Beach House Memories (18 page)

Dr. Bennett stopped the Jeep and wiped his brow. “This is as far as the Jeep can go. We can take the rest of the way on foot.” He put on a battered brown baseball cap with U
NIV. OF
F
LORIDA
embroidered in dark brown. Then he went to the back to pull out his backpack and gear.

Lovie couldn’t wait to get out on the beach. Having seen the turtle tracks on the northern beach from the sky, she wondered how many nests she’d missed over the years. And she was eager to explore this area of the island. She grabbed her backpack, put her hat on her head, and followed Dr. Bennett. The red bucket filled with small wooden stakes batted against his thigh as he walked. Their feet dug into the soft, dry sand.

“There.” Dr. Bennett pointed to a set of tracks barely visible across the sand.

Lovie’s practiced eye saw them, too. Her gaze followed the double tracks to a circular disturbance. It was just below the tide line, marked by wrack and shells.

“Looks like a body pit,” she said, feeling excitement as they drew near. “She laid eggs, I’d bet on it.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Look at the difference in the length of the incoming and outgoing tracks. She was up here for a long time. She had to have laid eggs.”

“Good observation,” he said. They reached the body pit and set down their backpacks and gear.

Lovie studied the circle of disturbed sand and smiled. “Yep, there are eggs here . . . somewhere.”

“Yeah, I think so, too. What would you normally do now?” he asked her.

“Well, after I’d located the egg chamber, I’d place a stick at the nest to mark it. I measure two feet from the center, so I don’t hit any eggs. Then I’d record the location in my journal. Later, I’d check on the nest as I made my rounds, to look for any changes.”

“You’d leave the nest there?” he asked her.

“Of course.”

“Doesn’t it concern you that the nest is below the tide line?”

“It’s only just below,” she replied hesitantly. She knew a lesson was coming and that he was baiting her. “And no, it doesn’t bother me. It’s where she laid it.”

“How many nests have you witnessed hatching below the tide line?”

The question surprised her, and she paused, resting her hand on the backpack to think about it. “Hatching? It’s hard to say. I don’t see all the nests hatch, of course. And usually the nests are laid above the high tide line, along the dunes.” She shook her head. “I’d guess very few.”

“I’d guess none.”

She was rattled by his certainty. “Why do you say that?”

“Simple. Because if the nest is left here, below the tide line, then at high tide, the seawater will wash over the nest. Repeatedly. That kills the eggs.”

“What else could I do?”

“When I discover a nest below the tide line, I move it to a safe location higher on a dune.”

“Won’t that hurt the eggs?”

“Not if it’s done within hours of being laid. After twelve hours in the sand, the embryo within the egg becomes increasingly susceptible to damage. That’s why I rushed to get here.
I never move a nest after nine a.m.” He looked at his watch. “We have to hustle. Come close. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

Lovie licked her dry lips, feeling like a novice. She’d never dared to disturb a nest, much less move it. She’d never had the authority.

Dr. Bennett walked around the nest, chin in his palm, studying it. “First you study the field signs. Look there,” he said, pointing. “See the sprayed sand? That’s what she does when she’s covering her nest. A sure sign.”

Lovie bent to one knee and plucked up broken vines and uprooted sea oats. “Here’s broken vegetation,” she called out. “I’ve always seen this as a sign she dug a nest.”

“Right. Good,” he said, obviously pleased with his student. “Then check out the mounds. The nest is often in the biggest one and nearest to the end of the incoming track. I usually use a canvas bag, but if you’ll bring over that bucket of yours, I think it’ll be perfect for this job.”

Pleased, she went for the bucket while he knelt at the mound. Lovie knelt beside him, hawking his every move.

“This is where I
think
the eggs are,” he began. “Sometimes those turtles are good at fooling you, and you can be stuck out here for a long time hunting for eggs. Now, before I begin,” he said, and his voice became more insistent, “this is
not
something we want all the volunteers to be doing. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“Probably best not to talk much about this either. The fewer people who know we move nests, the better.”

“What about Flo? She’s experienced. We might need more help.”

“Maybe. We can talk about that later. For now, though. It’s just you and me. Okay?”

Being singled out made her feel that she really was sharing the responsibility of the project with Dr. Bennett. Always a good
student, Lovie watched carefully as he dug with his hands deep into the sand, scooping out one handful after another. A foot deep, she caught a pungent, fishy scent and knew he was near. Dr. Bennett stopped digging and, instead, used his fingers to probe cautiously deeper into the sand.

He turned his head and his blue eyes sparkled with discovery, inches from her own. “I’ve found eggs!” he exclaimed. “Look.” He moved back.

Lovie bent closer and peered in the nest, then gasped at her first sight of the pearly white tops of two turtle eggs. It felt like Christmas. In all the years she’d done this, she’d never dug into a nest, never saw an egg unless it had been ravaged by a raccoon or a dog. Dr. Bennett covered the bottom of the bucket with some of the sand from the nest.

“We’ll place one egg at a time and carefully move it to the bottom of the bucket, careful not to rotate it. Ready?”

“I’m a little nervous,” she confessed.

“No worries. If you drop one, we’ll eat it for breakfast.” He laughed at her expression. “Of course, I’m kidding. Watch me do a few, and when you’re ready, just start. We’ll count them as we go.”

She watched Dr. Bennett retrieve the Ping-Pong-ball-size eggs one after the other from the nest and carefully place them in the moist nest sand inside the bucket.

“Are you going to help or just watch?” he chided her.

Lovie reached down some two feet to wrap her fingers around a first egg. It was still warm from the sand and leathery and so soft it indented with pressure from her fingers. She held it like it was spun glass, careful not to jostle, and gingerly laid it on the pile of eggs in the bucket.

Egg by egg, one hundred and thirteen were retrieved. They lay nestled securely in the bucket and, lifting the weight of it, Lovie marveled at how the turtle had managed to carry them all inside her, plus the weight of her shell. She remembered the
female loggerheads she’d watched painstakingly crawl over the sand, pausing to rest and then pushing off again, determined to fulfill their destiny on the dark beach.

They moved the eggs to a spot Dr. Bennett selected higher up along a pristine dune where the eggs would be safe from saltwater flooding.

“How many nests have you dug?” she asked.

He was digging steadily, using a large cockleshell to round out the bottom of the chamber. Lovie’s view of the new nest site was blocked by his broad back. The fabric clung to his body in spots where sweat pooled. How long had it been since she’d been so attentive to the shape of a man’s body? she chided herself. But he was beautiful to watch, like a dancer. His lean body was fine-tuned for the labor.

When he was done, he sat back on his heels and took off his hat, wiping his brow with his sleeve. “Would you like to do the honors?” he asked.

She nodded, feeling her heart leap in her chest. With reverence, Lovie reached into the bucket, retrieved an egg, and then cautiously set it an arm’s length deep into the new egg chamber. Russell sat beside her, watching and keeping count.

“That’s number one,” he said. “Careful not to rotate them. Two. Three . . .”

She lowered egg after egg into the deep nest. When at last she’d finished, Dr. Bennett covered the settled eggs with the original moist sand. Lovie firmly patted the sand down on the top, feeling a profound sense of accomplishment.

“I’ve seen the mama turtle pound the sand with the bottom of her shell like a drum,” she said.

Dr. Bennett cast a sidelong glance. “Don’t let me stop you. Is that part of your routine, too?”

She laughed, overjoyed at the experience of moving the nest. “Not yet, but if you said it was, I’d do that, too.”

“You really love this, don’t you?”

“No more than you.”

He didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. Their mutual grins said it all.

“What’s next?” he asked her.

“Well, I mark the nest with one of these small wooden stakes.” She picked up a stake and the measuring tape. “Then I record the data in the journal. I suppose we’ll need a new data form, now that we’re moving nests.”

They measured and placed the stake into the sand, then sat on the beach and talked awhile about what additional data he wanted included and why. He showed her how to measure the tracks and how to fine-tune the placement of the nest marker and what information to put on it. Lovie felt like a sponge, soaking up all the knowledge, and likewise making suggestions based on her experience in a fair give-and-take. Then, their first nest of the project finished, they moved on.

The sun was rising, as was the heat. The ocean sparkled beyond, tantalizingly cool. Lovie took her hat off and allowed the light breeze to cool the moisture building along her scalp. A few more people were on the beach now. They glanced at the two of them, wondering what they were doing. Lovie knew that time was of the essence. They walked without speaking to the northern tip of Isle of Palms where Dewees Island lay a short distance across a small inlet. Lovie was the first to spot the long stretch of turtle tracks.

When she approached, she saw that something was very wrong. Telltale flies buzzed over a hole in the sand, and circling it were dozens of broken eggs crawling with ants.

“Raccoons,” Dr. Bennett said, surveying the ravaged nest. “I saw it from the plane.”

“What a shame. I rarely have problems with raccoons on the south end.”

“It’s no wonder up here, with that forest. Feral dogs, boars, not to mention crabs all like to feast on turtle eggs, but those damn raccoons are a serious problem. Eggs are like manna from heaven for them. What I wouldn’t give for a good coon dog.” He reached into his backpack and pulled out a pair of plastic gloves and handed them to Lovie. “Another lesson,” he said with a crooked smile. “Not as pleasant.”

She groaned. “One I’m sorry I have to learn.”

“This can get nasty,” he said. The nest smelled of sulfur, and ants roamed the broken eggs. She followed him to the nest and watched as he opened it wide to assess the damage. “That rascal did a good job,” he said, pulling out broken eggs.

Lovie slapped biting ants as she counted forty-eight eggs destroyed out of the possible hundred or more eggs in the nest. They filled the nest back with sand and buried the broken shells close to the shoreline where the scent wouldn’t draw predators.

They stood in the ocean, washing off their hands and cooling the bites that went clear through the plastic gloves. When Lovie returned home, she’d rinse her hands with lemon juice. It was the only thing she’d found that took the smell away.

“I’ve got some chicken wire under the porch,” she said. “We can make a covering for the nest so that varmint won’t get any more of the eggs. Maybe we should put wire mesh over the other nest, too.”

“No, we have to leave it to document the hatching success in nature.”

Lovie drew upright, indignant. “What? You mean just leave it unprotected?”

“I know it sounds harsh, but we need to evaluate what happens without intervention.”

“But there
is
intervention. Me!”

“See, this is what I mean about getting personal. I know it’s frustrating to just watch while raccoons and crabs take so many
nests. But we have to let nature take its course for now. I’m sorry.”

“No.
I’m
sorry, because I can’t go along with this. You say you’re here to monitor what goes on here on this island. Well, this island has
me
,” she said, pointing to herself. “And I’m going to put mesh over that nest to protect it from raccoons. Whether you like it or not, whether you help me or not, I’m still going to do it.”

She was angry, at him for being so inflexible and at herself for losing her temper. Her feet splashed as she walked determinedly from the ocean, eager to get to her things and get out of the sun. A sudden wind kicked up and sent her hat sailing. This time it flew far back and landed in the waves. She ground her teeth as she turned to fetch the now despised hat.

Dr. Bennett was already going after it. He plucked it from the ocean and came back to her carrying the sodden straw hat. He held it out to her as he would a peace offering.

“Thank you,” she said, taking it.

“I think you’ll need a new one.”

She smirked. “It’s put in a lot of years.”

“Mrs. Rutledge, I didn’t mean to bully you. I realize you’ve been doing things your way on this island for a long time, but I have to change things up a bit now for the study.”

“I’ve been a good sport,” she argued back, feeling heat. “But you told me I was your partner in this project. If that’s true, then you’ll try to understand that my continuing to protect the nests on this island will not disrupt your findings because I am part of this island. Whether they build that resort or not, I’m still here. I’m a constant, so you have to factor that in. Right? I am going to protect that nest. And any other nest that needs my help. It’s what I do.”

He listened, studying her.

“I appreciate all you taught me today,” she said in a softer
voice. “I realize I have a lot to learn.” She looked back at him. “But I can teach you a few things, too. Isn’t that what a partnership is all about?”

He slowly nodded. “Very well, Mrs. Rutledge . . . Partner,” he amended with a smile. “We’ve got a lot of work to do. If we’re going to build a project—and that mesh net—we’d better get started.”