Taking the Big Break

Life as a sea turtle is a precarious thing.

Emerging from the nest

First, if your egg survives the local pests and rodents, you and your clutch-mates must first break out of your soft shell. Waiting for the go-ahead from your fellow hatchling on top, you wait. The timing and temperature for your emergence is critical, and he is standing guard to be the judge of that. A drop in temperature signals to him that it is close to dusk and all of you will begin to emerge from the sand at once.

It is still daylight, cloudy but you instinctively know what to do. You must make the arduous journey to the sea. Somehow, between the direction of the natural sunlight or moonlight and the sound of the surf, you know which direction to head and you turn toward the sea.

All the animals of the shore seem to know a hatching has occurred. The biggest predators at this stage are the incessant seagulls which swoop down to slowly pluck off your siblings one by one, taking them back to their nests to share with their young. You watch as your brothers and sisters are lifted up into the air, knowing the fate that awaits them.

With all your might, you clumsily scurry down the beach toward the ocean, scrambling over rocks and between crevices higher than yourself. You fall in a pit of sand and scramble out, continuing your journey down the beach. Another young hatchling next to you is snatched up by a waiting seagull. You count your blessings as the gull’s shadow moves away. You push on. You are exhausted but you know you don’t have time to rest. Occasionally, a crab will peak its head up from a hole in the sand and reach its pinchers out hoping to pull you down. He just misses and you scurry on toward the sea.

You reach the edge of the rocky reef knowing you’ll have to pull yourself up. The tide splashes over the rocks ahead, but swooshes back out before you can catch a ride up and over the rocky ledge. You struggle to climb the rocks. You fall back. A seagull swoops low and near to your head leaving you glad you had fallen down between the rocks. You glance around. Seemingly less than two thirds of your siblings have made it this far. You struggle up again, slipping backward again. The third time’s a charm, and you’re able to lift yourself up the beam of the rock and over. You can sense the water is closer. You are finally in the home stretch.

Another shadow moves past. Sensing it is yet another seagull, you sneak under a different rock.

The tide splashes up over your head again. You’re almost there. Another wave comes up and covers you. The water feels fresh and cool after the grueling trip. Ahhh. Knowing exactly what to do, you instinctively start swimming.

You notice a few of your fellow hatchlings have made it to the water too; yet, none of you are safe yet. Your dark bodies are too visible in the clear aquamarine waters. More shadows appear… one from above and several ahead. A seagull swoops down and plucks a sister right out of the water. A few feet to one side, awaiting sharks take a few more of you for lunch. You swim with all the might you can muster toward the dark coral reef.

Finally, a few minutes later, you’ve reached the dark part of the reef. Your dark body is more camouflaged and there are more places to hide. You don’t need to look around to get your bearings. Your instincts will navigate for you as you swim your way around the ocean, nibbling on algae and small jellyfish, traveling thousands of miles on your own.

You will be the 1 in 100 turtles that will make it to full size. It will take many years for you to become a mature female.  And, finally, after more than 15 years, your internal GPS system will bring you back to this same island where you will saunter up the beach at night to lay your own clutch of eggs.