Mary Alice Monroe's Blog, page 19
August 26, 2014
MY SUMMER CRUSH
GUEST BLOG
Kerry E. Reichs
I’ve had my share of crushes before, but it was only this year that my heart was stolen so completely that I became a stalker. It was the adorable occupants of 3A. I couldn’t stop thinking about them. I found excuses to cruise by their place every morning and every evening. I scrutinized the minutiae of their existence. Had anything changed since yesterday? Had they had any visitors? Who were these other women hanging around?
No, 3A wasn’t an apartment of virile young men. It was a loggerhead sea turtle nest located on Isle of Palms beach between third and fourth streets, and I was in love. I’d been floating on the fringes of Charleston’s “turtle society” for two years, introduced by friend and fellow writer Mary Alice Monroe. I arose at the crack of dawn to attend every inventory, my sleepy son in tow. I met the wonderful turtle team, formidable wielders of the Red Bucket, whose dedication and passion for these creatures is selfless. And most of all, I fell in love with the turtles. There is nothing more adorable than a hatchling sea turtle; nothing more inspiring than its determined trek across a fraught beach; nothing more heartening than the moment they catch a wave.
I loved every encounter, but I craved the zenith of turtle monitoring. I wanted the boil – hatchlings pouring out of a nest like a pot bubbling over. Then along came 3A. A convenient ten-minute walk down the beach from my house, this became MY nest. I’d find excuses to wander by (“It rained a drop . . . better check the nest!”). I sent unsolicited “updates” and photos to team members. I pestered them about the schedule. One day, my stalking was rewarded. The sand showed the first signs of emergence, kicking off a series of evenings camped beside the nest.
(concave in sand = activity)
(ghost crab predation!)
The team indulged me. The first few nights, nothing. Then a handful. Then came Friday.
This was the night. I was sure of it. I was provisioned like Lewis and Clark: I had my four year old, his DVD player, a beach blanket, chairs, bug spray, snacks, kindle, water. I was there for the long haul. I sat in the company of the team, chatting merrily. So much that we were startled to see a turtle crawling by. We hopped to action, shepherding seven “scouts” safely to the sea. The sun had just set. After that, stillness. Indications of emergence ceased. All the hot action was going down on Sullivan’s, a nest poised to go. 3A was a sleeper. The rest of the team headed home or to Sullivan’s. There would be no action here tonight. I decided to keep company with my nest a little longer, popped a new DVD on for my son, and settled into my kindle. At 11:30, I flashed the red light over at the nest, intending to gather my things. And saw the hole. Which became a diminutive turtle head. Then two. Then three. Small beaks poking from the sand. Waiting.
I grabbed my son and we watched the magic happen, just the two of us. Under the remnants of a supermoon, we saw a tiny army assembling under the sand. Finally, the leader crested, and turtles poured from the nest in his wake, wave after wave. It was enchanting. We were breathless when the flow stopped, then raced down the beach with the light to play false moon, luring the hatchlings to the sea. I was a proud mama when the last dove out of sight.
I didn’t think it could get more magical than that, but I was wrong. Friday had been a “half boil” of about sixty, with another sixty eggs remaining. The team continued to monitor the nest, none so zealous as I. The next day I popped up at 6AM to scrutinize the sand; loitered at sunset; and returned around midnight, prime turtle “boiling point”. And repeat, the following day. And repeat. For three days, I sat on that nest like I’d laid the eggs myself.
It was an unusual nest. Turtles ventured out in small clutches. The team fretted. I hovered. Sunday night – turtles on the beach. We all raced at the 911 call, but it was a troop of only eight. Monday no action was expected, but a humdinger of a storm. I was stuck on a call with Comcast. Knowing I’d be on hold forever, I trotted down to the nest, phone pressed to my ear, wind whipping. Team members were in situ. The signs were there. Comcast became unimportant. I dropped to the beach, and chatted. Lightening danced across the sky to the west. Our time on the beach would be abridged. We were debating how much, when I saw shadows on the sand. An endearing mini-mob of loggerheads crowding out of the nest. The last wave. By this night, the tide was miles away, so we gathered our new friends into the trademark Red Bucket.
The turtles were three-deep, teeming to go. When the last was collected, they passed the bucket to me. I, team newbie, was handed the Red Bucket. It was a reverent moment. We hastened to the water’s edge, where I carefully released my charges. I was proud and relieved as each dove into the next phase of its journey.
The next morning at inventory, the team recovered a dawdler. My son and I gathered with the usual crowd to bid our last ward farewell. The lone occupant of 3A scrambled toward the ocean, turning at the waterline to crawl over my son’s foot in farewell, before disappearing with a flap of his flipper.
It was bittersweet as the little guy disappeared from sight. Tomorrow I’ll find another nest to fuss over, but for now there’s a little hole where 3A used to be. I’ll always remember my first. See you in thirty years, my friends. After this taste of being on the Turtle Team, I know I’ll be here waiting for you.
I’ve had my share of crushes before, but it was only this year that my heart was stolen so completely that I became a stalker. It was the adorable occupants of 3A. I couldn’t stop thinking about them. I found excuses to cruise by their place every morning and every evening. I scrutinized the minutiae of their existence. Had anything changed since yesterday? Had they had any visitors? Who were these other women hanging around?
No, 3A wasn’t an apartment of virile young men. It was a loggerhead sea turtle nest located on Isle of Palms beach between third and fourth streets, and I was in love. I’d been floating on the fringes of Charleston’s “turtle society” for two years, introduced by friend and fellow writer Mary Alice Monroe. I arose at the crack of dawn to attend every inventory, my sleepy son in tow. I met the wonderful turtle team, formidable wielders of the Red Bucket, whose dedication and passion for these creatures is selfless. And most of all, I fell in love with the turtles. There is nothing more adorable than a hatchling sea turtle; nothing more inspiring than its determined trek across a fraught beach; nothing more heartening than the moment they catch a wave.
I loved every encounter, but I craved the zenith of turtle monitoring. I wanted the boil – hatchlings pouring out of a nest like a pot bubbling over. Then along came 3A. A convenient ten-minute walk down the beach from my house, this became MY nest. I’d find excuses to wander by (“It rained a drop . . . better check the nest!”). I sent unsolicited “updates” and photos to team members. I pestered them about the schedule. One day, my stalking was rewarded. The sand showed the first signs of emergence, kicking off a series of evenings camped beside the nest.
(concave in sand = activity)
(ghost crab predation!)The team indulged me. The first few nights, nothing. Then a handful. Then came Friday.
This was the night. I was sure of it. I was provisioned like Lewis and Clark: I had my four year old, his DVD player, a beach blanket, chairs, bug spray, snacks, kindle, water. I was there for the long haul. I sat in the company of the team, chatting merrily. So much that we were startled to see a turtle crawling by. We hopped to action, shepherding seven “scouts” safely to the sea. The sun had just set. After that, stillness. Indications of emergence ceased. All the hot action was going down on Sullivan’s, a nest poised to go. 3A was a sleeper. The rest of the team headed home or to Sullivan’s. There would be no action here tonight. I decided to keep company with my nest a little longer, popped a new DVD on for my son, and settled into my kindle. At 11:30, I flashed the red light over at the nest, intending to gather my things. And saw the hole. Which became a diminutive turtle head. Then two. Then three. Small beaks poking from the sand. Waiting.
I grabbed my son and we watched the magic happen, just the two of us. Under the remnants of a supermoon, we saw a tiny army assembling under the sand. Finally, the leader crested, and turtles poured from the nest in his wake, wave after wave. It was enchanting. We were breathless when the flow stopped, then raced down the beach with the light to play false moon, luring the hatchlings to the sea. I was a proud mama when the last dove out of sight.
I didn’t think it could get more magical than that, but I was wrong. Friday had been a “half boil” of about sixty, with another sixty eggs remaining. The team continued to monitor the nest, none so zealous as I. The next day I popped up at 6AM to scrutinize the sand; loitered at sunset; and returned around midnight, prime turtle “boiling point”. And repeat, the following day. And repeat. For three days, I sat on that nest like I’d laid the eggs myself.
It was an unusual nest. Turtles ventured out in small clutches. The team fretted. I hovered. Sunday night – turtles on the beach. We all raced at the 911 call, but it was a troop of only eight. Monday no action was expected, but a humdinger of a storm. I was stuck on a call with Comcast. Knowing I’d be on hold forever, I trotted down to the nest, phone pressed to my ear, wind whipping. Team members were in situ. The signs were there. Comcast became unimportant. I dropped to the beach, and chatted. Lightening danced across the sky to the west. Our time on the beach would be abridged. We were debating how much, when I saw shadows on the sand. An endearing mini-mob of loggerheads crowding out of the nest. The last wave. By this night, the tide was miles away, so we gathered our new friends into the trademark Red Bucket.
The turtles were three-deep, teeming to go. When the last was collected, they passed the bucket to me. I, team newbie, was handed the Red Bucket. It was a reverent moment. We hastened to the water’s edge, where I carefully released my charges. I was proud and relieved as each dove into the next phase of its journey.
The next morning at inventory, the team recovered a dawdler. My son and I gathered with the usual crowd to bid our last ward farewell. The lone occupant of 3A scrambled toward the ocean, turning at the waterline to crawl over my son’s foot in farewell, before disappearing with a flap of his flipper.
It was bittersweet as the little guy disappeared from sight. Tomorrow I’ll find another nest to fuss over, but for now there’s a little hole where 3A used to be. I’ll always remember my first. See you in thirty years, my friends. After this taste of being on the Turtle Team, I know I’ll be here waiting for you.
GUEST BLOGKerry E. ReichsI’ve had my share of crushes bef...
GUEST BLOGKerry E. Reichs
I’ve had my share of crushes before, but it was only this year that my heart was stolen so completely that I became a stalker. It was the adorable occupants of 3A. I couldn’t stop thinking about them. I found excuses to cruise by their place every morning and every evening. I scrutinized the minutiae of their existence. Had anything changed since yesterday? Had they had any visitors? Who were these other women hanging around?
No, 3A wasn’t an apartment of virile young men. It was a loggerhead sea turtle nest located on Isle of Palms beach between third and fourth streets, and I was in love. I’d been floating on the fringes of Charleston’s “turtle society” for two years, introduced by friend and fellow writer Mary Alice Monroe. I arose at the crack of dawn to attend every inventory, my sleepy son in tow. I met the wonderful turtle team, formidable wielders of the Red Bucket, whose dedication and passion for these creatures is selfless. And most of all, I fell in love with the turtles. There is nothing more adorable than a hatchling sea turtle; nothing more inspiring than its determined trek across a fraught beach; nothing more heartening than the moment they catch a wave.
I loved every encounter, but I craved the zenith of turtle monitoring. I wanted the boil – hatchlings pouring out of a nest like a pot bubbling over. Then along came 3A. A convenient ten-minute walk down the beach from my house, this became MY nest. I’d find excuses to wander by (“It rained a drop . . . better check the nest!”). I sent unsolicited “updates” and photos to team members. I pestered them about the schedule. One day, my stalking was rewarded. The sand showed the first signs of emergence, kicking off a series of evenings camped beside the nest.
(concave in sand = activity)
(ghost crab predation!)
The team indulged me. The first few nights, nothing. Then a handful. Then came Friday.
This was the night. I was sure of it. I was provisioned like Lewis and Clark: I had my four year old, his DVD player, a beach blanket, chairs, bug spray, snacks, kindle, water. I was there for the long haul. I sat in the company of the team, chatting merrily. So much that we were startled to see a turtle crawling by. We hopped to action, shepherding seven “scouts” safely to the sea. The sun had just set. After that, stillness. Indications of emergence ceased. All the hot action was going down on Sullivan’s, a nest poised to go. 3A was a sleeper. The rest of the team headed home or to Sullivan’s. There would be no action here tonight. I decided to keep company with my nest a little longer, popped a new DVD on for my son, and settled into my kindle. At 11:30, I flashed the red light over at the nest, intending to gather my things. And saw the hole. Which became a diminutive turtle head. Then two. Then three. Small beaks poking from the sand. Waiting.
I grabbed my son and we watched the magic happen, just the two of us. Under the remnants of a supermoon, we saw a tiny army assembling under the sand. Finally, the leader crested, and turtles poured from the nest in his wake, wave after wave. It was enchanting. We were breathless when the flow stopped, then raced down the beach with the light to play false moon, luring the hatchlings to the sea. I was a proud mama when the last dove out of sight.
I didn’t think it could get more magical than that, but I was wrong. Friday had been a “half boil” of about sixty, with another sixty eggs remaining. The team continued to monitor the nest, none so zealous as I. The next day I popped up at 6AM to scrutinize the sand; loitered at sunset; and returned around midnight, prime turtle “boiling point”. And repeat, the following day. And repeat. For three days, I sat on that nest like I’d laid the eggs myself.
It was an unusual nest. Turtles ventured out in small clutches. The team fretted. I hovered. Sunday night – turtles on the beach. We all raced at the 911 call, but it was a troop of only eight. Monday no action was expected, but a humdinger of a storm. I was stuck on a call with Comcast. Knowing I’d be on hold forever, I trotted down to the nest, phone pressed to my ear, wind whipping. Team members were in situ. The signs were there. Comcast became unimportant. I dropped to the beach, and chatted. Lightening danced across the sky to the west. Our time on the beach would be abridged. We were debating how much, when I saw shadows on the sand. An endearing mini-mob of loggerheads crowding out of the nest. The last wave. By this night, the tide was miles away, so we gathered our new friends into the trademark Red Bucket.
The turtles were three-deep, teeming to go. When the last was collected, they passed the bucket to me. I, team newbie, was handed the Red Bucket. It was a reverent moment. We hastened to the water’s edge, where I carefully released my charges. I was proud and relieved as each dove into the next phase of its journey.
The next morning at inventory, the team recovered a dawdler. My son and I gathered with the usual crowd to bid our last ward farewell. The lone occupant of 3A scrambled toward the ocean, turning at the waterline to crawl over my son’s foot in farewell, before disappearing with a flap of his flipper.
It was bittersweet as the little guy disappeared from sight. Tomorrow I’ll find another nest to fuss over, but for now there’s a little hole where 3A used to be. I’ll always remember my first. See you in thirty years, my friends. After this taste of being on the Turtle Team, I know I’ll be here waiting for you.
I’ve had my share of crushes before, but it was only this year that my heart was stolen so completely that I became a stalker. It was the adorable occupants of 3A. I couldn’t stop thinking about them. I found excuses to cruise by their place every morning and every evening. I scrutinized the minutiae of their existence. Had anything changed since yesterday? Had they had any visitors? Who were these other women hanging around?No, 3A wasn’t an apartment of virile young men. It was a loggerhead sea turtle nest located on Isle of Palms beach between third and fourth streets, and I was in love. I’d been floating on the fringes of Charleston’s “turtle society” for two years, introduced by friend and fellow writer Mary Alice Monroe. I arose at the crack of dawn to attend every inventory, my sleepy son in tow. I met the wonderful turtle team, formidable wielders of the Red Bucket, whose dedication and passion for these creatures is selfless. And most of all, I fell in love with the turtles. There is nothing more adorable than a hatchling sea turtle; nothing more inspiring than its determined trek across a fraught beach; nothing more heartening than the moment they catch a wave.
I loved every encounter, but I craved the zenith of turtle monitoring. I wanted the boil – hatchlings pouring out of a nest like a pot bubbling over. Then along came 3A. A convenient ten-minute walk down the beach from my house, this became MY nest. I’d find excuses to wander by (“It rained a drop . . . better check the nest!”). I sent unsolicited “updates” and photos to team members. I pestered them about the schedule. One day, my stalking was rewarded. The sand showed the first signs of emergence, kicking off a series of evenings camped beside the nest.
(concave in sand = activity)
(ghost crab predation!)The team indulged me. The first few nights, nothing. Then a handful. Then came Friday.
This was the night. I was sure of it. I was provisioned like Lewis and Clark: I had my four year old, his DVD player, a beach blanket, chairs, bug spray, snacks, kindle, water. I was there for the long haul. I sat in the company of the team, chatting merrily. So much that we were startled to see a turtle crawling by. We hopped to action, shepherding seven “scouts” safely to the sea. The sun had just set. After that, stillness. Indications of emergence ceased. All the hot action was going down on Sullivan’s, a nest poised to go. 3A was a sleeper. The rest of the team headed home or to Sullivan’s. There would be no action here tonight. I decided to keep company with my nest a little longer, popped a new DVD on for my son, and settled into my kindle. At 11:30, I flashed the red light over at the nest, intending to gather my things. And saw the hole. Which became a diminutive turtle head. Then two. Then three. Small beaks poking from the sand. Waiting.
I grabbed my son and we watched the magic happen, just the two of us. Under the remnants of a supermoon, we saw a tiny army assembling under the sand. Finally, the leader crested, and turtles poured from the nest in his wake, wave after wave. It was enchanting. We were breathless when the flow stopped, then raced down the beach with the light to play false moon, luring the hatchlings to the sea. I was a proud mama when the last dove out of sight.
I didn’t think it could get more magical than that, but I was wrong. Friday had been a “half boil” of about sixty, with another sixty eggs remaining. The team continued to monitor the nest, none so zealous as I. The next day I popped up at 6AM to scrutinize the sand; loitered at sunset; and returned around midnight, prime turtle “boiling point”. And repeat, the following day. And repeat. For three days, I sat on that nest like I’d laid the eggs myself.
It was an unusual nest. Turtles ventured out in small clutches. The team fretted. I hovered. Sunday night – turtles on the beach. We all raced at the 911 call, but it was a troop of only eight. Monday no action was expected, but a humdinger of a storm. I was stuck on a call with Comcast. Knowing I’d be on hold forever, I trotted down to the nest, phone pressed to my ear, wind whipping. Team members were in situ. The signs were there. Comcast became unimportant. I dropped to the beach, and chatted. Lightening danced across the sky to the west. Our time on the beach would be abridged. We were debating how much, when I saw shadows on the sand. An endearing mini-mob of loggerheads crowding out of the nest. The last wave. By this night, the tide was miles away, so we gathered our new friends into the trademark Red Bucket.
The turtles were three-deep, teeming to go. When the last was collected, they passed the bucket to me. I, team newbie, was handed the Red Bucket. It was a reverent moment. We hastened to the water’s edge, where I carefully released my charges. I was proud and relieved as each dove into the next phase of its journey.
The next morning at inventory, the team recovered a dawdler. My son and I gathered with the usual crowd to bid our last ward farewell. The lone occupant of 3A scrambled toward the ocean, turning at the waterline to crawl over my son’s foot in farewell, before disappearing with a flap of his flipper.
It was bittersweet as the little guy disappeared from sight. Tomorrow I’ll find another nest to fuss over, but for now there’s a little hole where 3A used to be. I’ll always remember my first. See you in thirty years, my friends. After this taste of being on the Turtle Team, I know I’ll be here waiting for you.
August 20, 2014
GUEST BLOGKerry E. Reichs I’ve had...
GUEST BLOGKerry E. Reichs
I’ve had my share of crushes before, but it was only this year that my heart was stolen so completely that I became a stalker. It was the adorable occupants of 3A. I couldn’t stop thinking about them. I found excuses to cruise by their place every morning and every evening. I scrutinized the minutiae of their existence. Had anything changed since yesterday? Had they had any visitors? Who were these other women hanging around?
No, 3A wasn’t an apartment of virile young men. It was a loggerhead sea turtle nest located on Isle of Palms beach between third and fourth streets, and I was in love. I’d been floating on the fringes of Charleston’s “turtle society” for two years, introduced by friend and fellow writer Mary Alice Monroe. I arose at the crack of dawn to attend every inventory, my sleepy son in tow. I met the wonderful turtle team, formidable wielders of the Red Bucket, whose dedication and passion for these creatures is selfless. And most of all, I fell in love with the turtles. There is nothing more adorable than a hatchling sea turtle; nothing more inspiring than its determined trek across a fraught beach; nothing more heartening than the moment they catch a wave.
I loved every encounter, but I craved the zenith of turtle monitoring. I wanted the boil – hatchlings pouring out of a nest like a pot bubbling over. Then along came 3A. A convenient ten-minute walk down the beach from my house, this became MY nest. I’d find excuses to wander by (“It rained a drop . . . better check the nest!”). I sent unsolicited “updates” and photos to team members. I pestered them about the schedule. One day, my stalking was rewarded. The sand showed the first signs of emergence, kicking off a series of evenings camped beside the nest.
(concave in sand = activity)
(ghost crab predation!)
The team indulged me. The first few nights, nothing. Then a handful. Then came Friday.
This was the night. I was sure of it. I was provisioned like Lewis and Clark: I had my four year old, his DVD player, a beach blanket, chairs, bug spray, snacks, kindle, water. I was there for the long haul. I sat in the company of the team, chatting merrily. So much that we were startled to see a turtle crawling by. We hopped to action, shepherding seven “scouts” safely to the sea. The sun had just set. After that, stillness. Indications of emergence ceased. All the hot action was going down on Sullivan’s, a nest poised to go. 3A was a sleeper. The rest of the team headed home or to Sullivan’s. There would be no action here tonight. I decided to keep company with my nest a little longer, popped a new DVD on for my son, and settled into my kindle. At 11:30, I flashed the red light over at the nest, intending to gather my things. And saw the hole. Which became a diminutive turtle head. Then two. Then three. Small beaks poking from the sand. Waiting.
I grabbed my son and we watched the magic happen, just the two of us. Under the remnants of a supermoon, we saw a tiny army assembling under the sand. Finally, the leader crested, and turtles poured from the nest in his wake, wave after wave. It was enchanting. We were breathless when the flow stopped, then raced down the beach with the light to play false moon, luring the hatchlings to the sea. I was a proud mama when the last dove out of sight.
I didn’t think it could get more magical than that, but I was wrong. Friday had been a “half boil” of about sixty, with another sixty eggs remaining. The team continued to monitor the nest, none so zealous as I. The next day I popped up at 6AM to scrutinize the sand; loitered at sunset; and returned around midnight, prime turtle “boiling point”. And repeat, the following day. And repeat. For three days, I sat on that nest like I’d laid the eggs myself.
It was an unusual nest. Turtles ventured out in small clutches. The team fretted. I hovered. Sunday night – turtles on the beach. We all raced at the 911 call, but it was a troop of only eight. Monday no action was expected, but a humdinger of a storm. I was stuck on a call with Comcast. Knowing I’d be on hold forever, I trotted down to the nest, phone pressed to my ear, wind whipping. Team members were in situ. The signs were there. Comcast became unimportant. I dropped to the beach, and chatted. Lightening danced across the sky to the west. Our time on the beach would be abridged. We were debating how much, when I saw shadows on the sand. An endearing mini-mob of loggerheads crowding out of the nest. The last wave. By this night, the tide was miles away, so we gathered our new friends into the trademark Red Bucket.
The turtles were three-deep, teeming to go. When the last was collected, they passed the bucket to me. I, team newbie, was handed the Red Bucket. It was a reverent moment. We hastened to the water’s edge, where I carefully released my charges. I was proud and relieved as each dove into the next phase of its journey.
The next morning at inventory, the team recovered a dawdler. My son and I gathered with the usual crowd to bid our last ward farewell. The lone occupant of 3A scrambled toward the ocean, turning at the waterline to crawl over my son’s foot in farewell, before disappearing with a flap of his flipper.
It was bittersweet as the little guy disappeared from sight. Tomorrow I’ll find another nest to fuss over, but for now there’s a little hole where 3A used to be. I’ll always remember my first. See you in thirty years, my friends. After this taste of being on the Turtle Team, I know I’ll be here waiting for you.
I’ve had my share of crushes before, but it was only this year that my heart was stolen so completely that I became a stalker. It was the adorable occupants of 3A. I couldn’t stop thinking about them. I found excuses to cruise by their place every morning and every evening. I scrutinized the minutiae of their existence. Had anything changed since yesterday? Had they had any visitors? Who were these other women hanging around?No, 3A wasn’t an apartment of virile young men. It was a loggerhead sea turtle nest located on Isle of Palms beach between third and fourth streets, and I was in love. I’d been floating on the fringes of Charleston’s “turtle society” for two years, introduced by friend and fellow writer Mary Alice Monroe. I arose at the crack of dawn to attend every inventory, my sleepy son in tow. I met the wonderful turtle team, formidable wielders of the Red Bucket, whose dedication and passion for these creatures is selfless. And most of all, I fell in love with the turtles. There is nothing more adorable than a hatchling sea turtle; nothing more inspiring than its determined trek across a fraught beach; nothing more heartening than the moment they catch a wave.
I loved every encounter, but I craved the zenith of turtle monitoring. I wanted the boil – hatchlings pouring out of a nest like a pot bubbling over. Then along came 3A. A convenient ten-minute walk down the beach from my house, this became MY nest. I’d find excuses to wander by (“It rained a drop . . . better check the nest!”). I sent unsolicited “updates” and photos to team members. I pestered them about the schedule. One day, my stalking was rewarded. The sand showed the first signs of emergence, kicking off a series of evenings camped beside the nest.
(concave in sand = activity)
(ghost crab predation!)The team indulged me. The first few nights, nothing. Then a handful. Then came Friday.
This was the night. I was sure of it. I was provisioned like Lewis and Clark: I had my four year old, his DVD player, a beach blanket, chairs, bug spray, snacks, kindle, water. I was there for the long haul. I sat in the company of the team, chatting merrily. So much that we were startled to see a turtle crawling by. We hopped to action, shepherding seven “scouts” safely to the sea. The sun had just set. After that, stillness. Indications of emergence ceased. All the hot action was going down on Sullivan’s, a nest poised to go. 3A was a sleeper. The rest of the team headed home or to Sullivan’s. There would be no action here tonight. I decided to keep company with my nest a little longer, popped a new DVD on for my son, and settled into my kindle. At 11:30, I flashed the red light over at the nest, intending to gather my things. And saw the hole. Which became a diminutive turtle head. Then two. Then three. Small beaks poking from the sand. Waiting.
I grabbed my son and we watched the magic happen, just the two of us. Under the remnants of a supermoon, we saw a tiny army assembling under the sand. Finally, the leader crested, and turtles poured from the nest in his wake, wave after wave. It was enchanting. We were breathless when the flow stopped, then raced down the beach with the light to play false moon, luring the hatchlings to the sea. I was a proud mama when the last dove out of sight.
I didn’t think it could get more magical than that, but I was wrong. Friday had been a “half boil” of about sixty, with another sixty eggs remaining. The team continued to monitor the nest, none so zealous as I. The next day I popped up at 6AM to scrutinize the sand; loitered at sunset; and returned around midnight, prime turtle “boiling point”. And repeat, the following day. And repeat. For three days, I sat on that nest like I’d laid the eggs myself.
It was an unusual nest. Turtles ventured out in small clutches. The team fretted. I hovered. Sunday night – turtles on the beach. We all raced at the 911 call, but it was a troop of only eight. Monday no action was expected, but a humdinger of a storm. I was stuck on a call with Comcast. Knowing I’d be on hold forever, I trotted down to the nest, phone pressed to my ear, wind whipping. Team members were in situ. The signs were there. Comcast became unimportant. I dropped to the beach, and chatted. Lightening danced across the sky to the west. Our time on the beach would be abridged. We were debating how much, when I saw shadows on the sand. An endearing mini-mob of loggerheads crowding out of the nest. The last wave. By this night, the tide was miles away, so we gathered our new friends into the trademark Red Bucket.
The turtles were three-deep, teeming to go. When the last was collected, they passed the bucket to me. I, team newbie, was handed the Red Bucket. It was a reverent moment. We hastened to the water’s edge, where I carefully released my charges. I was proud and relieved as each dove into the next phase of its journey.
The next morning at inventory, the team recovered a dawdler. My son and I gathered with the usual crowd to bid our last ward farewell. The lone occupant of 3A scrambled toward the ocean, turning at the waterline to crawl over my son’s foot in farewell, before disappearing with a flap of his flipper.
It was bittersweet as the little guy disappeared from sight. Tomorrow I’ll find another nest to fuss over, but for now there’s a little hole where 3A used to be. I’ll always remember my first. See you in thirty years, my friends. After this taste of being on the Turtle Team, I know I’ll be here waiting for you.
August 6, 2014
Dolphins, Sunset and Miracles...
I had probably the best dolphin viewing of my life yesterday. I've been writing hard and at the day's end I needed to get some fresh air. I took a very willing Buster and Maggie for a walk to our favorite spot-- the bridge at Breach Inlet. Had a feeling I'd see the dolphins. They often feed in that churning water when the sun lowers.
The sky last night was magnificent. As I reached the top of the Hunley bridge a single, large black cloud hovered over the distant water like a great ship. Beneath it, rays of the day's last light poured out on the water. But where the Ravenel Bridge stood strong against the horizon, the sky opened up to golden light. Three dolphins were cavorting in Breach Inlet. After a few minutes, two dolphins swam across the water right under where I stood. Humans can be such vain creatures. I like to think the dolphins came directly to me, but I know that is merely wishful thinking. Buster put his paws high on the railing so he, too, could watch the dolphins below. I was happy, but didn't know what was about to happen...
On the small patch of beach below the bridge a father and son were surf fishing. Farther away, closer to The Boat House, four young children played. The dolphins drew very near them along the shore, to their utter delight. Curious, I walked closer toward them, enjoying the sight.
When, to my wonder and surprise, I saw what appeared to be a big wave hurtling toward the beach right in front of the children. That was no wave! Three dolphins pushed fish onto shore, beaching themselves as they snapped up fish. It all happened so fast! The children were leaping in excitement! Fish were flying! I laughed out loud! I'd never seen a "strand feeding" here at Breach Inlet, and never in front of humans. Such bold dolphins. They repeated the effort twice more to the cheers of diners at the restaurant.
The skyline deepened, turning the water that signature lavender and silver that shines iridescent and elicits sighs from those of us lucky to see it. The dolphins arched and dined a short while longer, then disappeared. People along the bridge put their cameras away and returned to their cars. The children on the beach continued to stare out with the hope of youth.
I tugged the leash for Maggie and Buster to begin our short walk home. As the sun set, I wondered if all those folks realized how lucky they were to have witnessed that amazing spectacle. It's rare. As I walked, I said prayers of thanks all the way home for the gift of the dolphins, the beautiful sunset, and for living in the lowcountry.
Dolphins, Sunset and Miracles... I had p...
Dolphins, Sunset and Miracles...
I had probably the best dolphin viewing of my life yesterday. I've been writing hard and at the day's end I needed to get some fresh air. I took a very willing Buster and Maggie for a walk to our favorite spot-- the bridge at Breach Inlet. Had a feeling I'd see the dolphins. They often feed in that churning water when the sun lowers.
The sky last night was magnificent. As I reached the top of the Hunley bridge a single, large black cloud hovered over the distant water like a great ship. Beneath it, rays of the day's last light poured out on the water. But where the Ravenel Bridge stood strong against the horizon, the sky opened up to golden light. Three dolphins were cavorting in Breach Inlet. After a few minutes, two dolphins swam across the water right under where I stood. Humans can be such vain creatures. I like to think the dolphins came directly to me, but I know that is merely wishful thinking. Buster put his paws high on the railing so he, too, could watch the dolphins below. I was happy, but didn't know what was about to happen...
On the small patch of beach below the bridge a father and son were surf fishing. Farther away, closer to The Boat House, four young children played. The dolphins drew very near them along the shore, to their utter delight. Curious, I walked closer toward them, enjoying the sight.
When, to my wonder and surprise, I saw what appeared to be a big wave hurtling toward the beach right in front of the children. That was no wave! Three dolphins pushed fish onto shore, beaching themselves as they snapped up fish. It all happened so fast! The children were leaping in excitement! Fish were flying! I laughed out loud! I'd never seen a "strand feeding" here at Breach Inlet, and never in front of humans. Such bold dolphins. They repeated the effort twice more to the cheers of diners at the restaurant.
The skyline deepened, turning the water that signature lavender and silver that shines iridescent and elicits sighs from those of us lucky to see it. The dolphins arched and dined a short while longer, then disappeared. People along the bridge put their cameras away and returned to their cars. The children on the beach continued to stare out with the hope of youth.
I tugged the leash for Maggie and Buster to begin our short walk home. As the sun set, I wondered if all those folks realized how lucky they were to have witnessed that amazing spectacle. It's rare. As I walked, I said prayers of thanks all the way home for the gift of the dolphins, the beautiful sunset, and for living in the lowcountry.
I had probably the best dolphin viewing of my life yesterday. I've been writing hard and at the day's end I needed to get some fresh air. I took a very willing Buster and Maggie for a walk to our favorite spot-- the bridge at Breach Inlet. Had a feeling I'd see the dolphins. They often feed in that churning water when the sun lowers.
The sky last night was magnificent. As I reached the top of the Hunley bridge a single, large black cloud hovered over the distant water like a great ship. Beneath it, rays of the day's last light poured out on the water. But where the Ravenel Bridge stood strong against the horizon, the sky opened up to golden light. Three dolphins were cavorting in Breach Inlet. After a few minutes, two dolphins swam across the water right under where I stood. Humans can be such vain creatures. I like to think the dolphins came directly to me, but I know that is merely wishful thinking. Buster put his paws high on the railing so he, too, could watch the dolphins below. I was happy, but didn't know what was about to happen...
On the small patch of beach below the bridge a father and son were surf fishing. Farther away, closer to The Boat House, four young children played. The dolphins drew very near them along the shore, to their utter delight. Curious, I walked closer toward them, enjoying the sight.
When, to my wonder and surprise, I saw what appeared to be a big wave hurtling toward the beach right in front of the children. That was no wave! Three dolphins pushed fish onto shore, beaching themselves as they snapped up fish. It all happened so fast! The children were leaping in excitement! Fish were flying! I laughed out loud! I'd never seen a "strand feeding" here at Breach Inlet, and never in front of humans. Such bold dolphins. They repeated the effort twice more to the cheers of diners at the restaurant.
The skyline deepened, turning the water that signature lavender and silver that shines iridescent and elicits sighs from those of us lucky to see it. The dolphins arched and dined a short while longer, then disappeared. People along the bridge put their cameras away and returned to their cars. The children on the beach continued to stare out with the hope of youth.
I tugged the leash for Maggie and Buster to begin our short walk home. As the sun set, I wondered if all those folks realized how lucky they were to have witnessed that amazing spectacle. It's rare. As I walked, I said prayers of thanks all the way home for the gift of the dolphins, the beautiful sunset, and for living in the lowcountry.
July 29, 2014
Adventure Awaits Just Beyond Charleston
Tourist season is full-throttle here in Charleston, South Carolina. When friends or family come to visit, the familiar what to do, where to eat questions arise. Isn't it what we all want to know when we're visiting somewhere?
I recently had the opportunity to contribute to Traveler of Charleston Magazine's blog. Instead of highlighting the usual hot spots in the Charleston area, I focused on a gem located not far from city limits. Said to be the birthplace of sweet tea, the charming, historic town of Summerville is special to my Lowcountry Summer Trilogy and my new novel THE SUMMER WIND.
Click here to read my guest post highlighting why it's a perfect day-trip adventure for anyone visiting the Holy City. Thank you, Traveler of Charleston! And make sure to sign up for a free subscription to the visitor magazine. What are your favorite gems outside of the city of Charleston?
Summerville: Adventure Awaits Just Beyond Charleston
I recently had the opportunity to contribute to Traveler of Charleston Magazine's blog. Instead of highlighting the usual hot spots in the Charleston area, I focused on a gem located not far from city limits. Said to be the birthplace of sweet tea, the charming, historic town of Summerville is special to my Lowcountry Summer Trilogy and my new novel THE SUMMER WIND. Click here to read my guest post highlighting why it's a perfect day-trip adventure for anyone visiting the Holy City. Thank you, Traveler of Charleston! And make sure to sign up for a free subscription to the visitor magazine. What are your favorite gems outside of the city of Charleston?
Summerville: Adventure Awaits Just Beyond Charleston
June 21, 2014
Road Warriors for The Summer Wind
SummervilleAtlantaHendersonvilleSavannahVero BeachCharlestonNewberryPawleys IslandOcean Isle Beach
Big cities, small towns. That's a short list of all the places my sister Ruthie and I heading over then next few weeks. We're burning up highway miles right now for a 30-city book tour to celebrate this week's release of THE SUMMER WIND. This is a special time for me, magical even, as a writer--meeting fans, re-connecting with booksellers, swapping stories and celebrating together another published novel.
We are all in this together. Readers make it possible for me to live out my passion as a profession. I'm grateful everyday. Booksellers have the extraordinary power of paring their customers with the perfect book. Titles they believe are interesting, memorable, thought-provoking, even life-changing.
Thank you for your literary support. Thank you for turning out in big numbers at these special events. From luncheons, to receptions, and after-hours gatherings. I hope you can join me at a book tour event. Meet my sister too! The complete tour schedule is on my website. Let's toast together...celebrating the arrival of THE SUMMER WIND and the official start of the summer season.
If this book tour is nowhere near your neck of the woods this go-round, feel free to recommend your favorite bookstore to me for a future book signing event. Maybe it'll be on my list of stops for the 2015 summer book tour.
I'll write more from the road soon. Thank you!
November 22, 2013
What Makes a Fairy Tale Endure
All children, except one, grow up. ” Peter and Wendy, by J.M. Barrie
This is the first line from my most favorite children’s story--Peter Pan. I have always loved the cocky little boy with a “shortish name” and the funny address “second to the right, and straight on till morning.” I’ve lost count of the times I’ve read this beloved classic…as a child, as a mother and now a grandmother. When I was little I dreamed of flying off to Neverland with the Pan and imagining what it would be like to see the Lost Boys and Hook and of course everyone’s favorite fairy Tinker Bell.
What is it about the story of Peter Pan that endures all these years after J.M. Barrie penned the original in 1911? I’m not the first person to write something inspired by the tales of Peter Pan and I won’t be the last. What makes this fairy tale timeless and relevant more than a century later?
I believe the secret lies in the innocent charm of Peter Pan's enduring youth, his invincibility and endless quest for adventure. And, too, his boyish conceit. He really is to this day just too adorable. He steals the hearts of young girls, and makes adult women either want to mother him or wish they were young again.
I’ve mentioned before that the spark for writing SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT came from a dream… one about Wendy. I awoke wondering what became of the girl who had to grow up?
I felt young again as I brought Wendy to the page, this time from a different perspective. In SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT, Wendy is a ninety year-old woman living in a converted nursery in London who believes she is Peter Pan’s Wendy. Even as an old woman, Wendy's faith in magic, the Neverland, and Peter remained as immutable as the stars. Wendy had grown up--had become quite old-- yet she'd kept the innocence and joy of youth alive in her heart.
Years ago when I wrote the book, my mother lay dying in the room next to my office at home. She had cancer and it had been my honor to nurse her. I didn’t realize it at the time, but writing the novel was my personal way of coping with my mother’s final days. As one reviewer wrote: "While the original Peter Pan story revolved around Peter's attempt to delay Wendy's transition to womanhood (he took the children on her last night in the nursery), in Second Star we find Peter Pan (the Guardian of the Dead and the Lost Souls) is pivotal to the now aging Wendy's transition to the next life - which as the book suggests, may also be in the Never Land."
Only years later, when I revised SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT, could I see in retrospect what I had not realized while writing the book: the parallels between the fictional story of Wendy's transition to the next life and the reality of my mother’s anticipation of death.
One of my favorite lines in the book comes from Wendy telling the heroine, Faye, a story about how Tinker Bell had given what-for to a sulking Wendy.
Like Wendy, my mother's eyes could sparkle with mirth and she'd love to have a little fun. It brought me comfort to write the ending of the book. By the time I finished it, my mother had passed. In retrospect, I wonder if perhaps she was the fairy on my shoulder.
Maybe we all need a little magic in our lives. To keep the innocence and joy of youth in our hearts--especially during times of stress. Even if you don’t believe in fairies I hope you'll entertain the possibilities of stars while reading SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT.
CLICK HERE to watch a video about why this novel is so special to me.
This is the first line from my most favorite children’s story--Peter Pan. I have always loved the cocky little boy with a “shortish name” and the funny address “second to the right, and straight on till morning.” I’ve lost count of the times I’ve read this beloved classic…as a child, as a mother and now a grandmother. When I was little I dreamed of flying off to Neverland with the Pan and imagining what it would be like to see the Lost Boys and Hook and of course everyone’s favorite fairy Tinker Bell.
What is it about the story of Peter Pan that endures all these years after J.M. Barrie penned the original in 1911? I’m not the first person to write something inspired by the tales of Peter Pan and I won’t be the last. What makes this fairy tale timeless and relevant more than a century later?
I believe the secret lies in the innocent charm of Peter Pan's enduring youth, his invincibility and endless quest for adventure. And, too, his boyish conceit. He really is to this day just too adorable. He steals the hearts of young girls, and makes adult women either want to mother him or wish they were young again.
I’ve mentioned before that the spark for writing SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT came from a dream… one about Wendy. I awoke wondering what became of the girl who had to grow up? I felt young again as I brought Wendy to the page, this time from a different perspective. In SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT, Wendy is a ninety year-old woman living in a converted nursery in London who believes she is Peter Pan’s Wendy. Even as an old woman, Wendy's faith in magic, the Neverland, and Peter remained as immutable as the stars. Wendy had grown up--had become quite old-- yet she'd kept the innocence and joy of youth alive in her heart.
Years ago when I wrote the book, my mother lay dying in the room next to my office at home. She had cancer and it had been my honor to nurse her. I didn’t realize it at the time, but writing the novel was my personal way of coping with my mother’s final days. As one reviewer wrote: "While the original Peter Pan story revolved around Peter's attempt to delay Wendy's transition to womanhood (he took the children on her last night in the nursery), in Second Star we find Peter Pan (the Guardian of the Dead and the Lost Souls) is pivotal to the now aging Wendy's transition to the next life - which as the book suggests, may also be in the Never Land."
Only years later, when I revised SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT, could I see in retrospect what I had not realized while writing the book: the parallels between the fictional story of Wendy's transition to the next life and the reality of my mother’s anticipation of death.
One of my favorite lines in the book comes from Wendy telling the heroine, Faye, a story about how Tinker Bell had given what-for to a sulking Wendy.
"Whatever it was inside of me, whatever kernel deep within that enabled me to believe in fairies, in Peter, in the Neverland itself, this was my source of strength. No one could ever take that away from me. As long as I believed, no matter where I was or with whom, I'd always belong. Because I was at home in my own heart." Wendy reached out to cup Faye's cheek in her palm. "Knowing that I have a fairy on my shoulder, I have nothing to fear." -Second Star to the Right
Like Wendy, my mother's eyes could sparkle with mirth and she'd love to have a little fun. It brought me comfort to write the ending of the book. By the time I finished it, my mother had passed. In retrospect, I wonder if perhaps she was the fairy on my shoulder.
Maybe we all need a little magic in our lives. To keep the innocence and joy of youth in our hearts--especially during times of stress. Even if you don’t believe in fairies I hope you'll entertain the possibilities of stars while reading SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT.
CLICK HERE to watch a video about why this novel is so special to me.
October 30, 2013
Day of the Dead Memories
Is it really Halloween tomorrow? Has the first fall holiday already descended? Where has the time gone? When my children were at home, we had such fun decorating the house. We carved pumpkins and baked the seeds in soy sauce, worked tirelessly on costumes (always last minute changes), planned the trick-or-treat route--it was all engrossing. Now that Markus and I are alone, Halloween is, well, a bit lame. Yesterday I went to my storage bins and pulled out my electrically lit pumpkin, dusted it off and plugged it in. Done. I sent off Halloween books to grandbabies. And I bought the necessary bag of Snickers candy bars "just in case" we get a trick or treater, knowing full well we haven't had a ghost or monster at our door in over four years and I'm just going to eat the whole bag myself. Even still... I get that glow that always comes on the eve of a holiday. The air grows thick with anticipation. I am a confessed holiday nut. I love to decorate my house for all of the major holidays, saving the big guns for Christmas, of course. Even then, however, with the children gone, and with them some of my energy, I'm now taking a more relaxed approach. My children are no longer at my heels pointing to their favorite decorations, oohing and ahhing with excitement at seeing the decorations again and pleading for me to put it on display. There were years there wasn't an empty space in the house for one more decoration. Instead, now I enjoy being selective. I choose my favorites, those that carry special memories.
In the box marked "Halloween" I spotted a raggedy scarecrow at the bottom. A sad, neglected thing. My heart clenched at seeing it again. This decoration once belonged to my mother. Late in life, in an uncharacteristic gesture, (the mother of ten children, after we all left she rarely decorated) she had purchased this scarecrow at some local store. For some reason I can't fathom, she really liked it and put it out every fall in the small condo she'd retired to after Daddy died. When she came to my house to live for the final months of her life, she brought this scarecrow with her. I inherited it by default. It wasn't an antique or coveted piece of silver or jewelry. I don't know why I kept it. I'm a pack rat, I suppose... I got teary eyed, of course, seeing it again as memories rushed.
I always get a bit emotional this time of year. The trifecta of holidays are approaching: Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year. This year we have a wedding to boot. The season of family gatherings, good food, laughter. A time memories are as vibrant and bittersweet as the colors of the leaves outdoors.
Halloween, and more, Day of the Dead, is becoming for me not a time for costumes or trick or treat, but more a time of remembrance. I look to the Day of the Dead and its connection with the Christian triduum of Hallowmas: All Hallow's Eve, All Saint's Day and All Soul's Day for a meaningful holiday. When I wrote The Butterfly's Daughter, I wrote about what that holiday included for the Mexican culture-- building private altars called ofrendas decorated with marigolds, honoring the beloved departed by displaying there photos of loved ones and their favorite possessions, eating their favorite foods. Wecelebrate the lives of our beloved departed. Those whose memories brush against our hearts and minds like the gossamer wings of the migrating monarch butterflies on their journey to sanctuary. This time of year is an opportunity to educate our young ones of family members they've never met but whose memories still live on in our hearts and minds. It is also a time to remember the best of the living as we prepare for the great celebrations with family and friends to come.
I retied the sagging bow of that scarecrow, stitched a slight tear, and put it in a place of honor by the front door. I set beside it a photo of my parents, thus making my own simple ofrenda. I think of mama each time I pass it. This year it's time for me to pull out some of my holiday treasures from my storage boxes and pass them down to my children. To give them the joy of the memories the now raggedy and chipped decorations carry in each nook and cranny. Perhaps they'll share the stories with their children. As the earth blankets itself in preparation for winter, what better way to keep the home hearths warm than sharing memories?
September 26, 2013
OH, THAT BEGUILING SMILE!
Thank you to Traveler of Charleston for letting me be a contributing blogger this month. This visitor magazine is a valuable resource when planning your next getaway to Charleston or just a day trip.
My blog post is about the magnificent bottlenose dolphin. Even though the summer season has officially ended, we can enjoy the sights of these intelligent creatures year-round, here in the Lowcountry. Read on...
Picture yourself at the beach. Toes in the sand, book in one hand, a beverage in the other. Your eyes gaze upon the Atlantic horizon lazily watching the rolling waves when suddenly a dorsal fin briefly arching above the water catches your attention. You set your gaze on where you think it will pop up next. It does. the sight makes you sit up straighter and fills you with a child-like spirit of excitement. Spotting a wild dolphin feels like a gift.
Click here to read full article.
My blog post is about the magnificent bottlenose dolphin. Even though the summer season has officially ended, we can enjoy the sights of these intelligent creatures year-round, here in the Lowcountry. Read on...
Picture yourself at the beach. Toes in the sand, book in one hand, a beverage in the other. Your eyes gaze upon the Atlantic horizon lazily watching the rolling waves when suddenly a dorsal fin briefly arching above the water catches your attention. You set your gaze on where you think it will pop up next. It does. the sight makes you sit up straighter and fills you with a child-like spirit of excitement. Spotting a wild dolphin feels like a gift.
Click here to read full article.
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