Starting barely inches from the edge of the incoming waves. As near to just-made as dawn's early light allowed. The official turtle patrol lady had been there a few minutes before me and planted a red flag—the flag dwarfed by the size of the tracks.
The mother-to-be crawled a long way (probably 150 feet or more) toward the edge of Tigertail’s grasses. She even worked her way up and over a three-foot-high sand cliff, using instinct and determination to reach a place she was sure was safe from the highest tidal flow.
She must have tried out a few spots before she settled on the best sand in which to deposit her eggs. The flag marks her final nesting place.
Then, of course, I followed her second set of tracks back to the sea.
That was the day before we left the island to fly to our own Boulder nesting place. On the day we were to leave I went to revisit the amazing site, but to my surprise, those giant tracks were gone. Erased. Was it the wind? Beach walkers? Maybe the Turtle Patrol had destroyed the tracks on purpose—obliterating a clue that would point to the precious site.
I was disappointed, but not for long. I found a new set of very fresh turtle tracks.
But this time there was no nesting place. False labor? Not a comfortable or soft-enough bed? Did something scare her? For some reason she scuttled the whole maternal-turtle idea, turned around, and left.
Finding those two sets of flipper-prints was a wonderful ending to a wonderful winter spent on Marco’s lovely beach. I have come to realize that unexpected happenings like this—right in our “front yard”—are what I love best about our time on the island.
The mother-to-be crawled a long way (probably 150 feet or more) toward the edge of Tigertail’s grasses. She even worked her way up and over a three-foot-high sand cliff, using instinct and determination to reach a place she was sure was safe from the highest tidal flow.
She must have tried out a few spots before she settled on the best sand in which to deposit her eggs. The flag marks her final nesting place.
Then, of course, I followed her second set of tracks back to the sea.
That was the day before we left the island to fly to our own Boulder nesting place. On the day we were to leave I went to revisit the amazing site, but to my surprise, those giant tracks were gone. Erased. Was it the wind? Beach walkers? Maybe the Turtle Patrol had destroyed the tracks on purpose—obliterating a clue that would point to the precious site.
I was disappointed, but not for long. I found a new set of very fresh turtle tracks.
But this time there was no nesting place. False labor? Not a comfortable or soft-enough bed? Did something scare her? For some reason she scuttled the whole maternal-turtle idea, turned around, and left.
Finding those two sets of flipper-prints was a wonderful ending to a wonderful winter spent on Marco’s lovely beach. I have come to realize that unexpected happenings like this—right in our “front yard”—are what I love best about our time on the island.
The gorgeous sunsets over the Gulf are appreciated, but expected. We look forward to those every evening. It’s the unexpected happenings that thrill me most -- those special wondrous, never-before-experienced-in-life moments. These are especially memorable.
Like the morning I found millions of itty, bitty baby sand dollars had washed up on shore during the night. They looked more like sand pennies, dimes, and nickels. A charming sight, but sad at the same time. No one could explain the die-off. It seems it have never happened on our beach before.
Like the morning I found millions of itty, bitty baby sand dollars had washed up on shore during the night. They looked more like sand pennies, dimes, and nickels. A charming sight, but sad at the same time. No one could explain the die-off. It seems it have never happened on our beach before.
Another morning I watched the full moon slip right into the water—my first-ever “moonset.”
Another morning there were red roses on the beach. One here, one there, one over there. No two close together, but at least twenty to fifty steps apart. Fresh red roses in the sand—totally unexpected. And no one knew how or why.
And finally, although Marco’s life-size “sand cows" are a man-made wonder, I won’t ever forget how delightful it is to watch them appear, unexpectedly one-by-one, along the beach each year in February. We’re lucky that a dairy-farmer family with a sense of humor can sculpt “Moona Lisa,” “Udderly Relaxing” and “Cow pie a la mood.”
Good-bye to sea level, sand, and sunshine. And thanks, Marco, for those unexpected, never-before-experienced moments.
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