SEA TURTLE WATCH
17 July 2006

by Susan Hayward

Bocas del Toro, Panama. This was our first time in town after dark, and a Saturday night, at that. It wasn’t until we got there that we learned that it was the weekend of the local seafood festival, and the park was jammed with locals and backpackers savoring the delights of the sea and dancing to live music. Families ate on park benches and young people eyed one another. Boys raced on bicycles and kicked soccer balls. Girls chased each other in the grass.

But we had not come to town for the seafood festival. We were meeting here to see sea turtles laying their eggs on a remote beach on the northeast side of Isla Colon. It had rained all morning, so much that we thought the trip might be cancelled, but we got lucky. The rain stopped just as the sun went down.

We load into two trucks, nine of us, introducing ourselves, telling where we are from, where we are going, how we are traveling. Most are young, backpacking. Four of us are older, boaters. We are from England, Venezuela, Puerto Rico, Australia, and America. We immediately bond with our fellow travelers and nature enthusiasts. How can you not like someone who is ready to spend all night on turtle watch?

A short drive on the one paved road through town led to what looked like an abandoned construction site, red clay rutted by heavy equipment, with puddles as big as swimming pools, of unknown depth. No problem. Geraldo, our driver, struck out into this morass, which it turns out is the beginning of the rough track that follows the curvature of the island, practically on the beach. The morning’s rain had filled every rut and depression to overflowing and softened the mud. Water comes up to the floorboards in several places. The truck rocks continuously on the uneven ground, swaying through the jungle, which glows green in the headlights. Suddenly, as we round a bend, a Century 21 sign, “For Sale,” leaps out, familiar and incongruous. Geraldo comments that foreigners are buying up much of the land in Panama, particularly beachfront property; that few locals can afford to own land any more. He says the reason the road is so bad is that it wasn’t built for the kind of vehicles used in construction of these vacation homes, bearing heavy loads of wood and cement.

Surfing beaches border the island here. The surf roars as waves break heavily, almost up to the road. The foam gleams white in the truck’s bright lights. To get here surfers must hire a boat in town, or hire a truck like Geraldo’s, and make sure that someone will come to get them later in the day.

After an hour we arrive at our destination. It’s 9:30 p.m. The moon, in its last quarter, will not come up until after midnight. The beach and jungle are lit only by starlight. The stars are bright, but most are unfamiliar. We are comforted to recognize the Big Dipper, low on the horizon, but those of us familiar with the constellations of the north are lost here in Panama.

Two tents, the backpacking kind that spring into small dome shapes, constitute the camp for the turtle conservation project. Four young men scramble from the tents, obviously awakened by our arrival. They never know whether or not they will have visitors, so they don’t get up until someone arrives. If no one comes, do they still get up to watch on the beach for turtles?

We are all anxious to get started after an hour in the truck, and edge towards the water before the guides are ready, fidgeting so much that we almost miss the magic of the night. Our red headlamps illuminate tiny circles of beach until we realize that it’s easier to walk in the dark, and we actually see more when we are not distracted by the light. Our guides pull themselves and their gear together and announce: “Caminamos,” Let’s walk. What a thrill, walking on a secluded beach by starlight, with the ocean pounding on one side, crashing so hard we can feel it in our feet, and the jungle reaching out on the other, alive with sounds of insects, frogs, and other things we can only imagine. The air is heavy, sweet, and patchy, the temperature rising by several degrees in places. It feels like the breath of a dragon. You know how, when you’re swimming in cool ocean waters, you’ll have a puddle of warm water wash over you (it feels so good!) and you think, “Wow! Where did THAT come from?” You look over at your little brother and wonder if he peed or something. That’s what this swash of hot air reminded me of. Except that we were already dripping with sweat, and the extra heat was interesting but not welcome.

For much of the length of the beach the jungle is close upon us. I’m not particularly skittish about snakes, but the darkness of the night makes me wary, and I favor the surf, edging away from the grasping trees and vines.

Then—turtle tracks! Our feet sense it first. The sand becomes soft where the turtle’s flippers churned it up, hoisting her suddenly-heavy bulk onto land, where all grace is left behind. It looks as if the beach has been dug up with a giant rototiller. A broad, smooth, hard-packed trail, compacted by her bulk, with softer diagonal hash marks made by the frantically paddling flippers, runs straight up the beach. It is easy to follow her path to dry sand, where we find her already laying her eggs into the deep hole she has excavated. Our lights are back on, red only, so we can admire her size and marvel at the uniqueness of her smooth streamlined carapace, like a bike rider’s tapered helmet. She is a leatherback, about five feet long, and estimated to weigh 700 pounds. Oblivious to us, she blinks and strains and gasps, laboring at her task. Finally the eggs stop dropping, and she paddles vehemently, kicking sand behind her, burying them deeply.

As she moves away, one of the turtle guardians begins digging to remove the eggs. They will be “transplanted” to a sand grid near his tent, where they will be safe from poachers, raccoons, crabs and fire ants, until they hatch in two months. He is lying on his belly in the sand, up to his armpit in the hole, when she suddenly sends one last load of sand towards her nest, which lands squarely on his head. He laughs and turns his ball cap around to protect his face from any further onslaught, but not before saying a few choice things to Mama Turtle in rapid Spanish. After covering his hand with a clean plastic bag, he begins removing the eggs, handful by handful, until the hole is empty and sixty-six fertile eggs fill two plastic bags. They are ping-pong ball size, creamy white, and leathery-soft. Several are smaller and not fertile: these the conservators allow us to handle. We pass them around in the dark, our incredulous faces lit up by dim red lights.

In the meantime, the mother is struggling to turn around, thwarted by vines and driftwood at the jungle’s edge, in a hurry to get back to the sea, where life is so much easier. We want to help her. Can we pick up 700 pounds, even all of us together? Of course, even if we could, this is not allowed. But we mentally help her along as she finally gets free of the grasping jungle and gains speed on the downhill to the water. She disappears immediately and completely into the breakers and beyond. We all cheer. And we look up to see that the moon is high in the sky.