Mary Alice Monroe - Swimming Lessons

“Coming,” Cara replied, tucking her notebook in her backpack. She brought Little Lovie up to the dune with her. “The tracks measured twenty-seven inches. That’s a pretty good sized turtle. And the nest is high up on the dune. I think this mama picked out a very nice spot for her eggs.”

“Yep, she done good,” Flo confirmed, nodding with satisfaction. “We can leave this one right where it is. Now, let’s find those eggs.”

On cue, the four women brandished their probe sticks like swords. Toy felt the air tingle as they gathered at the turtle’s nest. The hunt was on!

Toy used to believe finding the eggs was a matter of chance, but as the seasons passed and she gained experience, she came to realize there were field signs that pointed the way. The female loggerhead aggressively camouflaged her nest by throwing sand. But if Toy followed the inbound tracks, she could figure out in which direction the turtle lay when she dropped her eggs. The group studied the tracks as Flo put her probe to the sand and carved a circle around the large body pit.

Flo offered Toy the chance to take the first turn at probing for eggs. She chose a likely spot then carefully, oh, so gingerly, pressed her probe stick into the sand. She bent her knees, leveled her feet and took a breath. Steady now, she told herself as the probe slid into the soft sand. The first probe of the season was always like the first time she’d probed a nest. She remembered Miss Lovie guiding her through it.

“Easy now, child,” Miss Lovie had said in her melodic voice. “Don’t be in such a hurry. The eggs aren’t going anywhere. Let the stick slide into the sand nice and slow. Bend your knees. If you feel the sand break away beneath you, stop! You can’t be bumping into an egg!”

That was every turtle lady’s greatest fear—to be in such a hurry that she poked through an egg. It rarely ever happened. For her, not one egg out of the thousands she’d found in five years. Nonetheless, breaking even one made a person feel hang dog contrite and it spooked you for the whole season. And, of course there was the not-so-gentle ribbing that came from the turtle team.

Toy felt the sand grow hard under her probe, a sign that the eggs were not there. She moved to another spot only an inch away. Then to another. Then another, seeking the soft spot. After her turn, Emmi began the same process. Then Cara, taking turns at probing. Ten minutes later, the mound of sand was dotted with small holes. The sun was rising and a tourist taking a morning’s walk on the beach wandered over to see what the commotion was about, only to coo with excitement at her luck. Just when Toy thought this was going to be one of those tricky nests that kept them probing for hours, Cara’s probe dipped sharply into the sand.

Collectively they gasped and leaned forward to watch as Cara went on hands and knees to dig with her fingers. Once the soft sand was found, probes were abandoned. Cara dug away the sand from the spot, going deeper and deeper, letting the soft sand sift through her fingers. Little Lovie leaned against Toy’s legs, looking far into the hole, hoping to see eggs. Sometimes it was a false alarm and they all went back to probing. But they could smell the musky scent of eggs and were hopeful.

Cara’s arm was in so deep her shoulder was almost touching the sand. Her face was turned slightly upward and her dark brown eyes were shining in anticipation as her hand followed the trail of softer sand.

Toy watched, envying Cara a little for her natural elegance, even in such an awkward position. Miss Lovie had always said that Cara looked more like her father, a tall, raven haired, chiseled man. But Toy thought that the older Cara got, the more she resembled her mother. Not that Cara would ever be the petite and blonde belle that Miss Lovie was. The resemblance was more in the softness of expression one moment, the elegant lift of the chin at another, the air of confidence, and the constant gracefulness that came, Toy believed, from generations of breeding.

Toy sighed, flashing back to her own mother’s words. They’d been shopping on King Street and her mother had spotted a fancy-dressed woman walking down the street with an air of elegance.

“Can’t learn that in no school,” Toy’s mother had told her. She’d clucked her tongue and pointed. “Look at her. Women like that, they’re Thoroughbreds. It’s in their blood.” Her mother’s husky voice had rumbled with belligerent admiration. It still hurt that she’d called Toy a “good work horse.” Toy felt the same stab of shame she’d felt then and shook her head to expel her mother’s voice. Why’d she always have to be so mean-spirited? Instead, she replayed Miss Lovie’s words of encouragement in her mind.

“We’ve got eggs!” Cara exclaimed, retrieving a perfectly round, white egg out from the nest. Little Lovie was on it faster than a tick on a dog, begging for a closer look before Cara gingerly put the egg back into the nest and covered it back up with sand. It never failed to amaze Toy how a turtle egg looked exactly like a ping pong ball. Glenn and Grace moved forward to put their names on the stake, claiming the nest as “their own.” The hunt was over.

As Flo bent to put the markers on the nest, Toy stepped back and pulled her instamatic camera out from her backpack. First she took a photograph of the turtle tracks circling around Lovie’s sandcastle. Then she went down on one knee and brought the little cardboard box to her eye. Through the narrow lens, she focused on the cluster around the nest, three adults and one child, shoulder to shoulder, laughing. It was a nice, standard group shot.

Zooming in, however, she discovered magic in the details—the wind tousled hair, bits of sand on the faces, and in all the eyes a childlike wonder and infinite hope for this, the first nest of the season.

Hold your breath! Kick your legs hard and reach far with each stroke.

The following day, the Aquarium received a third sick turtle. The loggerhead was brought in by Department of Natural Resources from Kiawah Island. The local news stations were on hand and did a brief report on the rescue of the juvenile loggerhead from beyond the breakers. Toy laughed when she saw the clip because the men standing on the shore didn’t want to get their feet wet. It took two slender women from DNR, DuBose and Charlotte, to wade out into the surf and pull the turtle in. This turtle had three glaring slashes across the shell from a boat propeller. Toy called this third patient turtle Kiawah.

Three days later, a fourth turtle was found by three young men who were out fishing for the day. They’d discovered a turtle trapped by the lines of a crab pot in Hamlin Creek. Being good ol’ boys, they couldn’t just leave him there. Every time the turtle brought his head up for breath, the rope tightened. They couldn’t get the turtle unattached so they cut the crab pot loose and brought the pot and turtle both to the marina themselves. Their biggest worry was that they’d get arrested for stealing a crab trap.

Toy hurried to the marina and met the heroes at the dock. It was one of the saddest cases Toy had ever come upon. The rope from the crab pot had nearly cut clear through the flipper. Given the barnacle load and the emaciation, she guessed the poor turtle had to have been tangled up for several weeks. Toy called this turtle Hamlin.

Bringing two new turtles into the Aquarium caused a flurry of impromptu decisions. They couldn’t put even one more turtle on Ethan’s already crowded floor.

“It’s just like in the bible,” Favel had said as they measured the space for possibilities. “There’s no room for them in the Inn.”

“Well then, we’ve got to find a stable,” Ethan had replied.