by Kirk Jockell
In the vehicle, Red explained everything. The day before, he attended a meeting with the Port St. Joe Sea Turtle Patrol. The group is made up of passionate volunteers that help in the protection, recovery, and preservation of the ocean’s endangered and threatened species. Red isn’t a volunteer, but he provides financial support, appreciation and respect for their work. He has a financial and emotional interest in their efforts, so he often shows up at meetings to check on their current activities and progress. His attendance and input is always welcomed.
“Nigel, someone has been raiding nests. Poachers have been preying on fresh lays after the females crawl ashore.”
“That sucks,” replied Nigel.
“Yeah. It sucks and it’s also illegal as hell. Twice this week, as volunteers were making their morning turtle-walk rounds, fresh nests were discovered to have been disturbed, the eggs snatched away and removed.”
“And you think they are out there now?”
Red shrugged his shoulders and said, “I don’t know. I got a bad feeling.”
Nigel thought A bad feeling, huh? But didn’t say anything. He could see this wasn’t one of Red’s crazy shenanigans, so Nigel was all in. He poured more coffee from his Thermos.
The entire Forgotten Coast of Florida is an active sea turtle nesting region. Unfortunately, states that are lucky enough to share in the wonder of sea turtle reproduction do not have the resources to monitor and protect their activity. This is why the work of the turtle patrol is so important. If not for the volunteers, the nests would go undocumented and more importantly unprotected.
Each morning, during the laying and hatching season, volunteers patrol the several miles that makeup the shoreline, from Indian Pass to the tip of Cape San Blas. In the early weeks of the season, they look for the distinctive tracks made by females that have returned to the beach from which they themselves had once hatched. If this is a female’s first visit to lay eggs, it may have been twenty to thirty years since she last made the crawl to the ocean as a hatchling. If she is successful, she will make her way into the dunes to lay her eggs, which could be in excess of one hundred. During a female’s laying season, which occurs every two to four years, every few weeks she will return to dig another nest and lay more eggs. She may do this six or seven times before she is done.
There are several things that could impair a female from a successful lay. All of which are avoidable as they are created by man. One is unnatural lighting on shore. The other is shit left on the beach by tourists.
The unnatural lighting confuses the turtles, both nesting females and hatchlings. Light pollution around nesting beaches make it difficult for females to find and select the dark and quiet spots necessary to lay her eggs. After emerging from their nests, the same unnatural lighting will cause the internal navigation system of hatchings to become confused and draw them away from the water’s edge and toward certain death.
Items left on the beach serve as obstacles the turtles can’t easily navigate. The path to their nesting site is driven by instinct, not by individual choice. They make their landfall in the dark of night, so they are not prepared to deal with obstructions in their path. More times than not these result in false crawls. The turtles are simply unable to reach their nesting destination, so they give up and head back to sea, in hopes of being able to try again later.
This tourist effect hasn’t always been a problem, but in recent years it has increasingly grown. A trip to the beach used to mean a few chairs, maybe an umbrella, and a cooler. Now, with the development of the popup tent, a family’s footprint on the beach has grown to a full-scale campsite. If several families vacation together, it is less of a campsite and more like a hideous beachfront monstrosity. They become so massive that it is impractical to set up and teardown each day. It’s ridiculous.
During the height of the summer tourist season, the beaches can be littered with these large obstacles decreasing a female’s chances of success when she finally comes ashore. This is an obvious, great concern to the turtle patrol, plus … it makes the beaches look like ass.
For this reason, the county has enacted a “Leave No Trace” ordinance, which has become popular with other beach communities that have developed concerns with tourist clutter. Basically, if you bring it on the beach, you take it back with you each night. Doing so keeps the beaches clean, plus it opens a clear path for the turtles.
It is bad enough that a female has to deal with shore lighting and a cluttered beach, it is another when scumbags are raiding nests and poaching eggs. That raises the level of human intervention from inept and ignorance to harmful and malicious. A complete game changer.
Red was turning his Explorer onto Cape Road when Nigel asked, “So, where are they finding the raided nests?”
“Between the gate and the horn of the cape.”
“Ah ... makes sense.”
A large section of Cape San Blas, from the Gulf of Mexico across to St. Joe Bay is owned by the Air Force. It is part of Eglin, AFB. There are no planes or runways, but the property is active with just about every type of satellite dish and antenna of varying frequency. It’s a top-notch communication center.
There is no development on this section of the base and access to it after dark is limited to foot traffic. At dusk, the gate is locked to prevent vehicles from driving on that section of the beach. All this means, no unnatural shore lighting and no tourist compounds are left on the beach. It provides the best of all worlds for any female drawn back to this spot to lay her eggs. It also creates a secluded, well-hidden playing field for some bastard looking to stock up on eggs.
Red eased into Salinas Park. The park has an access for permitted vehicles to drive on the beach, plus it was the most practical spot to enter the beach given where they were going. They weaved their way through the property, and as soon as they reached the beach access Red shut off his headlamps and left his parking lights on.
The sky was blanketed by heavy overcast. There would be no stars or moonlight to drive by, so visibility was going to be a huge problem. Nigel reached into the backseat and grabbed his bag. He pulled it up front in his lap and said, “Turn off all the lights.”
“Then I damn well won’t be able to see. It was going to be bad enough driving by parking lights.”
Nigel opened his bag and grabbed a pair of spooky looking goggles. He placed them on his head and flipped a switch on the side. He moved his head, looking around the vehicle. He took them off his head and handed them to Red, “Here put these on.”
Red took the goggles, “What the hell?”
“N.V.G., Night vision, you’ll be able to see just fine.”
Red slipped them over his head and adjusted them for fit. “Son of a bitch. These are awesome. Where in hell did you get these?”
“Doesn’t matter. They come in handy when sailing at night. As do these...” Nigel reached back into his bag and produced a pair of bulky looking binoculars, also of the night vision variety. He wrapped the strap around his neck and turned them on and used them to look around. As he gazed around, he added, “And they eat the shit out of the batteries.” He rested the unit against his chest and turned toward Red, who looked utterly ridiculous and out of place wearing the military grade night vision goggles.
Red was looking around at all the various shades of green stopping to focus on Nigel’s face and huge smile. Red said, “What the hell is so funny?”
“Nothing, Red. Nothing at all. Let’s get moving.”
Red pulled out on the beach and took a right toward the horn of the cape and the gate that marks the beginning of the Air Force beach. Before long they were riding past Red and Trixie’s and moving quicker than normal, much faster than they normally would have during the day.
“Can you see okay?” asked Nigel.
“Sure, but if I didn’t have these on I would be running over all kinds of shit.”
“Just keep an eye out for holes.”
“Yep,” Red replied.
Large holes du
g in the sand are another significant danger to the female turtles. Holes left overnight are found by the turtles during their historic crawl. Once they fall in and get stuck, the game is over. Not to mention, a significant hole will cause huge problems for some Jeep or pickup truck out for an evening ride. That is why beach holes were included in the Leave No Trace ordinance. It isn’t brain surgery. You dig it. You fill it. Leave each night as if you were never there.
Running down the beach was like an obstacle course. Tents, piles of beach chairs, holes dug by children, and the occasional kayak littered the beach. While Red navigated the clutter, Nigel scanned ahead with the binoculars. Something got his attention.
“Whoa!” Nigel said.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know yet. Just slow down and keep driving.”
Red was inspired by whatever Nigel may have seen and was influenced to press the Explorer a bit harder down the beach. This made for a bumpier ride and made looking through binoculars more difficult.
“Whoa, brother. Slow it down some. Slow it way down.”
Nigel kept the glasses to his eyes and said, “Up there. That next beach camp. Stop the truck there.”
“Oh, shit!” said Red. “I see it now.” And even though they were almost there, Red pressed hard on the accelerator before standing on the brakes and sliding to a stop. They both jumped out of the vehicle and ran down to the crawl tracks and followed them into the middle of a canopy tent.
The beach camp was a monstrosity. It must have accommodated five or six different families. Three canopy tents were strung together like a triplex apartment building. Each tent contained more shit than anyone should have at the beach. The only thing missing was the color television that they apparently took back with them, because they found a remote control resting on a cooler. If you need this much shit at the beach, why bother.
“Come on,” Red said as he panted with excitement. “She’s still in here.”
Red didn’t hesitate. He started grabbing beach chairs and whatever else he could snatch and slung them out of the way. He looked up at Nigel and yelled, “Help me, dammit.”
When enough gear had been cleared away, they found her underneath a table and wedged between two large coolers. She was confused and frantic to find her way. The table was slung to the side by Red as Nigel pulled the coolers out of her way. Once she was free, she stopped her struggling to rest. There was more stuff piled up between the female and the dunes, so Nigel made short work of clearing a path.
Nigel was panting himself. “What now?” he asked.
“We wait,” said Red.
As they waited, they gathered the stuff they slung around and piled it all up in one of the other canopy tents. That’s when they found the television remote control, and of all things a marine porta-potty. As they were dragging the last cooler under the tent, in a deflated tone, Red said, “Damn! Stupid motherfuckers.”
From the other side of the tent, Nigel asked, “What is it?”
“The anxiety was too much. She’s headed back to sea.”
Nigel found Red’s silhouette. They walked over to where the turtle was marching back toward the surf, getting close enough that Nigel could now make her out in the darkness. He asked, “Will she try again?”
She moved under the effects of exhaustion, but as the surf began to slide up wet beneath her fins and shell, she picked up her pace. As the first wave crashed upon her head, Red said, “We can only hope.” And he turned and walked back to the vehicle with Nigel in tow. They settled back in the seats and Red said, “Hand me that bottle of Beam.”
Nigel reached behind the driver’s seat and produced the handle of whiskey. Before giving it to Red, he unscrewed the cap and took a deep swig of his own. Red took a sip and said, “She looked young.”
Nigel listened.
“This may have been her first visit since she herself hatched somewhere along this stretch of dunes,” Red paused then continued, “decades ago. All to be screwed up by a bunch of humans.” Red took another healthy sip and said, “Stupid bastards.”
Nigel said, “Stupid? Probably not. Ignorant, maybe. They aren’t being malicious, just...”
Red said, “Stupid,” finishing Nigel’s sentence. “You saw all that shit they drug out on the beach. For crying out loud, the place is looking more like a goddamn, cheap-ass trailer park every year. It’s just stupid.”
“I hear ya, brother. You’ve made your point, Red,” Nigel conceded.
They passed the bottle back and forth a couple times. They sat in silence for a few minutes. Nigel’s neck was resting on the head rest and his eyes were closed. He was on the edge of sleep when Red said, “Well, I guess it’s a good thing we came out here, huh?”
Nigel’s eyes popped open. He was about to say something smart, but he saw something down the beach. Small lights danced on the edge of the dunes. He blinked a few times to help focus then he grabbed the binoculars. The magnification and night vision brought the green and black action much closer.
Red noticed Nigel’s interest and gazed down the beach. “Hey, what do you see?”
“Can’t be sure,” said Nigel. “But there is one thing I can be sure of...” Nigel stopped to look at his watch. “At fifteen after three, I’m willing to bet it isn’t good.”
The action was down where they expected to find it, on the Air Force beach. They were maybe a couple hundred yards away and Nigel didn’t want to spook them by driving closer. The access gate would be locked anyway, so they wouldn’t be able to get there by vehicle.
Nigel handed the binoculars to Red and said, “Let’s trade. I want to get closer.”
Red handed over the night vision googles and Nigel adjusted them for his head. After snugging the fit he said, “Use the binoculars to get closer. Don’t let them see you. I’ll catch up to you later.”
Nigel opened the door and slipped away. Red half-yelled, half-whispered, “What are you planning to do?” But it was too late. Nigel had already disappeared into the dunes. “Dammit, Nigel.”
Nigel dashed about thirty yards or so into the dunes before turning toward the target. The rolling hills of sand are not huge, but, coupled with the healthy stands of sea oats, they created good cover. He kept a low profile as he darted between and around the dunes. After a while, to get his bearings, he crawled atop a dune to gage his progress. They were still there and he had made up more than half the distance. He eased backwards off the dune and set off again.
He ran faster. Head down, bag in hand. When he had a pretty good idea he was getting close, he slowed, to a stalking speed. He stopped and listened. He could now hear voices. He crept closer and closer. The voices were travelling over the dunes much clearer now. They were Latino. Not a word of English was being spoken.
Logan looked around and found the highest dune between himself and the voices. Head down, he dashed to its base and sniper crawled to the top for a better view. There they were. Three of them. Four of them if you counted the female loggerhead that was depositing eggs right into the hands of the poachers. They were transferring the eggs into a medium sized cooler, plenty big enough to handle the hundred or more eggs that were to be expected.
Logan was patient and vigilant as he watched. To get more comfortable, he twisted and dug his elbows and body down into the soft sand. He snapped a twig or something doing so, and it caught the attention of one of the poachers. He looked up saying, “Alto! Alto!”
He pointed his flashlight toward the noise. Logan remained perfectly still. He didn’t even breathe.
Perhaps it was by design to prevent drawing too much attention to themselves, but all three of the poacher’s flashlights were weak and dim. So the light pointed at Logan wasn’t powerful enough to illuminate the dune, but bright enough to cause a blinding effect through Logan’s NVGs. All Logan could do was squint and watch for movement.
The poachers whispered back and forth. A conversation Logan couldn’t hear or understand. Finally, the light moved off him and they
went back to the task at hand, transferring eggs into the cooler.
Logan remained still and quiet in the sand contemplating his options. It was three on one. He liked the odds. He had a huge advantage: sight. He could see them, but they couldn’t see him. The thought of weapons crossed his mind, but he was betting they weren’t armed. He asked himself in thought What to do? And the answer came. He told himself Be patient. See what happens. You can always attack later.
Logan began to wonder about Red. Where was he? That was something else he had to consider. If Red charged the nest in anger, then it would be a game changer. He turned his head and body to look back down the beach. It took a while but he finally caught movement. Red was creeping up the dune line.
As Logan turned back toward the nest, one of the poachers had stood. After brushing sand off his knees and legs, he started to make his way inland through the dunes. Nigel smiled. Now the match-up was two on one, or one on one. It was his pick. He went with the conventional predator playbook, prey on the one who has strayed from the herd.
Logan watched the lone poacher stroll away at an easy pace. He was in no hurry and neither was Logan. He waited and allowed some distance to build before backing off the dune. He opened his bag and pulled out a pair of closed finger sailing gloves and slipped them on. He got to his feet and crouched as he walked away. The further away he got from the nest, the faster his pace. The pursuit was on.
Like before, he stayed low as he dashed around the dunes, but as he traveled inland, there was less coverage from the dunes. Long before either one of them reached the stand of pines that stood between the dunes and the Cape Road, the coverage would be all but gone. Logan still had darkness on his side.
He decided not to follow the poacher, but to run around and ahead. He wanted to enter the woods first adding the cover of trees to his advantage. Logan began to pick up his pace, standing straighter as he picked up speed and making more noise in the process. He went wide to create some distance and as Logan was passing some forty to fifty yards or so to the right, the poacher had stopped. Logan slowed to a walking pace and then stopped to watch his target. The darkness was still overwhelming. Logan watched the poacher’s light dance around, and point in the wrong direction. Logan smiled and dashed to the tree line and took cover behind a big pine. He peeked around to check on the poacher. He had resumed his slow and casual pace. Then Logan pushed off the tree with his hand and disappeared further into the woods.