A lonely figure appears on the shore, spat out by a mocking ocean. It’s the dead of night and the only sound that can be heard is the gentle lapping of water caressing sand. She has arrived unnoticed. Wheezing, burdened, she begins to scrabble up the shore, her cargo too precious to allow her to pause for breath. There is an urgency about her movement, a steely determination to accomplish the mission for which she has travelled hundreds, perhaps thousands of life threatening kilometres through hostile territory. An open sea smuggler, now a terra firma struggler, she hauls her way through the soft sand, scraping her aching body over the brittle coral cruelly impeding her pathway. Exhausted she stops, unable to carry on any further. But all is not lost. Tenderly, she pats the sand around her. X marks the spot. She begins to dig. Her cargo, vulnerable life, is ready to be deposited in her newly created time capsule.
Suddenly, a spotlight is thrown into her face. A guttural grunt warns others of her presence. They were here. The struggle, the exhaustion, the burden that she was bearing, the mothers bond with her offspring was all about to be permanently shattered. Drained, and devoid of hope, this desperate mother watched as her offspring were picked off one by one.
Ethan awoke. It was the middle of the night, and Kuala Lumpur, like myself, was sleeping. After forty hours away from dreamland, including two flights and a seven hour pitstop in Istanbul, Ethan should have been sleeping too. But something was wrong. Suddenly alert, he spotted a movement out the corner of his eye, squinting he saw a dark shape moving, a blurry silhouette just distinguishable in front of the grey curtains that blocked out the bright lights and intrusive noises of the city. It was breathing. Ethan stiffened, the involuntary response of a human being when they realise that they are not alone. Standing stock still, it appeared to loom over him, willing him to cry out. Stalemate. Ethan holding his breath, a rigid skeleton, paralysed with fear; the figure breathing deeply, holding its ground. The figure took the first step.
“Oh my goodness don’t come any closer!” Ethan cried out, panic-stricken, desperate, his voice curdled by the tight squeeze of terror that was crushing his throat. I awoke with a start, the plea of my friend planting panic in my heart which suddenly decided it wanted to escape my ribcage. As the realisation hit me that there was an intruder, I began to search the gloomy recesses of the room for an indication of where they were hiding, waiting to pounce.
And then, to my horror, I saw him. I small, dark figure standing in the corner of the room, less then a foot away from the end of my bed, so close that I could smell his putrid breath. And it dawned on me that I knew who it was, I knew the identity of this unpleasant manifestation.
It was me.
I had warned Ethan that I was a sleepwalker, he really had no excuse.
I smiled to myself as I recalled our first night in Malaysia. It was certainly memorable. Despite having several sleeps since, as we bounced our way across the Sulu Sea, I was knackered. And yet, I felt alive, excited, intrigued as to what Borneo held in store for me and my friends. We had enjoyed a short day of respite in Sandakan, a city in the North East of Borneo, nestled on the shores of a big lake (that turned out to be the ocean). How can I describe Sandakan? It’s sort of like Northampton in the sense that it just exists. It’s the city equivalent of that kid at school who is just remarkably unremarkable, not popular, yet not hated, getting mainly B’s and C’s and occasionally getting in the football team if somebody else forgot their kit. As a city, it was not unpleasant, not unfriendly and not boring and yet as a small golden paradise appeared on the horizon, a precious ingot protruding from the brilliant blue expanse of ocean, I was excited to have left Sandakan behind.
The engine died and our boat drifted onto the inviting shore of Selingan Island. Sand as fine as what I have to pay when I park in the wrong place, and as golden as a retriever, this beautiful beach welcomed us with a smile. Other than the excited chatter of those of us on the boat, the only sound that could be heard was the gentle lapping of affectionate waves and the occasional soft greeting from a shy local bird. As my feet sunk into this idyllic jewel, the sweet smell of the sea lingering in my nose, I felt like I was in paradise.
My recollections of the day seem a bit vague but as I sat playing UNO with Alex, Ethan and Ben after dinner, I was in a state of euphoric peace, an aura of ethereal satisfaction despite the drained aching that seemed to throb from every sinew and muscle fibre. We had spent some of the day sprawled on the beach, photosynthesising in the gorgeous sun, absorbing the exquisite sight of the indigo ocean marrying the sapphire sky. However, we soon discovered that the island’s treasure trove could only be unlocked when one began to dig deeper than the surface. Just twenty metres from the shore lay a metropolis of life, a city of colour and extravagance. Sea fan skyscrapers dominated the skyline, the reefs council estate, providing a home for a plethora of life, interspersed with Elkhorn coral, rising out of the rock like miniature pylons. Between this magnificent architecture, lay timid clams, glowing brilliantly in the sun like outlandish neon billboards, whilst swathes of fluid anemone’s writhed with the current. It was here that we saw Nemo’s father and his new girlfriend. Unfortunately Nemo wasn’t there as he was at the premiere of the new Finding Dory movie. We also met their new neighbours: confident trigger fish often investigating us just as much as we were investigating them. One even asked to check Alex’s passport to make sure that he had a visa. Clumsy parrot fish scraped their way through the delicate coral asking each other whether Polly really had wanted a cracker or whether this was just a chinese-whisper inspired myth. Intricate sea slugs drifted through the water, beautiful creatures that make you hate the grotty things that we tread on in the dark by accident even more then you do already. I even spotted a large purple starfish doing whatever a starfish does on a Thursday afternoon. Hours passed by and it didn’t get boring. In every nook of every rock, a fascinating resident of the reef would introduce itself. In every busy channel of space, timid specimens would dart off into the distance as I approached, probably assuming that I was a Jehovah’s witness. As the sun began to set, we hauled ourselves out, exhausted but inspired by the city we had just visited. If Sandakan was like Northampton, this beautiful reef was like Miami during Mardi Gras.
Undetected and unharmed, the life smuggler patted the sand around her. Aware that any slight movement, any sign of disturbance, any untoward noise could give the game away, she pauses, aware that time was not on her side. She had reached dry sand: the perfect consistency. Heavily in labour, and labouring heavily, she begins to dig, sand being tossed into the night sky.
Footsteps, slow, heavy, many. Hushed activity. Squinting into the darkness she is unable to see them. But not seeing does not wish them away. Slowly but surely, the gentle tickle of vibrating sand tells her that she is surrounded. She had heard about this, in fact, she should have expected it: the midnight midwives. Suddenly, one of them began to run.
“It’s Turtle time!”
A ranger came crashing into the dining room, a smile wrapped around his face. Immediately, the UNO cards were discarded, flashlights and cameras were grabbed as a rabble of slightly surprised tourists scrambled into action. This was the reason that we had come all this way to the island.
Fighting off the petulant swarm of flies that attacked every inch of skin, we marched across the beach, a long queue of lights dancing its way into the distance. A ring of light began to form in the distance, floodlighting an arena of activity. At the centre of this halo of admiration lay an exhausted Green Turtle. After years at sea, at the rough end of a death-defying journey, she lay sprawled in a self-created pit, using every ounce of energy to swat away unnecessary sand. Then, exerting almost no effort at all, she began to lay her eggs: 96 precious life capsules.
At first I was amazed. In front of me lay one of the most beautiful and mysterious creatures of the high seas, and also one of the most endangered. Migrating thousands of kilometres each year this particular turtle had decided to lay her precious clutch of eggs on a small island, less then a kilometre long, in the middle of the Sulu sea. We were close enough to be able to marvel at her beautiful shell, a smooth dome-like carapace that was probably better travelled then me. Her eyes, though small and teary, looked intelligent, wise.Her flippers, despite her exhausting journey, were still powerfully ploughing through the sand. Here was a caring mother, doing everything she could to ensure the survival of her children.
And then I began to realise the hilarity of the situation. I have never been into a maternity ward before but I have walked past one. I knew it was the maternity ward because I could hear some rude words being screamed and I could see several harrowed men staring forlornly into the distance, recognising that their life was soon to be ruined. Ahem, changed. Sorry for that unfortunately honest typo. I also knew because there was a big sign which said “maternity ward” but this sign was a waste of taxpayers money as the other, cheaper indicators did just as good a job. The thought of paying thousands of pounds to travel across the world in order to visit a maternity ward is laughable. Go on, laugh. Told you. However, here I was, with three other adolescent men (well, two and a half), gawping at an involuntarily exposed mother at her most vulnerable moment. I’m sure if we could understand turtle, she would have been turning the air blue with her acute fury. If her flippers had had fingers (which they didn’t) I’m sure one of them would have been waved in our direction. Far from feeling sick, I was fascinated, watching each moist-looking ping-pong ball bounce into her carefully constructed crib. I suddenly felt terribly rude, almost feeling the need to blush, or apologise for my intrusion.
Sea turtles, including Green turtles and hawksbill turtles, both of which lay eggs on this island, are incredibly endangered. Naturally hunted by sharks, turtles are increasingly killed in accidental collisions with boats or by getting tangled in fishing nets. Tragically, many are also dying as a result of eating the increasing amount of plastic floating around the ocean, mistaking it for an equally unpleasant, yet edible, jellyfish. Oh yeah, I forgot the fact that many people across the globe eat turtle eggs. And adult turtles. Couple this with the fact that approximately 98% turtles never make it to breeding age, it is hardly surprising that the turtle is hurtling towards extinction like a train that leaves London Euston Station at 7:52am with the expressed intention of arriving at Birmingham New Street Station at 10:26 costing just £15.50. Scuppered, screwed, whatever you want to call it, turtles are not in a good place. Therefore, despite my profound embarrassment and slight unease at not only watching a turtle give birth, but also watch as a ranger stole every single egg from right under the mother turtles nose (well it wasn’t actually under her nose but I don’t want to be rude), I was in awe at the dedication of these guardian midwives. Every night, from 7pm to 6am, (thats longer then the train trip from London Euston to Birmingham new Street by the way) these rangers would patrol the island. Each time a turtle arrived to lay eggs, these rangers would wait patiently, then collect every single egg for security. Considering that up to forty turtles will lay each night, this can be an exhausting progress.
But boy is it worth it.
Once the eggs were collected, we left the mother alone to start her lonely voyage back to the sea. Slowly we traipsed across the sand, still desperately fighting off the guerrilla bands of flies that attacked us at every step. making our way to the centre of the island, we came across a field of waste-paper baskets. If the beach was the turtle’s maternity ward, this was the orphanage, for under each waste paper basket lay a precious clutch of eggs.
We formed a small semi-circle around a fresh patch of ground and a ranger began to dig. It was all rather strange. To an onlooker it probably looked like a really happy funeral, like somebody really horrible had died. The sort of funeral you might sing “another one bites the dust” by Queen, at. I half expected somebody to burst into tears or to tell me what a good life the eggs had lived and that they will be sorely missed. Nobody did though and I was really disappointed. Next the vicar came to the front and gave a wonderful talk about how the eggs in the shade would be male because the sand was cooler.
I will avoid the temptation of telling an politically incorrect joke.
“Ok, now you must take a photograph of the eggs,” said our vicar. The eggs were passed around for our observation. I am slightly ashamed to admit that they actually looked really tasty. By this time, the hole was finished.
“Ok, who would like to take a picture of the hole?”
I peered into what was essentially an area where there was slightly less sand.
“No, I think I’ll be OK,” I responded.
Don’t get me wrong, I can appreciate a well crafted hole but photographic evidence seemed unnecessary. I passed. Others did not refuse such an excellent opportunity and I respected them for that.
The eggs were buried and we sang our last hymn. Our vicar then decided that this was far too nice an evening for a simple funeral and decided that we should attend a christening as well. With that, he processed us back to the beach.
There are many wonderful ‘lings’ in this world: ducklings, crackling, my wonderful house mate Milla Ling, but I have to say that their positions as my favourite ‘lings’ all came under threat as I was introduced to turtle hatchlings. Resting on the shore, ready for their release, was a crate full of flailing flippers, a flapping rave of uncoordinated baby turtles. They appeared to be in a frenzy, clambering all over one another, swatting each other out of the way and knocking each other on to their backs. The odd rogue flipper flapped forlornly through the mesh of the crate, like an evacuee waving goodbye to its mother. Other toppled turtles wriggled helplessly on their backs, desperately trying to cling onto any dignity that hadn’t quite escaped them. One by one, guided by nothing but torchlight, these turtles were encouraged into the sea. The last we saw of them were tiny silhouettes surfing in the foam before they disappeared into their life of drifting across the seven seas.
It is sad that most of those turtles would not reach maturity, in fact, many of them are probably already dead. However, there is hope. I said that on some nights, up to forty turtles would lay their eggs. I also said that the turtle that we watched laid 96 eggs. If we assume that each turtle would lay the same number of eggs, that would mean that approximately 3840 eggs would be laid on a single night, the vast majority of which would hatch successfully. If you assume that approximately 2% of these hatchlings would survive to maturity, that means 76 turtles from that night alone. When you consider that at least one turtle has laid on the island each night for the last few years, you can work out that an enormous number of turtle hatchlings are being successfully released. Thanks to the selfless dedication of the midnight midwives, it is possible that hope for the turtle is not completely lost.
They say you should always leave your audience wanting more. Well, half an hour later, I almost had one of my fingers ingested by a suicidal kingfisher…
adios
Comments