Sea turtles have always been a symbol of perseverance to me. They persevere through their many years under water, their journeys mostly unknown to us until the females lurch their bodies onto a beach, lay their eggs, and make their way back to the darkness of the sea. I think of them as I reflect on the twists and turns and unknowns of the ways we wander and journey through our lives.
For eleven years, my husband Scott and I lived in Gabon, a French-speaking country in Africa, with the Atlantic as its western border and the equator running through its center.
We had seen broken soft shells of turtles left by hatchlings along the city beach and knew you could watch them lay their eggs across the estuary. So one year, on a grey Saturday in the dry season, we took a ferry to a new environmental center where we would sleep on cots in the small cement building.
Looking over the center’s logs from the previous nights, we saw the lists of egg-laying turtles that had been tagged and recorded. There was a steady stream—seven on Wednesday, ten on Thursday, four last night.
Female turtles take about an hour to make their way up the beach, dig out their hole, lay their eggs, cover it up, and heave themselves back to the sea. We would walk the beach one way, and trackers would walk the other way, signaling us when they found one so we could join them.
That night we walked the beach for hours, but there were zero signals from the trackers. We walked until I was too tired to walk anymore. Zero turtles came to lay their eggs. The conservationists were befuddled and let us go without paying the $20 dollar fee for the night,. C’est la nature,” they said, “Peut-etre la prochaine fois,” It’s nature, maybe next time.
Over the next years, we tried two more times with the conservation center. Zero turtles were logged those nights. Six years and two children later, we went to another location along the beach with a group with the kids. Some adults stayed back with sleeping kids while others went out. Still no turtles. Finally, a few months before we were leaving Gabon for our next home, we would try one last time.
We stayed at a place with bungalows and a restaurant on the beach to celebrate our thirteenth anniversary. Our first overnight away from our kids, we packed up our backpacks, mine with the bare minimum, my husband with the binoculars, camera, water bottles, and flashlights. This times when we stepped off the ferry, we were met with pink drinks and fresh fruit. At the beach, I spread out a towel and settle in to read while Scott wandered off to explore nearby small streams of water. “Look Shelly!” he called me over. He was cupping a small creature in his palm, a mudskipper. I marveled at the perfection of this tiny specimen—its curious mix of land and sea, flippers and legs. Was it at home in both or neither?
We lingered that night over dinner at the restaurant, French style, knowing that the turtles wouldn’t come up until late. Near midnight, we changed into our beach clothes, packed up our flashlights and camera, and headed out.
I walked barefoot, as I always do on the beach. I like the feel of the cool evening sand. I felt my way by the moonlight and the reflection of the water. Soon we saw lights ahead and heard murmurs. A turtle! A small crowd, ten or fifteen other searchers, had gathered. We approached and saw her, a leatherback, all big and plopped in the stand. We tried to stay unobtrusive with the others with our whispers and wonder as she dug out her hole, laid her eggs, and finally lumbered back to the sea. I was still and satisfied with this small gathering to witness the turtle’s endeavor.
But the night was pleasant and the moon was shining. We were walking in the moonlight on an equatorial beach. This was to to be cherished and enjoyed because we will not do this again. We will not be here again.
The sand was cool on my foot as we walked, waves lapping, laughter fading behind us. Then I felt it against my toes. Ridges. Like the feel of tractor tires in damp mud on an Indiana farm.
“Scott, stop. Wait.”
We stopped and I traced the ridges with my feet, followed them up, further away from the water. These weren’t our first tracks. We had found nests before, the mounds of sound with eggs incubating beneath or those with broken shells all around. But this time we saw a turtle, another leatherback. She was making her way from the water. Phalump, heave, phalump, heave. Her body, as big as mine, with flippers made for swimming in the sea, not this. She was focused and unhesitating as she lumbered.
We knew the rules, no shining a flashlight, no taking pictures, and no touching until she finishes laying her clutch of eggs. Once the eggs are laid we can do these things, but gently. She won’t mind.
The turtle—our turtle—found her spot, settled herself, and began to scoop out sand with her back flippers. She must dig a cylindrical hole, deep and wide. She scooped and scooped and scooped. I knelt nearby and watched her face. Thick tears streamed from her eyes. I felt emotion as she labored; but her tears are only for protection from the sand that she is flicking, flick, flock, flick flock, as she dug into the dense packed sand.
When the digging was done, the eggs dropped, one at a time. We watched each egg fall, glistening and soft, plop, plop, plop. They dropped into one another, rolling a little into place. I had read that maybe one out a hundred make it to adulthood, and I wished I could stay and protect them once they hatched and herd them into the sea.
And then there was more sand, the flippers in reverse to cover the nest. I notice a cut on a flipper. The turtle’s skin, though thick, was chafing against the pressure and the friction of the sand. Chafing against the struggle. There was blood. This work on the beach was only a tiny fraction of her life, her skin was made for the ocean, her flippers for swimming, and yet, she manages. The flipper would heal, though there may always be a scar.
We were free to touch her now, and I did, gently, laying a hand on her shell. Scott took a picture. She wasn’t not the biggest of leatherbacks. I had heard some are as big as a small car, but still. She was big and primordial and mysterious. And she had no tags. Maybe we were the first humans to ever lay eyes on her. Perhaps the only ones who ever would.
She made her way back to the sea haphazardly, stopping to flick bits of sand here and there, so there would be more than one mound to confuse potential predators. I stopped and sat and watched while Scott followed near her, wading into the water until she was back home, swimming, free and unencumbered.
I read lately that turtles follow the earth’s magnetic field to guide them back to their natal beaches, presumably safe places for the next generation of turtles to hatch and make their own way. And it’s not only sea turtles that rely on the magnetic field—from birds, bees, and butterflies to whales and wildebeest, creatures of the earth, sky, and sea rely of the earth’s magnetic field to guide them in their journeys.
Some parts of their bodies, their flesh and bone, have a constant awareness of this field. Other markers for the journey are their too—the moonlight on a beach, the rest of the flock, the changing of the seasons—but ultimately, without the magnetic field, these creatures would be lost, our sea turtle’s eggs laid in unfriendly territory.
The meaning of sea turtles is changing for me. Though they still symbolize perseverance in our journey to actually see one laying her eggs on a beach in Gabon, the turtle’s journey and the guidance of the earth’s magnetic field seems more like a picture of God’s constant and guiding presence than the turtle’s work. I think the call and presence of the Holy through my life is a little like the magnetic presence that surrounds us all. It reminds me of the old hymn, O the Deep, Deep love of Jesus.
O the deep, deep love of Jesus,vast, unmeasured, boundless, free,rolling as a mighty ocean in its fullness over me.Underneath me, all around me,is the current of Thy love;leading onward, leading homewardto Thy glorious rest above.
He is present, like that magnetic field that surrounds us, and I am at home with him.
Author of today's blog article is Michelle Shappell Harris, ThD, MFA. Michelle has lived in Fort Wayne, Indiana since 2012, after nineteen years abroad in France and Gabon. Her doctoral work focused a theology of hospitality demonstrated through community-based welcome of newcomers to the US. Michelle is passionate about spiritual care for those walking in and out of consultation rooms and is available for speaking and writing. You can reach her at michelleshappellharris@gmail.com.
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