Updated: Jan 24
Newly-certified, I rock impatiently, demanding the moon to rise from the sea and shine the way for a loggerhead to emerge from the ocean and lay her eggs. I want my pre-dawn footprints on the sand to
intermingle with those of the night, the deer and crabs and foxes. I want to be the first one to recognize the distinctive tracks that might lead to a nest of eggs. I want to be the one who finds the eggs, who covers the nest with a protective screen, who writes the date on the sign. I have wanted this since the first time I saw a turtle volunteer on the beach (easily recognizable with backpack and cue stick) and signed up for the training.
My rocking slows to the rhythm of the breaking waves. The moon rises slowly, following her own rhythm, the brief moment when she appears to become a tunnel where anyone adventurous and quick enough might enter into another realm. The tunnel too quickly becomes an orange orb, a lantern reflecting light off the frothy waves.
No longer impatient, I breathe in the rhythm of the Low Country, rise from my chair and fall into bed, listening for the sound of turtle tracks on the sand.