Resilient, Little Warriors

By Madeline C. Lanshe

Sometimes, I get overwhelmed by how insignificant of a mark I will make on this Earth before I leave it. The world is too large, the problems and suffering too unfathomably pervasive, and I am merely a grain of sand in the endless ocean.

I know this feeling is not unique to me. I also know the true, yet not always convincing philosophy: our actions and the light we create might not change the world, but they can change the worlds of those around us. Sometimes, it’s in taking a microscope to the world that we’re able to see the greater picture. One of these moments for me was when I went to Cozumel for my sister’s wedding.

Cozumel is an Island off the coast of Mexico’s mainland, a ferry’s ride from Playa Del Carmen. The water is turquoise, the summers are stifling, and wildlife is abundant. I arrived from France, where I’d been living and teaching English for the past two years, with everything I was able to fit in two suitcases and a backpack. I was the first of my family to arrive for my older sister, Gabrielle’s, wedding.

Gabes, as we all call her, had met her soon-to-be husband, Sergio, at a Crossfit gym on the island when she was staying there for a month. He was her instructor one night. They hit it off, stayed in touch when she flew back to the States, started dating, then got engaged a year later while visiting me in France. The ceremony was under a canopy on a beach, a sanctuary from the unrelenting noonday sun. She looked like a dream in her trailing white gown and veil, and he looked adorable, crying as she walked down the aisle and as they exchanged their vows.

A few days after the wedding, those of us who didn’t have to hurry home for work (some friends and cousins included) volunteered with a sea turtle rescue group. Gabes and Sergio had done it before, but for the rest of us, it was a first.

When a clutch of turtles hatches and makes its way out of the sand and to the sea, not all hatchlings are strong enough; some get left behind, buried in the sand, left to suffocate amongst the fragments of the discarded eggshells. There are groups that dedicate their time to locating and marking turtle nests, and performing the laborious task of excavating the shells, keeping track of how many are found, documenting it, and saving the stragglers from certain doom.

After we were educated on the rules and proper procedure, we went down the beach to where flag after flag marked the nests, and split into groups of two to four. I went with Gabes and Sergio. We were given a small bucket in which to keep any living hatchlings we might find until the end of the process.

Even with sunscreen, a hat, and a shirt, the sun burned bright and heavy above as we carefully dug where the flag marked the center of the nest.

Sand is defiant. It misbehaves. Like a two year old child, it will not sit still, and goes exactly where you do not want it to. It proved harder than I anticipated to locate the stash of eggshells, as the sand collapsed and the hole we were digging morphed and moved, until we had no idea how far from the center we actually were. It took time and patience, and we restarted our hole several times. We reached a depth, maybe three feet down, where it became clear why this was a group effort. Sergio held on to my ankles and lowered me headfirst into the hole. As I dug into the wet sand, my gloved hand shaped like a spoon so as not to harm any surviving hatchlings I might come across, it was Gabes’s job to push the sand out of the way so it didn’t continue to collapse in on me.

As the minutes stretched on, I started to doubt that we were in the right spot at all. I could hear other groups around us squealing with excitement as they uncovered hatchlings. I needed to know what that felt like.

Then, the sign that we were indeed digging in the right spot: a broken eggshell. I was careful as I buried my hand and lifted scoops of sand and shell. The remnants were softer than I anticipated.

There was no guarantee there were any living hatchlings left behind in this particular nest. In fact, it would be better if there weren’t. But a foul stench made me believe at least one hadn’t made it, and it was now decaying. I hoped that we would find more than death in this hole.

When I look back on the many adventures I’ve lived, not many experiences top the excitement of finding that first baby sea turtle and seeing her squirm and flap in the palm of my hand.

She was dark gray and oval and perfect. I lifted her up to my sister and finished my mission, digging around until it seemed all the shells had been excavated.

By the end, we’d placed four hatchlings on the sandy floor of our bucket, and my sweaty body was covered in sand from my hair to my toes.

One of the four turtles was deformed, the left side of his shell caved in, with a crumpled front flipper. I named him Quasi, after Victor Hugo’s character, Quasimodo.

They must’ve heard the voice of the ocean; they did not stop moving for a moment. For creatures that had only seconds prior been trapped in their inevitable tomb, they were bursting with life. Even little Quasi wiggled and pushed against the confines of the bucket just like his brothers and sisters. Watching them squirm sent tingles of joy through my soul.

We took our bucket to the next nest. While we found the stash of shells, our hatchling count remained at four. I could feel myself stressing over the situation. We were thorough, or so we estimated, but what if we’d missed any? What if one was waiting mere inches from where I dug, and it heard its salvation approaching, only to be abandoned for a second time in its short life. That thought alone would’ve had me digging out there until dusk, but eventually the men running the rescue moved us along.

They’d saved an active nest for the grand release. One man wiped away the top layer of sand so that just their little heads were visible, then he carved a ring around them and buried a hand underneath to lift them up. They were lying almost still, like drunks being stirred too early in the morning. He took sand and sprinkled it over them, like a reverse Sandman, for this seemed to wake them. It started with one pioneer breaking free and making a mad dash towards the ocean. A few more trickled out and then it was a stampede.

It was our turn next. Everyone in the group lined up horizontally on the beach. When given the word, we all dumped our buckets. It was important that the turtles still crawl down the beach and not be released directly into the water.

Some people had over a dozen hatchlings. My younger sister had stumbled upon a full nest that probably should’ve been left another day or so. But I was content with the four we found. I could keep track of each of them as they pushed their way through the sand.

Quasi was quickly passed by his siblings. He scooted awkwardly down the sand, struggling in a way the others did not. Tears welled in my eyes. I wanted to help him. I wanted to protect him. Only one in one thousand sea turtle hatchlings reaches adulthood. The odds were so cruelly stacked against even the healthiest of them.

The first wave scooped him up and dropped him again on the beach. What a way to be welcomed into the world; near suffocation, an exhausting trudge over and through thick sand, then a blast in the face by salty water. And that was only the beginning. After that, a frantic swim past the surf, and then, if they were lucky, a decade of “lost years” braving the sea and all its dangers alone before returning to coastal areas to forage and mature.

My eyes stayed fixed on Quasi as he was thrown again, tumbling in the water before settling on the sand. But he kept hobbling forward, no thought of retreating or taking a break. Another wave came and he was swept away, this time, for good.

It was all too much; the beauty, the harshness, the ache in my heart.

I wept. Wept for the hope we’d provided all these turtles, for the trials and dangers they’d soon face, for all the hatchlings who were not fortunate enough to be given a second chance, and for myself and the part of my own nature which makes me want to protect and comfort and save.

My salty tears joined the saltier sea as the last of the hatchlings disappeared beneath the surface. My heart swelled like the distant waves.

Did my effort matter if none of them survived the day? Did I make a difference if they never saw the shore again?

When I think about Quasi, how he plowed towards his future, slower than the others but unfaltering just the same, half-crushed shell and twisted flipper an accepted, unquestioned part of him, not once used as an excuse, without mother or father to lookout for him, just a soft-hearted blonde with overflowing affection, I realize that, if he got to feel the breeze on the beach, taste the sea, ride the waves, as he was meant to, even if only for a moment, it mattered. He’d never know that I played a role in giving him a new chance at life. More than that, he had changed mine in a way deeper than the hole he was dug from. That, too, matters.

It is night. The thin, crescent moon is hidden behind a pillow of clouds. Only light from the peaceful stars illuminates the gentle shift of the sea. A beak emerges, breathing in the warm, salty air before dipping below again. The turtle is larger than a dinner plate, nearly a decade old based on his size. He’s making his way back to the coast for the first time to forage for food. The beach ahead of him feels familiar in some deep, buried part of his mind. His twisted flipper causes him to swim askew. It doesn’t bother him. He knows nothing different. His progress is slow, but that’s okay. The sea is tranquil, the beach is waiting, and like his mother before him, he is in no hurry.