast-forwarding to the current century (this week), this photo show the imprints of the turtle's flippers on the sand and coquina, marking her deliberate progress. I hope she laid a hundred eggs that night, and I hope those eggs beat the odds. I know I've written about it already. I know I promised not to be boring on the topic, and most of all, I know I vowed not to write about The Spill, and I won't, directly, mostly because the thought weighs too heavily for my heart to bear without wild unbounded grief: an outward and visible sign, as may resonate with you if you went to Catholic school as a kid, of our inward and spiritual positive and absolute heartbreak. But I can give you the turtles, people. I can tell you that this week saw the marking of Nest 51. Here it is, finally, right where you can walk to beach and see it yourself (with apologies to my far-away friends and readers). Rodney and I are told that the Guana Turtle patrol has marked one leatherback nest so far, and more loggerhead nests than I have numbers for. Say your best and most honest prayers to the Great Mother or God or Yahweh or the Great Spirit, or to whatever language frames and constitutes the Holiest of Holies when you lay down your head at night. Pray for the tiny, brand new and ancient beings dwelling in the small shells, nestled in the warm white sand, cradled in Nest 51, wrapped in the summer solstice.



Eat Here offers its sincere thanks to Jake, Linda, John, Scott and all the other people - employees and volunteers - who keep Guana safe for all manner of wild things, including unhatched baby turtles and people.

Turtle tracks

Early June in northeast Florida. It means, as our Lorie reminds us, that it's time for gardenias to bloom, scenting gardens and front yards with such a perfume as might have been brought across endless sands and mountains in caravans of camels and traders in centuries past. Soft petals of brightest white burst into flower one after another, covering the plant, the collective perfume so powerful as to be all but visible. A single blossom, cut and placed in water, is enough to scent a room.

June means the onset of hurricane season for us, too. And this year it also heralds the onset of potential disaster we do not hazard to begin predicting, here on the east coast, at least not yet. As the pleasure of gardenia blossoms remind us of happy summers long past, of hot weather really coming, of the grass-mowing season, of long evenings and cool drinks in the shade of the oaks, so does this other, deeply alarming hint of approaching evil scent the air with something like poison. I promised I wouldn't write of it in detail here, and I won't. Thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of writers far more talented and informed than I am will take it on, have taken it on. I mention it only as a reminder of the timing and of that which is precious to all of us, and vulnerable. So: June means Turtle Season comes into full swing. This means female sea turtles find their ancient ways to ancestral homelands, lay their eggs, do their immutable part in the continuation of their species.

In the photo at the top right, you can see two sets of tracks quite clearly. Flowing down toward the ocean are those of the turtle, as she came out of the sea to find her nest site; alongside are those she made as she returned to the sea. Parallel to the breaking water are the 4-wheeler tracks made by the Guana volunteers and staff who monitor the nests and help ensure their success. The turtle clearly came up to the high (west) side of the beach during the night; the turtle folks came along shortly after daybreak to investigate. If you could see this without the limits of the photo you'd note how deeply the sand was imprinted by her flippers as she came laboriously up the beach. You'd be able to see how close alongside are the return-trip imprints.

When Rodney and I were kids our parents and their friends had parties on St. Augustine and Vilano Beach (and I'm sure the rich people in Ponte Vedra did the same thing). They'd start early, spend the day on the beach and then dig a pit, build a bonfire, boil shrimp, roast hot dogs for the kids, and stretch the parties out into the night. If a turtle came ashore to lay her eggs, people would stand around and watch. In previous generations of ignorance, people would wait for the eggs and then collect them, or excavate nest sites and steal them. One turtle egg was said to be as rich as three chicken eggs. They were a delicacy. In ignorance people prevented turtles from finding their way to their historic nesting sites, inhibiting reproductive success; in dangerous ignorance they actually prevented it. The turtles were nearly exterminated.

Conditions have improved for sea turtles. They're not ideal, of course, but in my lifetime change has occurred. People know now that turtles are disoriented by artifical light, and it's controlled by law so residents and visitors must control the ambient light on beaches at night. The nests are carefully spotted, marked and protected by law and by dedicated individuals. Some work for the State of Florida at the Guana site; others are precious volunteers. Still more are those who can afford to donate and help ensure funding for the effort. (n fact, you can, too. Adopt a sea turtle nest.)

As I've described here before, the turtle watch is so closely kept that it's possible for a nest of hatchlings to be collected on the day they hatch and released carefully after dark, helping the tiny baby turtles avoid a wide range of pitfalls. Even now only a very small percentage survive to adulthood in the wild.

It's a new moon, or it was this weekend when I took these pictures. A new moon, my friends would remind me, is the best time for planting, for sowing, for making new beginnings. And there were a LOT of new nests this weekend, and at least one attempt, documented on the left, in which a turtle made the long, difficult trek to the west and for some reason returned to the sea after nothing more than a brief rest. You can see her tracks coming and going, making a nearly perfect U-turn. Though it's hard to see in my imperfect photo, she left the imprint of her body in the sand before the long walk back. With no exaggeration, from her nose to her tail she was at least 3 feet long and she'd started life as a nestling small enough to fit into the palm of your hand. Honest. The photo of the baby turtle was taken last year, and unfortunately has no comparative object for perspective. Trust me on this: it would fit in the palm of your hand, tiny flippers and all. This one is courtesy of Tara Dodson of St. Johns County, who helps oversee the health of the turtle population in our county.



Any of a hundred things could have prevented the digging of the nest, the laying of the eggs. It could be that the nest site wasn't just right for her. Maybe she wasn't quite ready to lay her eggs; maybe she walked back down to the breakers and came back later that night, or the next night. Maybe she found a better spot. I'd have to ask someone with more knowledge of the habits of sea turtles even to make an educated guess. Something kept this turtle from digging this nest. But there's good news. The nests are numbered in order of their discovery. And I can tell you for sure that before last weekend, the highest number Rodney and I saw on a nest was 10. Tonight we saw one numbered 23. Here are the tracks, leading up to the high tide line and back, obviously inspected by our turtle patrol as you can see from the overlaid track marks.

We watched something called "Through the Wormhole" on one of the science channels the other night. It provided several theories for the origin of the universe, including one based in physics and described in elegant equations, one based on theological contemplation, and one (intriguingly) based on the hypothesis that out of left-brain anxiety about the end of existence is born a right-brain counter balance in which the brain creates a sense of the spiritual, a belief in holiness, by which that anxiety is alleviated. One theory, however, is positively Gene Roddenberry-esque. It proposes that we are all the creations of an elaborate entertainment, the brain children of ourselves sometime in the future. Leaving aside religion for the moment, this last is ineffably appealing to me. It implies, as Roddenberry's Star Trek did, a hope for the future, a belief that we are somehow able to save ourselves from ourselves. If it turns out to be true, perhaps we are somehow able to save our sea turtles from ourselves, as well. Hope springs, my dears.




Credits:
Baby turtle photo - Tara Dodson, St. Johns County Environmenal staff member