Nesting turtles, surfing dogs

This is the first sea turtle nest of the season for Rodney and me. (Grateful acknowledgement to Tyrone and Louise: his post this morning provided the inspiration). Despite tragedy (the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico), personal and professional ups and downs (everybody's got 'em) and anything else that may not be right with the world, here's something that is: turtles are still making their ungainly trips ashore in our beautiful Guana and everywhere else they have for millions of years, and laying eggs. And despite financial cutbacks and governmental balance sheet discomfort, the state of Florida with its badly paid staff and dedicated volunteers, is still managing to arrive in the early morning hours and mark the sacred places where the turtles have been. And despite the challenges these tiny baby turtles face when they hatch (lights on the beach confuse them and prevent them finding their way to the ocean, predators eat them, and old-timers will still raid the nests, for it is said that turtle eggs are 5 or 6 times richer than chicken eggs) some of these tiny vulnerable babies do manage to make their ways to the sea, and return again many years later to continue the cycle.

The folks at Guana keep such a close eye on these nests and know so well the time at which the eggs are expected to hatch that they monitor for viability, even sometimes removing the tiny new hatchlings in the evenings and returning them to the beach after nightfall. This gives the babies better odds of surviving their long trip to the water. The nests, as I've tried to show you here, are above the high tide line. Hatchlings must negotiate a wide stretch of beach to reach the water, and each of them is so small as to be able to fit easily in the palm of your hand. It's a considerable distance to cover, with all the obstacles I've mentioned and probably many more I don't even know about. It is indeed a joyful thing to see the protective markers appearing each spring, reminding us that the secret life of turtles goes on and and that in some small way, people are helping ensure this continuity.

Our other unexpected and welcome entertainment came from two nice surfers, a couple, I guessed, and their dog. We passed these folks as we stepped onto the beach this morning, exchanged greetings and commented on their dog, a medium-sized retreiver, and then moved on. We always talk to dog people at the beach, usually because it's too warm to take our own dogs. Boxers have foreshortened noses and sometimes encounter breathing or overheating issues when it's really hot out. Temperatures today were predicted to be in the high 80s, maybe touching 90, so we'd left our dogs at home. We set off on our walk, noticing that the couple with the dog moved away from the knot of people who typically cluster around the walkover. And then we indulged our passion and looked for shark teeth and other bits of bounty from the ocean. About 3/4 of a mile into the walk, I noticed the young couple headed toward the water, boards in hand, dog trotting faithfully along. Then I noticed that the guy was carrying his own board and something that might have been a boogie board. Hmm. There was a nice bed of coquina, usually rich with shark teeth, so I lingerd to look as Rodney continued on his walk.


And here's the fun part: the boogie board was for the dog. I watched as the dog maneuvered himself into position to climb up on the board, a process that seemed completely routine to the little family. Curious, I stopped to watch, my phone camera ready to take terrible pictures (which it totally did, as you can see). When they were far enough out to catch some of the ragged waves, the dog caught his, rode it, lost his board, and promptly paddled out to the guy, whose surfboard seemed to be his next objective. But the guy caught a decent wave and rode it as the woman finished a ride in. I'd lingered long enough by now, and taken enough photos, to suggest the possibility that I was just a freak. And clearly attention wasn't important to them; they just took their dog surfing and didn't invest a lot of effort in overthinking.

The photo just shows the heads of the people and the suggestion of the dog's head. But I went back to talk to them, to tell them about the blog, to ask if I might include them. Her name was Beth; her husband is Steve and the dog, Yeti, has been surfing with Steve since he was a puppy. Except Beth said, "I noticed him swimming along with me, and sort of shooed him toward my husband. But he just likes surfboards now, so he didn't mind surfing with me." She says he surfs better with Steve, but no matter who's board finds him hanging 20, it was a bunch of fun to watch. Here's to that much fun throughout the weekend.

Conversational citizens

Our friend Louise is officially a citizen of Canada! She's coming home as we speak (she and her husband are on assignment in Florida), having passed whatever test it is they give, and presumably produced a rendering of "O Canada" sufficient to permit the issuing of citizenship papers. They made you sing, right, Louise? In recent years we've had several friends who became American citizens, having come to the U.S. from Switzerland, Costa Rica, Syria and India, and now are very proud to welcome Louise to our continent, if not our country, exactly.

Our unlikely connection to Louise and Tyrone is rooted in work but has flowered in a surprising way. Tyrone seemed like a person I'd want as a friend because he shamelessly wore grey Chuck Taylors to the office. Louise eclipsed him, of course, immediately. Together, they are The North American Right Whale Spotters of 2010, for my money, having sighted multiple whales several times off the beach. They were able to report the sightings, helping support the re-establishment of this extremely endangered species, of which perhaps only 350 or 400 individuals inhabit the earth. They are dog people who understand the language of dogs, and are loved by every dog they meet. In the unusual magic that connects people to each other in St. Augustine, they happened to choose our dear friend Eric at Antigua Vets to care for their dog. And they are intrepid, warm-hearted people who can be tossed into virtually any social situation and find their way to a comfortable place. Good job, Canada.

There are the people with whom you cautiously build friendships, and there are people you pass at the beach with whom you exchange greetings, and then there are people who pass silently and yet not without contact. Thanks to our frequent visits to Guana, those people in the second category are more numerous than you might think; two Saturdays ago I walked up to The Woman in the Black Bathing Suit on the beach. I hadn't seen her during the winter. I said, "Is it Kathy and Brian?" and she said, "How did you ever remember??" and we caught up with each other. She took out her phone and made a note about our names and the blog address. I hope she'll find us here. (Brian was with her, but he was busily searching for shark teeth, so I didn't interrupt him. The beach is sacred that way.) I may have mentioned the woman we used to see last summer, who asked me, "Do you always leave your shoes at the walkover?" When I answered that I did, she smiled and said, "I can always tell when you're here by your shoes," and we laughed about it. I haven't thought about it in some time. But yesterday was a truly amazing day for marine fauna. There was that big old conch or whelk or whatever it calls itself, which I'd carefully removed from the water for a photo and to show Rodney and then just as carefully replaced. There was the sand dollar.

And there were two couples walking on the beach, taking photos, probably tourists. They took notice of me in their own ways, the older couple perhaps wondering if they could get me to take a photo of them together, the younger couple just sitting in the sand in their good clothes, letting the sun warm them. None of them spoke, but all four of them made eye contact. All of them were interested, as I was, in the abundant wonders of nature, but none of them dared a conversation so Rodney and I walked on up the beach a mile or so and then back. But when I bent over to pick up my old Chuck Taylors, there was the conversation I thought no one had dared.
There were my shoes, but into the heel of one of them had been tucked a gift. It couldn't have been accidental. By design, someone said very clearly, "I thought you might like this," and I thought they must have seen me carrying the whelk/conch shell. The one left in my shoe hadn't had a resident for a long time, could be taken home without the guilty scent of life, interrupted, and was perfectly formed. The people I passed without comment that day didn't step into our lives quite like Tyrone and Louise did, but they didn't pass without a conversation, either. What a world we live in.

A winter walk, a glimpse of gold, and something to cook

So this is what it looked like, when I was warmed enough by layers of clothes and the briskness of our pace to be able to focus the camera. The wind was not quite howling, but was blowing hard and steadliy, as though it had promised its mother to do so and was afraid one of its aunts might drop in unexpectedly to check. This meant it was damned COLD at the beach, but considering the sudden, brilliant appearance of the sun and the astonishing blue of the sky, Rodney and I found we couldn't stay away. If you look closely at the sea shells you'll see a fine lace overlay in rainbow colors, the residue of the sea foam cascading all over the beach like wet tumbleweeds. We walked half a mile or so to the south, just a few hundred feet to the north, gathered a small collection of fossils, and began to think about a nice fire, a cocktail and the golden hour.

Clean up awaits, at home. Thanks to the continuing cold, the detritus accumulates and changes; the fallen branches need to be cut and stacked, the sad, melted cannas and elephant ears trimmed away, and so much more. But it's too sad, and anyway, it's too soon; there may be still be protection afforded by fallen plants to those growing in their shadows. So we wait. And today, waiting, we walked down the narrow path that connects our front yard with the delicate finger of the Tolomato River that folds back in upon itself and winds its way to us as Stokes Creek. The light changed quickly, as it does this time of year, and Rodney took photos.


I thought about what to cook, and though in the end we ate leftovers, I was prevailed upon by Dylan to share this favorite of his. When you have boneless, skinless chicken breasts, part of a bag of potato chips and some butter, this is the easiest way in the world to please the still-maturing palates of the young. Cut the breast meat into fillets and dip in melted, cooled butter, then dip in crushed potato chips. When I say crushed, I mean you should have your youngest family member take the bag of chips and do with it what they've always wanted to do: roll it around, crush and smash (taking care not to tear open the bag). When the chips are very fine indeed, dip the chicken in, and place it into a lightly greased baking dish. Bake at 350 or so for about 40 minutes or until lightly browned. Why do they love this dish? I have no idea, and I suspect my own mother may have learned it from Woman's Day or Ladies' Home Journal or some such magazine in the 60s. But though I can't explain it, no matter how many times I ask my sons how they'd like chicken breasts cooked - and I am telling you I have some perfectly marvelous ways to cook them - this is invariably their request. Kids. Palates. What a mystery. Never fear, my loves: I shall soon tell you the story of Julia Child, Le Pavillon, Jacques Cousteau, exotic birds, a Boxer dog and the Lamented Claude Sinatsch. Soon, soon.

For this evening, move a bit closer to your warm fireplace, wrap that soft, warm blanket a bit closer around your shoulder and if you have the luxury of a love to hold you close, do. Here is one last look at the fading view of the golden hour at our house tonight, and a look at another kind of cold-evening blanket, this one called Meg. But this, my darlings, is a tale for another evening.