Operation Turtle Ransom: A suspenseful, wild-ride-of-an-adventure on a tropical beach in Mexico (Poppy McVie Mysteries Book 4)

by Kimberli A. Bindschatel

  By now, the sun had set and the moon sparkled across the water. Where had the time gone?

  “They follow the light,” José said. “They avoid shadows.”

  “This is the cutest thing ever,” I burst. “Look how they move. That little wiggle.”

  “It’s the turtle shuffle,” Chris said with a flap of his arms and shake of his rear end.

  “You crack me up.”

  The hatchlings were emerging in a steady flow now.

  “What’s the count?” José asked.

  “Eighty-eight,” Noah said. He picked up another one. “Eighty-nine.”

  José plucked another one from the sand, then another. “Ninety-one.”

  “Is that it?” Doug asked.

  Noah brushed sand from the nest, a little at a time, then pushed in deeper and found the remaining eggs. “These don’t look viable,” he said, leaving them atop the mound and placing the tiny fence around it. He looked up at me, “But just in case.”

  José recorded the number in his notebook.

  “Let’s go,” he said and led the way out of the hatchery and down the beach, a GPS unit in hand.

  Once he found the coordinates, he and Noah gently removed each turtle from the buckets and set them down on the sand about twenty feet from the waterline.

  “Why so far from the water?” I asked.

  “Remember, I said they need to struggle to form? Well, they also need to experience the sand. Somehow, they form a memory of this particular beach.”

  “It’s a chemical imprint,” José added. “What’s amazing is, the females will be out to sea for ten years before they return to this same beach to lay their eggs.”

  Chris said, “I thought they traveled thousands of miles. How could they get all the way back by smelling the sand?”

  “We know turtles can navigate using the magnetic force of the earth, similar to birds,” José said. “We’re not quite sure how, yet, but we know if we surround them with magnets, they get confused.”

  Noah had a box with him, some kind of kit. He took hold of the little turtle he’d named Poppy, attached a miniature tracker to her back, and set her down in the sand with the others.

  We spread out, surrounding them as they whipped their little flippers, digging into the sand to drag themselves toward the sea.

  “Poppy’s almost there,” Noah said, pointing to one near the edge of the surf line. “Look at her go!”

  A few more wiggles and she was on wet sand, then a wave rolled in, spread across the beach, tumbling her in the foam. She floated for a moment, then the wave retreated, leaving her farther up the beach. She wasn’t deterred. Those flippers kept flopping, moving her forward. Then the next wave rolled in, lifted her up and tumbled her in the surf. I drew in a quick breath, worried it was too forceful, but she popped up, bobbed on the surface a moment, swimming, then she was gone.

  “Good luck, little Poppy!”

  Noah stood next to me. “If she has your grit, she’ll be fine.”

  Once every hatchling made it to the water, we hugged each other in congratulations. I’m surprised cigars weren’t passed around. It felt like such an accomplishment and a reason to celebrate. Now, they were on their own. Unfortunately, the odds were against them. But for now, we cheered.

  “Are you ready to go on your first patrol?” Doug asked me as we headed back to the cabin to gear up.

  “Sure. Tell me what to do.”

  “We mostly do a lot of walking,” he said with a laugh.

  The students had gone ahead of us and emerged from the cabin carrying walking sticks. Each wore a small backpack.

  I followed Noah and the others into the cabin, full of nervous energy.

  Noah grabbed a backpack, set it on the table, and unzipped the top zipper to show me what was inside.

  “Everyone has a two-way radio. We also carry a spotlight, though it’s only for emergencies. We use flashlights and headlamps with red bulbs so we don’t ruin our night vision and, more importantly, don’t bother the turtles. There’s also tools in case we find a turtle tangled in fishing line, that kind of thing. A notepad. A tape measure to determine the size of the carapace. That’s the shell. And GPS and netting bags to carry the eggs back to bury them here.”

  He zipped it closed and held it up by the straps to help me put it on.

  I slipped in one arm, then the other, and he stood facing me, adjusting the straps. His eyes slowly moved from the straps to meet mine and a jolt shot through me.

  Why does this man fluster me so much?

  “How does that feel?” he asked.

  I broke from his gaze, tugged at the straps. “Great. Thanks.”

  He handed me a headlamp and I adjusted it to fit my head as I went back outside to join the others.

  “Make sure you take water,” José was saying to the group. “Poppy, why don’t you go with Nikki.”

  I turned to the young lady and nodded. “You’ll show me the ropes?”

  She gave me a nod.

  José assigned each group their section of beach to patrol. “Be safe,” he said and waved as we headed out toward the beach.

  Nikki and I headed north. We were to patrol the stretch closest to camp. The two miles beyond were assigned to Chris and Doug. Nikki and I decided to walk with them all the way to the far end of our section, then slowly make our way back while they continued on.

  “Any time after sunset is when the turtles will come ashore to lay their eggs. We take our time walking this section. Then we can sleep for a bit, whatever, then we’ll come out and walk it again. Three times tonight. It’s high tide in about an hour, so that’s prime time. Less beach they have to cover to get to dry sand.”

  “Makes sense,” I said.

  We took a slow pace, using the red-light flashlights.

  I was sure that chatting wouldn’t disturb the turtles, so I asked, “What made you want to come all the way to Mexico and stay out in a remote camp like this? Besides the turtles, I mean.”

  “I don’t know. It makes me angry that people are so indifferent about other species on the planet, even more angry that there are those who exploit them in awful ways. They need to be protected and, well, somebody’s gotta do something right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But aren’t you afraid of the poachers?”

  She shrugged. “They steal the eggs. It’s not like men with rifles like in Africa, hunting elephants and rhinos. Mostly we scare them off and we have our ways of hiding the nests. I’ll show you.”

  “What do you mean, mostly?”

  “Rumors is all. South of here. A gang, taking turtles for meat and the shells as well as the eggs.” She shrugged again. “That’s why we go out in twos.” She turned to face me. “Don’t worry. I took a self-defense seminar this semester. If anything happens, stick with me.”

  “Right on,” I said. I had to admire her courage. Though if a gang showed up, armed with any kind of weapons, this young lady was in for a surprise. I hoped, for her sake, she didn’t try to be the hero.

  On our first two patrols of the night, we saw nothing. In between, I tried to nap, but I was too wound up.

  On the third trip out, about a quarter of a mile down the beach, we caught sight of a turtle emerging from the waves. Nikki and I picked up the pace to get to her.

  “A leatherback,” Nikki said. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

  The massive animal dragged herself along, gaining about an inch with every reach of her flippers. She didn’t move nearly as fast as the hatchlings. This was an arduous task.

  “Unlike all other sea turtles, leatherbacks don’t have a carapace. Instead, they have a smooth, leathery skin that’s kinda shaped like one. Isn’t that cool?”

  Burdened with a full clutch of eggs, the turtle struggled to move along in the sand, as though it took every ounce of energy she could muster.

  “So what do we do?” I asked.

  “We wait,” she said, dropping her pack. “Once she’s dug the hole and started laying the eg
gs, we go to work. We can walk farther down the beach, see if we find any others, then come back, or wait if you want.”

  “Let’s wait,” I said. I wanted to see the whole process.

  About fifteen minutes passed before the turtle got past the wet sand, into the dry sand, where she started to dig. She alternated using her back flippers to scoop sand out of the hole. Each swipe of her flipper sent wisps of sand into the breeze.

  “As soon as she starts to lay eggs we can get to work,” Nikki said. “She’ll go into a trance-like state and it won’t bother her.”

  Finally, the digging stopped and the turtle seemed to settle into her purpose.

  Nikki had me hold one end of the measuring tape behind the turtle’s head while she pulled it taut near the tail. “Fifty two inches,” she said. “She’s a big one.”

  We also measured the width. Then Nikki jotted the measurements down in the notebook. “Next we mark the spot with GPS. Since this nest is close to camp, we’ll leave it here.” She clicked away with a handheld GPS device. “The ones farther down the beach get dug up and reburied at the hatchery.”

  Nikki dug a little sand away from under the turtle’s tail. “Look,” she said, holding her red light.

  One egg, like a ping pong ball, then another, dropped into the hole. Soft and surrounded by goo. “I feel like we should give her some privacy,” I said, stepping back.

  Once the turtle was done, she covered the hole. Then quickly, as quickly as a sea turtle can move on land, made her way back to the sea.

  Nikki set her backpack right next to the nest site. “Now we brush away all her footprints,” she said. “To hide the nest.”

  We went to work, on hands and knees, brushing the sand, then walked in circles, our own footprints masking the turtle’s.

  “That looks good,” Nikki said. “Let’s go find another one.”

  Farther down the beach, we came across some tracks. Another turtle had already come and gone. We marked the site, buried the tracks, and moved along.

  “This is fun,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Nikki said. “I really feel like I’m making a difference.”

  And she was. I’d been running so fast for so long now, trying to catch the bad guys, I’d forgotten that every little thing we can do, helps.

  “At least that’s what Noah says.” There was a hint of something in her voice. Admiration? Pride? “So, you and Noah. You’ve got a thing.”

  “Oh, yeah. No. I mean—” Oh god. “I’m not sure what it is, to be honest.”

  “Right,” she said and clammed up.

  We walked side by side, saying nothing for a bit.

  Of course she’d like Noah. Who wouldn’t? Oh, geez.

  “Look there,” Nikki said, excitement in her voice. She picked up the pace.

  Ahead, another turtle struggled up the sandy slope.

  “A hawksbill. Oh, isn’t she a beauty?”

  Her shell had the most stunning pattern. “These are the ones poachers like for their shells, right?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I guess it doesn’t pay to be beautiful.”

  “Or exotic.”

  “Oh no, look at that.” Nikki shined her red light on the turtle’s jaw, where a fishing hook had lodged. A long line dragged behind in the sand. “We have to get that out.”

  “How?” I wasn’t going to stick my fingers in its mouth. Turtles don’t have teeth, but the hawksbill gets its name from the beak it uses to cut through tough coral, anemones and sea sponges.

  Nikki rummaged through her pack. “As soon as she’s laid her eggs, we’ll pin her and get it out.”

  “All right,” I said, wondering how that was going to work. I hated the thought of having to disturb her at all, but we had to get it out. “Do you see this often?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. It’s so sad. But that’s why we’re here, right?”

  “Right,” I said with an emphatic nod. “We’re, like, turtle angels.”

  She smiled wide. “Yeah, the guardian angels of turtles. I like that.”

  We waited, took her measurements and marked the location of the nest. Then once she retreated, Nikki told me to get atop her and pin down her flippers.

  Um, okay.

  I came up from behind her, on my hands and knees, straddled her shell, and tried to get ahold of her flippers. I got her left one, but she was scared and started to buck. Her right flipper flailed, a frenzied attempt to get away.

  “Get ahold of her,” Nikki said, her voice raspy with urgency.

  “I’m trying.” The turtle rocked back with amazing strength and nearly knocked me off my knees. “Do I get a ribbon if I make it eight seconds?”

  “It’s all right,” Nikki said to the turtle in a soothing voice as she rummaged though the pack for the tools she needed. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

  My hand slipped and found sand, then—slap!—right across the face. I fell back, stunned. The force of her slap took me by surprise. Nikki was there, pinning down the flipper with both hands.

  “You got her now?” she asked as I regained my composure and took hold of the right flipper.

  “Yeah,” I said, rubbing my face against my shoulder to get the sand off. I rubbed my tongue against the roof of my mouth, gathering salty grains of sand, then spit it out.

  Nikki placed a wooden dowel in the turtle’s mouth and the turtle clamped down on it.

  “I hate this,” she said. “It’s gotta hurt.”

  “Yes, but she can’t live with it in there.”

  I had her pinned quite well now, and she seemed to surrender to it.

  “It’ll just take a minute, sweetie,” Nikki said to the turtle.

  With a pair of pliers, she snipped the end of the hook and pulled away the line. The turtle jerked and squirmed while she carefully worked the hook out. As soon as it was out, I let go and backed away from the turtle. I expected her to bolt, but she turned her head, looked at Nikki, then up at me, as if to say thanks, then slowly moved back toward the sea.

  Nikki and I sat in the sand, watching her disappear into the dark, frothy surf.

  I smiled, filled with gratitude for the experience. “I wasn’t expecting to get bitch-slapped by a turtle. That’s a new one.”

  Nikki giggled. “Yeah, I’ll put that one down in the journal.”

  “We did good,” I said, nodding with satisfaction.

  Nikki handed me a water bottle. “Yep, we did good.”

  Sunlight tickled the horizon. “It’s dawn already? Where did the time go?” I asked.

  Nikki grinned. “I know.”

  Chris and Doug walked toward us, done with their patrol. “Ten in our section,” Doug said as he approached.

  “Three,” Nikki said. “We removed a fish hook, too.”

  “Maybe tonight,” he said

  Yes, the arribada. I hoped I’d get a chance to witness that event.

  As we approached camp, I noticed a figure that seemed out of place. “Is that a police officer?”

  “It’s no big deal. He stops by every once in a while to check on us,” Doug said, shrugging it off, but his eyes kept returning to the officer as we walked.

  The officer was talking with José and Noah. Lucky paced behind Noah, her head down, tail between her legs, her eyes never leaving the officer.

  What were they talking about? Had something happened? Then Noah went down the path toward the vehicles alone with the officer. The dog followed, yipping at the officer as though she wanted him to leave.

  Doug ran after them, mumbling something about needing to talk to Noah.

  “Hey, Earth to Poppy.” Chris gave me a nudge. “Everything go okay on your patrol?”

  “Huh? Yeah.” I gave him a smile. “It was great. We removed a fish hook from one and I had to hold her down.” My hand instinctively came up to my cheek. “She slapped me right across the face with her flipper.”

  What was up with the officer?

  “You probably deserved it.”

  And why was Do
ug so eager to go? “How are things with you and Doug?”

  “That was supposed to be funny.”

  “What?”

  “The crack about you deserving a slap. What’s up with you?”

  “Nothing, sorry.” I turned to give him my full attention. “How are things with you and Doug?”

  “Great,” he said, the corner of his mouth curving upward.

  “Did he say anything? Did he seem worried about the poachers? Like more than normal?”

  He paused, looked at me with a quizzical expression. “Why do you ask?”

  “Nothing. It just seemed like Doug had something on his mind.” I glanced back in the direction he had gone. “Like he really wanted to talk to the officer.”

  “He said he needed to talk to Noah.”

  “I know, but I just had a sense—he was acting antsy and—” A thought struck me. “He asked Noah to come here. Was it his idea to invite me too?”

  “You didn’t seem to mind when you ran off with him to go snorkeling.”

  “No, well, yes, but no, I was just wondering if Doug had other motives.”

  Chris looked me up and down. “You know, dear, I love you, but you sure can be a negative Nellie. Doug’s great. There’s nothing to find. No skeletons. No dark past. Some people are just good people.” He frowned. “I think that job of yours has really tarnished your view of the world.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  He’d turned his back on me and walked away. Great. That didn’t go well. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours yet and I’d already insulted his fiancé and hurt his feelings. What kind of friend am I?

  I plopped down on a log and waited for Noah to return. After about ten minutes of me swirling my heels in the sand, he appeared on the trail. I rose to greet him, but he walked right past me, lost in thought. “Hey,” I called, rising from the log to follow him. “What was that about?”

  “Nothing to worry about,” he said, avoiding looking me in the eye.

  “Really? C’mon.”

  He stopped, hands on his hips. “You’ve already made clear you don’t want to know the details. You’re just here for three days, then you’re gone again. Right?”