Beach House Memories

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Lovie giggled at Flo’s excellent imitation of their fights as children. “I know it’s not fair. But hey, it’s my job.” She lifted her chin in mock superiority. “And the boss likes me. Or my work, anyway.”

  Flo wagged a finger at her. “You know, kiddo, if word gets out to the other ladies on the team who get hot and flustered at the mere thought of spending an hour alone with the dashing Dr. Bennett that you’re going out with him solo every morning, there’ll be mutiny.”

  Lovie sipped her wine and leaned far back in her chair. “Don’t worry, Flo. He’ll teach you, too. I’ll make sure of it.”

  “You will, huh? You sound like you’re walking in high cotton all of a sudden.”

  Lovie laughed into her wineglass. “Maybe I am. And maybe I’m just happy.”

  Flo smiled but looked at her suspiciously. “Are we still talking turtles here?”

  Lovie only shook her head to throw off the comment, but when she looked back at them over her wineglass, her eyes glimmered.

  Sea Turtle Journal

  June 16, 1974

  What a day of firsts! First plane ride. First moving of eggs. There are several nests on the north end of the island. And seeing the vista of so many miles of pristine white beaches fills me with hope. My idea of what I can do to help turtles has expanded, like seeing the coast from the sky instead of simply on foot.

  The bummer was the old problem of raccoons. We returned with wire mesh and secured it over the nest to prevent further invasion. Archie Carr predicted that the biggest threats to the loggerhead population were raccoons and real estate development. Since I’m now faced with both, I have to ramp up our defense. I may not make a big difference, I may not make headlines, but I will take a stand on my island. Someday we’re all going to have to make a decision—do we want to save the sea turtles?

  Nine

  So it began. By the following week, the Sea Turtle Project was officially under way. Lovie and Russell had met at Russell’s house several times over the first few days, poring over her notes and a large map of the island he’d put up on his wall. They walked the beaches to check out the conditions of the dunes and the accessibility of the beach by foot, especially on the northern end where the forest grew thick. For three days she’d returned from hours on the beach sweaty, with sand stuck to her like a second skin, and scratches from briars on her arms and legs. Russell looked as bad, but he seemed indefatigable.

  For her part, Lovie’s phone tree had yielded a rich crop of volunteers. The project was the talk of the island, as was the dashing Dr. Bennett. Twenty-one additional women and five men—husbands roped in by their wives—signed up, to bring the total number of volunteers to thirty-eight. Forty if Russell Bennett and Lovie were included. To Lovie, that number was a boon, more than she’d ever thought possible.

  At a hastily assembled meeting at the Exchange Club, Russell and Lovie presented the details of the project to the volunteers and assigned specific days and locations they were to walk early in the morning to search for turtle tracks. It was a simple plan. Lovie and Russell were the core team of the project. When the volunteers found tracks, they were to call Russell, who in turn called Lovie. Then the two of them would investigate the nests. At the end of the meeting, Russell handed out brown cotton T-shirts emblazoned on the left side with ISLE OF PALMS SEA TURTLE PROJECT encircling a green turtle. All the volunteers were delighted, and Lovie thought it was a great unifying tool. For her, Russell also ordered a matching brown baseball cap with the same emblem, to make up for the hat that had been destroyed by its dunk in the sea. Lovie was ridiculously pleased to wear it.

  The next morning, the full cadre of volunteers was on patrol. By the second week, Lovie had grown accustomed to her new schedule of sitting by the black rotary phone on her desk, dressed and ready and waiting for the call to action. The volunteers had to cover their stretch of beach by six thirty so they could get back home and call in any found tracks no later than seven.

  As she sat by the phone sipping coffee and waiting, Lovie couldn’t help but wonder if she liked this new, regimented routine. She was accustomed to being independent in her mornings. When it was only her, she could wake up early, grab a cup of coffee at leisure, and stroll out on the beach. Her fingers tapped the desk and her foot wagged impatiently. Suddenly the phone rang and she lurched for it.

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning. You up yet?” It was Russell.

  “Very funny.”

  “Then come on over, partner. I’ve got today’s list of nests to check out. Meet me at 26th Avenue.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  She always felt like a fireman at a drill. With adrenaline and caffeine racing in her veins, Lovie grabbed her blue backpack, already prepacked with her notebook, pen, a towel, her thermos, and a small garden trowel, picked up the bucket, and dashed out the door.

  It was after seven and already the sun was shining. The summer solstice was around the corner. There would be long days and sunlit evenings that stretched to nine o’clock. As she stepped into the sunshine, she could feel the day’s promise of heat and humidity. Her station wagon was already steaming. She cranked down the windows and turned the ignition. The engine strained but didn’t fire. “Darn rust bucket,” she muttered, and tried again. It wouldn’t start.

  She hit the steering wheel, cursing. She’d been having this problem with the ignition on and off for the past year and learned the hard way not to flood it. It took all her patience to let the engine sit a moment. The last thing she wanted was to be late on her first day out as a team leader. She said a quick prayer, and this time when she tried the ignition, it fired. She hit the gas, a little too eagerly. Her wheels dug into the sand, spitting gravel as she tore out of the driveway. She thought that she was driving almost as recklessly as Russell as she sped to the 26th Avenue beach access path.

  The weekend tourists didn’t start arriving on the island until later in the morning, so the narrow road was almost free of traffic. She made it to 26th Avenue in good time and parked off the curb. She huffed and puffed as she trotted along the winding beach path with her backpack and bucket, the soft sand making it feel like she was running through quicksand. Birds called, and from somewhere she caught the scent of bacon cooking. Sweat began to form, but she pushed herself harder. She refused to be late to her first call, especially knowing how important punctuality was to Russell. The moment she reached the end of the path and stepped out onto the beach, she felt the welcoming light summer breeze from the ocean and stood a moment to let it cool her skin.

  To her surprise, there wasn’t a soul on the beach, save for a yellow Labrador retriever trotting along free as you please. Sanderlings ran back and forth along the jagged shoreline, expertly playing tag with the waves while seeking food in the sand as the water receded. Above, seagulls called out their laughing cry. She had just turned to the left, then the right, when it dawned on her that she’d beat Russell to the site. A sly grin of victory eased across her face and, with renewed vigor, she began searching for the reported tracks.

  Except there weren’t turtle tracks anywhere. She walked in either direction, then stopped short, staring at the only thing she could find that remotely resembled turtle tracks.

  “Olivia!”

  Lovie startled at the sound of her name and looked up to see Russell walking swiftly toward her. He was dressed in khaki shorts and a beige shirt with the long sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He was looking at something in his hands, picking at it. She waved him over.

  When he reached her side, he looked at the marks on the beach and shook his head in disbelief. “That’s what was reported?”

  Lovie nodded and began laughing. “Tire tracks! These have to be from Donnie’s garbage cart. See how the tracks go up to the trash bin?”

  Russell frowned and muttered something under his breath. “Rookie mistake. We showed them pictures . . . Who was the volunteer this morning?”

  “Ida Walters. Don’t be too upset, R
ussell. It’s to be expected at the beginning. She’s a novice and it’s her first day out. She probably wasn’t sure so she called it in. Once they see real turtle tracks, they won’t make this mistake again. Better she call it in and let me check it out than make that decision herself.”

  His face relaxed, mollified. “Sounds like you have experience with novice volunteers.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she replied in a tone that said it was more than occasional. “Don’t you?”

  “In my work, I train graduate students who already have experience.” He took off his cap and ran his hand through his hair. “Though,” he added, “from time to time, I come across a person who, for one reason or another, has taken it upon herself to try to protect the sea turtles. She’s usually called the Turtle Lady.”

  “Oh, Lord help me.” Lovie groaned with exaggeration. “I suppose I should’ve seen that coming.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he hastened to add. “They do a great service. And no one can doubt their integrity.”

  “But . . .” Lovie added warily.

  “But for the most part they don’t have any training. Granted, we’re just learning a lot about turtles ourselves, but a few individuals are mavericks without any supervision. Every once in a while you meet one who, shall we say, is a tad aggressive. The lines between serving and self-serving start to cross, and she may cause more problems than she prevents. And it’s hard to convince her otherwise,” he added dryly.

  “Aren’t you being a little hard on us?”

  He put his hand up in a pledge. “Just a few, but I swear, the stories I could tell.”

  “Do tell,” she egged him on.

  He rubbed his jaw, chortling. “There was one case we refer to as ‘the nutcase,’ a woman who, when she was in her cups, went out on the beach at night with a pistol and ran everyone off, hollering, because she thought they were disturbing the turtles.”

  “No,” Lovie said, shocked. “Not in Charleston!”

  “No, not in Charleston,” he conceded. “Of course, this wasn’t a turtle problem but a law enforcement problem. The local police came and, well, had a good talk with her. Few days later, the captain returned my call and told me, ‘I didn’t get to talk to the perp in person, but I know I found the right house because of all the turtle eggs in buckets in the garage.’”

  “What?” Lovie said, hand to her cheek. She was horrified yet couldn’t help laughing. “You’re kidding. In buckets?”

  Russell nodded, laughing now, too, remembering it. “In the garage. Which is why when I heard you were the local Turtle Lady, I thought I might be in for a battle.”

  Lovie could only shake her head in chagrin.

  “Well, just to show I don’t think all turtle ladies are trouble, I brought you a little present.”

  She looked at him with mock distrust. “What?”

  He handed her a large cockleshell, beautifully formed with a large center, perfect for scooping sand. “I thought you might need one. For the nests.”

  She was touched by his thoughtfulness and would toss back on the beach the one she’d already found for herself. “It’s perfect. Thank you, Russell. I almost forgive you.”

  “That’s the best I was hoping for. Okay, let’s get on back to the car. We have a few more to check on.”

  The following day, Russell picked her up at the beach house since they knew her station wagon wouldn’t make it through the rough terrain at the Point. They found the nest, then, moving on, they discovered that the tracks at 7th Avenue were a false crawl. It was getting late by the time they headed to the last nest at Breach Inlet.

  The small inlet between Isle of Palms and Sullivan’s Island was notoriously dangerous because of its wild currents, and it had claimed the lives of several people over the years. Because of its current, the fish gathered and the sharks and dolphins hunted in these waters. A lone fisherman was checking his poles dug into the sand. In the distance, Lovie spotted a mother dolphin and her young one arcing through the smooth water. She stopped and pointed. The sight never failed to take her breath away.

  Russell stood beside her, savoring the moment. “I always enjoy watching the female of a species teaching her young,” he said in a far-off tone. “There are few things in nature more moving.”

  “But the turtles don’t have a mama around to teach them, do they?”

  “Nope. Different scheme. The turtle is a reptile. She lays a whole mess of eggs and then heads off, figuring a few of them will make it. Not any different from those fish out there, dolphin not included, of course. She’s a mammal. She has just one calf at a time, sometimes two, and nurses them for a year or longer. Both biological formulas have worked pretty well for millions of years.” He paused to look around. “Carr used to say about sea turtles that the whole race and destiny of the creature are probably balanced at the edge of limbo by the delicate weight and that magic number of one hundred eggs.”

  “I wonder how the turtles would have fared if, millions of years back, they chose the other formula, had fewer offspring and tended them in the sea, like the dolphin. Not leave the eggs in the sand.”

  “I suppose they would have survived that model, too. They’re a resilient species. It’s not their reproduction scheme that worries me. I’m more worried about their survival. Humans are their biggest threat. And the changing landscape. They’re a migrating species. It’s not parochial. It’s global. That’s the challenge they face now.”

  “I feel the same.”

  He looked away from the dolphins to her. “Does your husband share your interest in turtles?”

  “Stratton? Heavens, no. He’d as soon eat a turtle egg as relocate one. In fact, he’s told me how they used to collect turtle eggs to bring to his nanny to use for baking cakes. It was said to make the cakes moist because the white of the eggs don’t ever cook hard like the yellow.” She laughed shortly. “It still makes me mad.”

  “I’ve heard that. I don’t know that it’s true. Probably an old wives’ tale. But I don’t intend to test it out, either.” He moved forward again. “We’d better get finished. It’s getting hot out here, and your husband will wonder what’s happened to you.”

  “No worry there. He’s not here. He’s staying at our house in Charleston.”

  “Really?” He sounded surprised.

  They began walking across the beach, cutting footprints in the untrammeled sand. “He’s working,” she explained. “He used to join us here for the summers. But in the past few years, business and travel have been keeping him incredibly busy. He comes out whenever he can.”

  She was making excuses for him. The need to preserve the appearance of a solid and happy family came naturally to her.

  “Is that a hardship for you?” Russell asked.

  She thought about the past few weeks. Other than her disappointment at having been stood up for her barbeque, she hadn’t given him much thought at all.

  “Not anymore. It took a little getting accustomed to at first,” she replied, feeling the need to put up a good front. “I have the children, of course. And Flo and Miranda next door. Friends stop by.” She raised her arm carrying the bucket. “And, thanks to you and this project, my plate is full.”

  “It has been a busy start.”

  She turned her head, thinking the question about her husband was rather personal. “Why do you ask?”

  “I didn’t mean to pry,” he replied in a more serious tone. “I was just wondering. You see, throughout most of my marriage I’ve been gone a lot, too. Probably far too much. It wasn’t easy for Eleanor.” He paused and swung his gaze back out to the sea. “I suppose I was curious to hear your side of the story.”

  Lovie walked a few paces, wondering what she could say to that admission.

  “Every marriage is unique,” she replied vaguely. She walked a few steps more across the sand and decided to venture honesty. “But I think a lot depends on how long you were away, how independent each of you were, whether what you had could withstand the strain o
f separation. I don’t know . . . so many different things.”

  “You seem to manage it well.”

  She wanted to tell him looks could be deceiving, but she held her tongue. She didn’t know him well enough for that much honesty. And her mama had taught her never to hang her dirty laundry out in public.

  “Do you see your daughter much?” she asked, deflecting the spotlight from herself.

  “Pippi?” He smiled at the thought of her. “As much as I can. She’s spending most of the summer at a camp in Maine. Eleanor is taking a tour of Europe with her mother and sister.”

  “Eleanor’s going to Europe? Maybe she’ll run into Stratton.”

  They laughed congenially before he spotted the nest, and the conversation ended. This nest, too, was in a good location on the dune and, being the last, they finished marking it at leisure, while Russell told anecdotal stories of different species he’d worked with around the world. The heat was building with the rising sun, and Lovie’s clothes were sticking to her damp body. When they were back in the Jeep, she thirstily sipped cold water from her thermos as he drove her home.

  The Fourth of July holiday was the busiest week on the Isle of Palms. Tourists were already pouring in from points north, their cars jam full of suitcases, coolers, and families eager for a celebration at the beach. American flags were flapping along Palm Boulevard as they slowly crawled home. At a stop sign, she spotted a vintage gold VW bug with red, white, and blue streamers and covered with flags.

  “Oh, look at that cute car,” she said, pointing. “I used to have one like that in college, only mine was white. Gosh, I loved that car.”

  “We all knew someone who had one of those,” he joked.

  “Well, what did you drive?”

  “A Triumph.” He glanced at her from the wheel with a smug smile.

  “I should have known,” she replied, picturing him in the sporty British car that was the passion of all but owned by few. “And I’ll just bet it was red.”

  The light turned green and he shifted into first. “It was.”