The Tale of "El Tortuga"
(A Mid-life Crisis in Mexico)
By Jim DeFelice
s/v Windquest

When the kids got to be teenagers, Carol and I found it necessary to escape from time to time without the children. In 1985, during spring break - Carol was in her second year of nursing school - we decided to see some of Mexico.  We were thinking Cancun.  It was only natural that we would consult our good friend Bob Schneider Hubbard as we were making our plans.  Hubbard owned an eclectic plant shop in New Brunswick, NJ, and he made frequent trips to Merida, Mexico and the Yucatan on buying expeditions. He had lured us on a sail boat charter to Belize in 1981 and understood our traveling tastes.

"You won't like Cancun, It’s just like Miami", he opined.  "Go to Isla Mujeres"

We did some research.  The hotels cost 1/3 what they cost in Cancun.  We could fly into the airport that serviced Cancun and take the ferry out to Isla Mujeres for $1.00.  We booked a reservation at the El Presidente, a government-owned hotel, the poshest place on Isla Mujeres.

We shared our taxi from the airport to the the ferry dock with two college kids on spring break.  Dave and Hector were Tex/Mex and spoke fluent Spanish.  They taught us to say "dos Cervesas por favor" -“two beers please.” For everything else they acted as our translators. It got us through the week.

The ferry ride got us in the proper state of mind for Isla.  It was crowded with locals and their livestock.  There were no life jackets in evidence.  There were lots of spray and plenty of prayers being offered.

The El Presidente sat on the edge of the reef.  Our room looked out over the sea.  We could hear the surf crashing through the night.  There was no air conditioning and no need for it.  The sea breeze blew gently through the curtains.

Isla turned out to be a very cosmopolitan resort.  We would regularly dine with English, German, Italian, and Spanish being spoken within earshot.  We rented a VW bug and visited the Mayan ruins at Tulum and Coba with Dave and Hector.

One evening we had been out for dinner with our erstwhile translators.  The Margaritas and Cervesas had been excellent.  The subject of a captive sea turtle came up. I had heard that the hotel was keeping a sea turtle in the coves of the reef in front of the building as an attraction but I had not bothered to check it out.  It was a beautiful night and, emboldened by our alcohol consumption, we all agreed that this was the time to go find the turtle.

The moon was full, the tide was high, and the easterly trades were blowing.  We wandered along the reef in front of the hotel till we came to an area where there was wall of sand bags blocking off the entrance to a cove set into the reef. We were looking around to see if we could spot the turtle when Dave fell in.  He had had perhaps more cervesa than
strictly necessary. We dragged him out and sent him to his room.  We continued to look for the turtle. 

I didn't know what to expect exactly but I was not prepared for what I saw.  There was a rim around the cove about 2 feet high.  As I walked around the rim searching for the turtle I spotted her towards the end where the sand bags were stacked. They blocked the only opening to the sea. The hotel was apparently half way to finishing a permanent wall which would ultimately become a prison for the turtle.  As the waves rolled in, the highest sloshed water over the lip of the reef and through the sand bags.  When this happened the turtle moved from beneath the rim of the reef to poke its nose at the barrier.

She was a magnificent creature.  Her shell was at least 2 feet across and 3 long.  Her head was the size of a coconut.  I thought to myself, what a travesty to keep such a beautiful, wild creature in captivity for entertainment purposes.  It occurred to me that we should set her free.  But that was foolish and probably illegal.  I had turned 40 a few months prior. I was supposed to be an adult.  Was I grown up or not?

"Hector, move the sand bags." I said.

Hector was reluctant.  He argued that the turtle was hunted in the wild and was safe in this pool.  I asked if it were he, would he want to be free to take his chances or safe in captivity.  He began to move the sand bags.

Once the sand bags were removed the turtle came to the gap.  There was still a lip of coral that was too high for the animal to negotiate.  As the highest waves reached the reef, water would flow into the cove over the lip.  The turtle would swim up and poke her head over the lip. She could not get over.

On the next big wave, as she stretched her head over the lip, I lay down on the rim and grabbed the rear end of her shell.  As the water ran back out, I took up the full weight of the animal.  I was pinned to the ground; she weighed a ton.

"Carol! Hector! Help!" I grunted.

They ran around to the front of the turtle on the sea side of the lip of the reef and each grabbed a front flipper.  The turtle did not object.  She seemed intent on helping us get her free. 

As each big wave washed water into the cove we heaved the turtle a little higher on the lip - me from the rear and Carol and Hector from the front.  I lost track of time.  It took 5 or ten big waves before we managed to hoist the turtle over the lip.  She was gone in the surf in an instant. There was nothing but the path of moonlight on the surface of the waves.

"Hector, move the sand bags back."

Once the sand bags were back in place, we straggled into the hotel.  We had been laboring for all that time in front of half the rooms in the hotel in full moon light.  No one had seen us.  We all felt great.  We were covered with sand and dripping wet as we squished past the hotel desk.

As it turned out the would-be turtle pen was located right in front of the dining room.  I noticed this when I went down for breakfast next morning.  As I was sipping my orange juice, one of the masons who was building the wall that would replace the sand bags came out and started to circle the rim of the cove looking for the captive turtle.  He circled once and then again.  He scratched his head.  He went back inside and returned with an official looking guy with clip board in hand.  They searched the cove for awhile, then left.

They say a criminal always returns to the scene of the crime.  I think criminals that get caught do that.  I never went near the turtle's cove after that fateful night.  I did overhear a conversation as I lay on the sand near the beach bar.  It seemed that the turtle the hotel had planned on exhibiting had somehow escaped.  They had no idea how.  I sipped my Margarita and wondered if I would ever grow up.