A Poisoned Gulf

My day started out really well -- I headed back to Santa Rosa on a cloudy morning with no rain. The wind was still from the south east, but I headed to the north shore with my back to the wind and had a great time counting birds. There were tons on the north shore as they hid from the stiff breeze, dinoflagellate outbreak and dead fish smell. I felt like a kid in a candy store after the stormy mess of yesterday. I needed the pick me up.



Then, my boss, Mark, called. After I finished the north shore, he wanted me to head to the south shore, take pictures of at least a dozen species of dead fish and try to get a good estimate of the fish kill on this seven mile section of beach. I usually love to take pictures when I'm at work, so I was happy to oblige -- I just didn't know it was going to be such a challenge.

There were some interesting fish out there... I've only seen these when diving:




There were tons of eels, remoras, stingrays, skates, guitarfish, redfish, drum, sergeant majors, lookdowns, pompano, catfish, ad infinitum, strewn from the sea to the high tide line. At first, I stopped to take photos of each new species, but that grew tiresome. A mile and a half into my survey, I had 2,000 dead fish, a runny nose and eyes that were so blurry and toxin-burnt I could hardly see. I stopped every minute or two to clear my eyes. I could barely see to drive, let alone count dead fish. I had to pry my eyes open, one at a time. I rode with one hand steering and revving the ATV, the other shielding my open eye, alternating between them. This was quite a challenge! After two miles, I thought I was going to have to stop --- I kept envisioning the road crew finding my dead body washed in the morning tide. I considered giving up two days in a row.



As I was about to call it quits and head back to the air-conditioned fire cache with my less insane colleagues, I completely lost the ability to see, even with open eyes. I was praying as I drove, hoping I could at least find the road as I didn't want to hit the Gulf of Mexico. The clear green water seemed as poisonous as anti-freeze today. As I was contemplating all of this, I noticed a steep tilt on my brand new ATV -- my left half was two feet lower than my right. In my brevetoxin blindness, I had driven off an erosion bluff from the night before. I think I actually cursed! The new Honda Rancher only had 14 hours drivetime, and I imagined Mark would kill me. Thankfully, the ATV was fine and I got a good shot of adrenaline, in addition to some emergency attention from my cadre of guardian angels -- I have dozens as I need them so often!

The adrenaline rush got me through the rest of the beach, though I learned to take breaks every mile or so to drive to the north shore, breathe a little and rinse my seething eyes with bottled water. It was a tortuous day, but I got the job done. Imagine how ticked I was when I got back to the office and they were complaining because they had a hard time walking through the humid forest! No sympathy from me on that one -- no one even asked how I was after my second day immersed in dinoflagellate sea spray and brevetoxin. Cough, cough, wheeze, wheeze. Guess I know who my friends aren't...

I'm sure I under counted tremendously due to the difficulty I had with my vision in the toxic air, but I think my estimate is at least in the right ball park -- my final tally was 22,470 dead fish.



Tomorrow is another day -- I get to count Perdido Key!

Red Tides and Stinging Sand

Since my first days as a sea turtle biologist on Little Cumberland Island, I've always prided myself on my ability to meet my goals, no matter what obstacles were in the way. On my first night on the nesting beach long ago, the full moon tides were so high that Nicky, Doug, Brad and I were stuck among the dead trees on the north point of the island. If we couldn't find a way through the trees, we would have to backtrack down four miles of beach, across the island and back up the west beach to finish our patrol.

My friend Nicky and I decided we were creative, intelligent women who could find a way around our dilemma. Since we couldn't drive our ATVs through the stout live oak and pine trees and we couldn't leave the ATVs to be carried away by the still rising tide, we decided to carry them over the scramble of trunks and branches. For those of you who don't know me, I'm 5 foot three inches and a hundred pounds on a heavy day, so this was not a minor task. But, I would not be defeated. As the men in our group looked at us and laughed, our summer motto was conceived: 'No Wimpy Women'.

Ever since, I haven't allowed anything to stand in my way when it comes to sea turtles. Cat 5 hurricanes don't really scare me, though clean up is a mess. I can work with a fever, or a dislocated shoulder or anything else life throws at me. This is why today was so upsetting.

Today, I left the beach. With my stubborn streak and refusal to admit defeat, I threw in the towel. I rode down Santa Rosa beach from Pensacola Beach to the Navarre gate, a total of about ten miles. The rain pierced my skin while the sand-laden wind polished my face with it's abrasive attack. Even the red tide, caused by an overload of the brevetoxin-producing dinoflagellate Karenia brevis, was no match for me. Hundreds, maybe even thousands, of fish lay dead along the shore line, just like these:



The brevetoxin, if ingested, can result in Neurotoxic Shellfish Poisoning. Blowing into my face on the southeast wind as it did, it just made my eyes red, my lips and tongue burn as if I had eaten habaneros, and made me start coughing... I was glad it was raining enough to hide my runny nose. It still didn't whip me. I was on the lookout for my sea turtles and shorebirds.

Then I went to survey the north shore. Every time I turned around, I headed directly into 20 mile an hour winds, made stronger by the speed of my ATV. Normally, that's not such an issue, but when the winds are armed with coarse sand, dinoflagellates and huge raindrops, it's as if someone is sandpapering your eyes while blowing pepper spray up your nose and stabbing you with small nails. It's impossible to see, to breathe, and certainly to drive. I was sure I was going to hit one of the storm berms or one of the random heaps of asphalt still scattered about after Hurricanes Ivan, Dennis and Katrina. I gave up, went to the office and spent the day proofing data. Not much fun, but a necessary task. When I left the office five hours later, my hair, boots and clothes were still wet, and deeply embedded with sand, even though I had worn two rain coats and rain pants... It was not a pretty day on the beach!

Still, I can't believe I gave up!

Boats and Turtles Don't Mix...

I had to necropsy a dead sea turtle today. Don't worry -- I won't share the pictures!I really don't like necropsies. A sub-adult Kemp's Ridley washed up on Perdido Key after being hit by a boat. It's so sad to see that as a turtle at this stage has already outgrown most predators and had a very good chance of reaching maturity. We need adult turtles so we can have more nests and save these species from extinction. I buried it on the beach with a small crowd watching. Unfortunately, they had never seen a live turtle, so this was their first introduction.

I spent the rest of the day counting shorebirds on the north and south shores of Perdido -- it's something we do every ten days on the north shore and sixty times a year on the south shore. It's actually a lot of fun. There are a handful of little pocket beaches amidst the salt marshes on the north shore -- no one ever goes there. There were flocks of monarchs playing in the breeze, flitting from sea oats to sea ox-eye daisy, coloring the day. I love the way the sun creates shadows in their wings.



Heading back west, I surveyed the south shore, and stopped to pick up trash. A couple saw me struggling with a huge length of wire and actually stopped to help. They restored my faith in people -- not everyone is just throwing their beer cans in the sea :) After my week at Fort Pickens, I really needed that!

I think this picture sums up how I was feeling about trash yesterday. This crab was hanging out on the south shore, just getting a little sun on a chilly Saturday morning...

Mountains of Sand and Trash

When you have a place this beautiful to play -- miles of untouched beach -- how can you treat it with complete disregard? If I had these pristine beaches near my home, I know I would cherish them... I am always surprised by the way people behave when they no there is little chance they'll be caught.


We have long sections of the beach at Fort Pickens that have sandfencing to help rebuild the dunes after Ivan, Dennis, and Katrina. The fence is also meant to be a deterrent to visitors accessing the beach over new dunes. You would think this would work. While the fence does a great job catching sand and artificially recreating dunes from windblown sand, it doesn't keep people out. They just walk right over the fence! As a result, we had lots of signs printed and I spent the day posting these:



After that, I had time to do a little field work, assessing the shorebird population on the beach today. The sea turtles and shorebirds are finished nesting and hatching, so we have a lot more time for other pursuits. I had a mule with me, so I picked up a lot of trash too. By the end of the day, I we as totally depressed. I picked up a full load of trash just a few days ago, from the tides and visitors who don't use trash cans. I filled the mule again today, and I didn't even make a dent in the debris load. It would take a solid week to clean up the beach, then at least a day a week to maintain it. With staff as stretched as it is and the focus on getting the buildings reopened three years post-Ivan, there's no one to do this. If people just picked up their own trash, and maybe one or two extra pieces, this wouldn't be an issue. Finding so much trash makes me sound cranky, but I'm really not. It was nice to see I'd accomplished something at the end of the day. Knowing that I made this section of the park a more beautiful place for the animals and people that use it is a good feeling. I just wish it was easier! Check out what I picked up in less than an hour:



When I was a child, my grandparents used to take us to Crescent Beach, South Carolina. I loved playing on the wide beach at low tide, and often took walks with my grandmother. As a young child and teen, she would frustrate me with her slow pace. Grandmom insisted on walking from the sea to the dunes, picking up every bit of trash she could see, and carting it off the beach. In my impatience, all I wanted to do was play, but the lesson took hold. As I move up and down the beach now, like a shorebird bobbing for plastic food, I honor my grandmother and her lessons in stewardship and civic responsibility. Thank you, Grandmom, for being a positive role model. Wherever you are, your spirit and your legacy live on in your grandchildren.

Gopher Tortoise Hunting

Jennifer, Monica and I spent most of today hunting for gopher tortoise burrows. It's alot of tramping around in about 1400 acres of forests with scrubby sand and live oak, saw tooth palmetto and a variety of other brush looking for holes in the ground with wide aprons of sandy soil. It's even worse than looking for a needle in a haystack! It was a beautiful fall day here, though, so it was nice to be in the woods. Temperatures are only rising to the mid-80s most days, and a north breeze is keeping things cool, even in the woods. The beach in the morning is positively chilly, at least for me!

Harassing Plovers and Other Fun

I finally remembered to take a picture of the road, or 'corridor' as it's more properly called. I finished marking the boundaries to keep vehicles out of the new wetlands and then I moved to the west end of the Fort Pickens area to clean. People are such slobs at the beach! I got less than a mile of the beach cleaned and ended up with a full truck load, after putting much of it in the recycling bin and trash bins in the parking lot... There were toothbrushes, beer cans, gatorade jugs, oil containers, sun glasses, masks and snorkels, a new bottle of ranch dressing (in the strong Florida sun -- yuck!), a full bottle of Thai hotsauce, lots of beach toys, a dozen sneakers, the prop to a small boat, a nose cone (to a plane?) and anything and everything else you can possibly imagine. At least it was a good workout, and the beach looks a little better.

There was a large group of Snowy and Wilson's Plovers near Battery 234. I worry that I harassed them too much as I slowly moved between the surf and the dunes, bobbing up and down as I gathered random bits of plastic. They kept moving, a few feet at time, but they were letting me get really close. I finally went back to the mule for my camera and got a couple of nice shots -- I really wanted one with a snowy looking straight at me, but they didn't oblige. If only they understood English!

Explosions of Color

It's back to work today after a nice weekend away. I've never really had weekends, so it's a change for me -- it's like a mini-vacation every seven days! I never know quite what to do, so I find more work though I do try to stay away from the office. Simply doing something different, like working on my book, provides a great mental break and leaves me refreshed for a new week in the field.


I spent most of the day repairing the guideposts on what passes for a road at Fort Pickens. After Hurricane Ivan, the asphalt road was replaced, and washed away again by Hurricane Dennis. Now, there are two sections that still breach with every full moon high tide, and miles that are underwater if something tropical swings within 1000 miles. The sandy corridor is impassable, even to 4WD if it's really windy, so we're the only ones with access to the park via our ATVs just after a storm. I'll try to post a picture of the road next time I'm at Fort Pickens -- I totally spaced on that today! The picture above is road on high ground that wasn't destroyed.


There are two significant gaps along our seven miles of asphalt in this section of the park. The breaks have been good for the wildlife, and the severely decreased traffic has allowed for a lot of shorebird nesting and feeding. The new wetlands are full of migrating shorebirds -- semi-palmated and piping plovers, several species of herons and egrets, ospreys, brown pelicans, black terns, sandwich terns, sandpipers and peeps galore. It's a circus out there; this week, the migrating monarchs are joining in the fray.







It's great to see the animals back in the park, but the land itself is still in disarray, three years post-Ivan. Sometimes, there's an unexpected jolt of color that lifts the sombre scene. I love finding flowers like these growing in the midst of all the rubble. After a day spent staring at dusty grasses, burnt gold sea oats and grey, salt-killed trees, this impudent burst of sunlight tickles me to no end!


Here's another unexpected splash of color... Normally, I try to avoid these! They are truly graceful 'swimmers' for gelatinous water bags. They wash up with the tides from time to time and leave jelly flowers in the sand.
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It's amazing how beautiful it can be out here if I just slow down and look, without being driven with an insatiable urge to get to the next task. Sometimes, I really do have to stop to smell the roses. If I don't, I'll miss the world around me and I won't know or care enough to protect the resources we all share.

Fire Department, Navy or Army -- Who deals with this?

I ruined someone's day today... I was out on Santa Rosa, assessing the green sea turtle nest that hatched a few days ago and attempting a Piping Plover survey in the 20 mph winds (I don't recommend it...) The nest was interesting -- there was a perfectly formed, full grown albino hatchling. I couldn't tell why he/she didn't emerge, but that's the way it goes sometimes. When I got to Opal Beach, three miles west of the nest, a park visitor waved me over. Just seeing someone is unusual, so usually I avoid people -- who would walk four miles from the gate in the soft sand on a windy, gray day?

The park is usually pretty deserted. Before Hurricane Ivan hit, it was one of the top 10 parks in the US. For some reason, reopening it has not been a priority. We were near the Opal Beach pavilions, which stand in disarray, with caved in walls, tar paper rooves flapping the the breeze and shattered concrete block platforms. The area was named for the hurricane that flattened that section of the park in the 90's, and stands flattened again today... This visitor, one of only 4 I saw on the seven mile stretch, had found rusty, unexploded ordinance of some sort very close to the pavilions. There was scattered debris from others that had exploded in the area. With all the military presence in and around Pensacola, it's not surprising, but it wouldn't be a good thing for the public to find next year when this section of the park is re-opened! Law enforcement wasn't too happy with our find, but they headed out to the stormy beach to take care of it anyway...

On a happier note, I found flowers growing in the dead trees on the eastern edge of the park -- it's starting to recover! There's something about the color yellow -- like buttery sunlight sifting through the broken trees, that restores the soul. It made my day!

09 Oct Update -- I found out the bomblet is called a Mark 23 and does have live ammunition in it. It's a WWII era training device used in the Pensacola area. The bombs also have material that creates a small smoke plume on impact so the pilots can see where the bomb lands. We'll have to evacuate the beach if we find another so that EOD and the Army can remove them. Sounds like a job to do now, before the road re-opens.

Mapping Asphalt

As a biologist in a National Park, I have many different responsibilities with animals -- shore birds, sea turtles, gopher tortoises, whatever crawls, flies, walks, swims or slithers its way into our forests and beaches. Never did I expect that taking GPS locations of asphalt chunks would be part of my job.

In 2004, Hurricane Ivan flattened our beaches at the Santa Rosa area, Fort Pickens and Perdido Key. Roads were replaced in time for the 4th of July weekend in 2005. Shortly after, they were destroyed again in Tropical Storm Arlene and Hurricanes Dennis and Katrina. It's taking some time to determine the best way to rebuild the roads this time.

The Santa Rosa area road will be started in October of this year -- as a hurricane evacuation route, it is a priority. Only two bridges reach the mainland from this barrier island, one in Navarre and one in Pensacola Beach. At the moment, the two are separated by the washed out road in Santa Rosa. If we lose one of the bridges, people on one side of the island will need boats or ferries to get back to mainland Florida.

This leaves me on the beach, with a GPS backpack, wandering around looking for significant chunks of asphalt from the earlier roads. It's not hard -- there are lots of fields, planks, piles, virtual mountains even, of asphalt strewn throughout the park. The road crews will remove everything larger than a brick, so I must locate each of these pieces on my GPS. It means lots of walking in the still hot sun, lots of standing still waiting for satellite fixes, and hours of boredom as my brain screams to do a little work.




There are some areas that are too sensitive for road crews. When the road washed out, new wetlands were created. These marine nurseries and grass flats serve as a buffet for migrating and wintering shorebirds, create habitat for spawning crabs and fish, filter contaminants and nutrients out of the water, and act as a sponge, absorbing water as tides rise and storms threaten. They are a great resource economically, in the food chain and in natural coastal protection. There are ten to twenty foot slabs of asphalt even here. Do I want to map them and invite machines in to tear up the delicate soil, uproot sea oats, Juncus and Spartina, and scatter the Piping Plovers and other birds feeding on the flats? It seems more appropriate to leave these asphalt mats to the erosive powers of wind, rain and sea, to be reclaimed by the birds and sand, and made part of a new salt march ecology. It's a tough call, but I think it's the right one. Thankfully, the decision really isn't up to me.

After three days of mapping on ATV and on foot, I'm looking forward to a day mapping tidelines and counting the hundreds of gulls, terns, sandpipers, herons and their friends that sit along the shore. If I'm lucky, I may even see a loggerhead hatchling or two...

Spared a Storm, but the Seas are Choppy

Tropical Depression 10 never even made it to Tropical Storm status last week, which is a good thing... The seas still grew pretty rough for the Gulf Coast, so we're happy we let the hatchlings go a bit early. The waves are small by human standards, but just imagine how huge a five-foot wave looks to a newborn animal the size of a half-dollar.

There is a beauty in a sea this strong. Even as a Tropical Depression, it re-shaped the shore overnight, leaving behind the sea's placating gift of glossy, unmarred shells as a reminder that the sea is both power and grace. Sitting on the shore, listening to the rushing winds and crashing waves, I realized yet again how small and insignificant my petty worries are. By next month, I won't remember what troubled my thoughts today, but I will remember this refreshing energetic morning on the Gulf of Mexico. Both humbling and empowering, it is a day worth saving in my bank of magical memories.

Coastal Clean-Up

Yesterday was Coastal Clean Up Day. People from around the world joined together to pick up the trash that litters our beaches, both from the flotsam that comes in on the tides, and the beach visitors that leave their trash behind. One is inevitable, while we continue to use our oceans as dumping grounds; the other is inexcusable irresponsibility.

On the one section of beach I worked with in the National Park, here's what we found:

13,290 beer bottles
32,516 been and soda cans
927 Gatorade/sports drink bottles
12 dish detergent bottles
48 bleach bottles
56 beach chairs (some brand new)
12 plastic porch chairs
3 fishing rods
18 random pieces of foam
128 Styrofoam cups
212 plastic cups
27 lighters
12 cigarette packs (don't even ask about the cigarette butts!)
1,245 gallon jugs
57 beach rafts
96 tires
countless plastic bags
326 balloons
miles of rope and fishing line
3 large (over 100 feet) seine nets
12 cast nets
24 grills (yes, people leave them on the beach after a cook-out, and never return)
13 tents (people come for vacation, buy a Walmart tent and LEAVE IT on the beach!)
214 pairs of shoes, and another 334 single shoes
1 bra
3 bathing suits (I don't want to know what happened there...)
boat and airplane parts
27 milk crates
2 buoys
6 boat bumpers

This beach is unbelievable beautiful -- 7 miles of sugary sand without a building on it once you leave the visitors center (restrooms, pavilions, etc). This end of the island is very narrow at points -- you can stand in the center and see the Gulf of Mexico and the Bay behind you. Maritime forests, still dry and burnt from Hurricanes Ivan, Dennis and Katrina, line the north shore, their scarred skeletal arms reaching for the cloud scudded sky. Sea oats sway in the breeze and catch blowing sand, building up the dunes, and the island, with their extensive root system. Great Blue Herons stalk prey while affecting regal poses along the north shore marshes. Osprey hunt from overhead, grabbing wriggling fish in their talons to feed their young. Silver white light glints from sunlight reflected off the rainbow of fish scales. As the sun scoots behind a cloud, the clear waves flash from blue to green, dissolving in a splash of white foam as they hit the beach. Sanderlings and sandpipers dance to the cadence of the waves, wading with feathered bellies dipping into the sea as they run from the approaching water.

A loon floats ashore to dry off after the long commute from the Maine coast, but this one is fiestier than most, jabbing at me as I try to disentangle the clear fishing line wrapped around it's beak and neck. How can he eat like this? After snipping away the last bit, I back up, and the bird paddles the sand as he escapes back to the rocking waves. Humans are too much trouble. A gull trips along, with a six-pack ring jutting out of it's beak. It's time for the scissors again, and a bird self-defense class. Those bills can hurt!

I can understand fishing line wrapped around a bird -- the line is easy to lose and hard to find once it's dropped. Large fish run with hooks and line all the time. What I don't understand are the thousands of beer cans left behind, some complete with their cardboard carrying case. Someone made the effort to carry that weight down miles of beach, but couldn't be bothered to carry the light aluminum back to a recycling center or trash can.

These are the same people that grab me and ask why I'm not spending my day, everyday, cleaning the beach as I navigate through the park in my uniform. As one of a small group of biologists trying to protect the many endangered species in our park, monitor shore lines and turtle nests, and further our understanding of the on-going hurricane recovery here, I really don't have time. I do clean as much as I can, but only when en-route to addressing my priorities that day. I regret to admit that it makes me angry -- I work hard to protect these beaches for everyone, and I'm not a human trash can. I especially like it when someone approaches me with their empty water bottle, not even bothering to say hello, just holding it out for me to take from them and dispose of. How did we get so rude and presumptuous?

Ok, that's my rant for the day. Now I have to find a truck big enough to haul all those beer bottles to a recycling center. I wanted to take just one of them, write a message, and send it out to sea, hoping someone, somewhere would read the message and learn to love and respect the sea around us as much as I do.

Little Loggerheads on Pensacola Beach

At work last night, I was fortunate to witness a sea turtle nest hatch. This year, we've had the least number of sea turtle nests ever, so the experience has become even more rare. It may be buggy, sometimes wet, often muggy and at times, even a bit chilly, but seeing the little turtles exploding with energy and life makes you forget all of that as you're lost in the magic of the moment. I wish I could share the event with more people -- everyone falls in love with sea turtles when they see them! Then, like me, they see the value in protecting the sea, the beach, the rivers and streams. Sea turtles are charismatic megafauna that can teach us to first love, then protect, and in time, understand, the ever-changing world around us.

I sit alone on the beach, bowing my head towards the ground, as the cool damp breeze blows through me. I try to focus, listening to the night sounds. Sea oats rub against each other as their slender young blades carve wind-driven circles in the sand. The relentless crash, splash, swoosh of waves washing ashore soothes my jangled nerves. Rain drops splatter on my face, keeping me from sleeping as I strain to hear the one noise I am searching for - the shushing, scratching sound of tiny flippers deep in the sand.

The sound rises like the rush of an underground stream, thirty seconds worth of frenzied activity as dozens of hatchling sea turtles try to swim their way out of the nest. Tired, the hatchlings pause as a group, and the busy silence of night continues. A gull cries overhead, searching for his next meal. The incessant buzz of mozzies drives me to distraction. I feel a twinge of guilt each time I swat one that's landed on my exposed arms and legs. A distinct scuttle of feet betrays the presence of a ghost crab, stealing his way towards the intermittent noise of the nest in an attempt to capture a hatchling for himself. This, at least, I can prevent - the ghost crab will not snack on sea turtle tonight.

After chasing the crab, I return to listen to the nest, staring up at the cloudy sky, wishing the rain away. A sliver of moon peaks out from a break in the clouds, bathing the beach in a blue white glow. This is the light the hatchlings will seek when they finally emerge, though it may not happen tonight. It can take several days to escape their sandy nursery as they swim towards the air, the beach and the sea. That's the only thing they know - swimming - there is no parent to teach them otherwise. They will swim in their dry sea, pushing grains of sand out of the way, allowing them to settle beneath them. As they struggle underground, the displaced sand slowly raises the floor of their nest until the first hatchling's head nears the surface.

Just before 2 AM, a small hollow forms, as if a child has reached in and grabbed a handful of sand. At first, I'm not sure it's really the nest caving in - it could be the rain creating a pit in the porous ground, or my eyes, poorly adjusted to the dark night, playing tricks on me. I walk away for a minute, clear my head, and walk back. Small, irregular, dark patches appear within the hollow - I know that's a hatchling! The scout, the first to raise his head to the night air, stops for several minutes. Is he listening for predators? Smelling the salty tang of the sea? Checking for sunlight? It's hard to know. Whether he's resting or searching, he soon resumes his effort to free himself from the sandy playpen and wriggles onto the beach. His brothers and sisters boil out of the nest after him, shaking the damp sand off their backs in a flurry of flippers as they rush towards... whoops, not the sea, but the hotels on the beach.



This is why I'm here. Sea turtle hatchlings sometimes crawl towards bright lights on the beach, mistaking them for a more natural horizon. If the moon were not hidden behind a cloud, perhaps they would make a mad dash towards the sea, illuminated with moon and star shine, instead of the Hilton. There's no time to think about that though as I scramble to gather 75 silver dollar sized sea turtles before they escape in a dozen different directions on this dark night.

With a cooler full of babies, I head towards the sea, talking to them all the way. If they were not so disoriented by the lights, I would allow them to crawl the distance themselves, but I have to ensure as many as possible make it safely to the sea. I tell them this, and I tell them what to watch out for. Swim away from sharks and big fish, like tuna and marlin. Take a quick breath and dive deep when you hear a sea gull. Watch out for boats and men - they don't mean to hurt you, but sometimes, the propellers on their boats will cut you, and their fish hooks will snag you. I tell them to swim fast and far, out to the currents that will carry them to the Gulf Stream. They can hang out on the edges, finding good feeding and good cover in rafts of sargassum. There, they can grow larger than most of their predators. They can learn to swim well. In a few years, they can come back to feeding grounds close to shore; in twenty or thirty years, the females among them can come back to nest. There's a lot to try to teach a sea turtle hatchling. I know they don't understand I thing I say, but I feel compelled to say it anyway.

When I reach the water's edge, it's time to say goodbye. I lift hatchlings from the cooler, checking for signs of illness and injury, and feel the powerful pull of leathery flippers against my fingers. Like little wind-up toys, the turtles keep swimming frantically, even in the palm of my hand. The obvious strength in their tiny limbs will propel the hatchlings through the waves, into the reaches of the deep blue sea beyond. Their survival instinct seems immense.

As I place each one on the sand, gently redirecting the confused ones to face the sea, I say a blessing over them. Centuries ago, Columbus wrote in his journals that it appeared as if you could walk across this sea on the backs of sea turtles. Now there are so few that they are in danger of extinction. I wonder what the sea looked like then. I wonder how the turtles have survived so much change. I wish I knew how to help these 75 survive. In my mind, I know it is unlikely that any of them will, but I choose to close my heart to this; I choose to ignore the thought of hungry sharks swimming along the beach, and sea gulls skimming the water. I choose hope, as I watch these babies like a nervous mother, wishing only the best for these small creatures as I send them towards their watery destiny.