NOTE: This story was from 2001.  The recent events in along the Gulf Coast made us wonder if the subject of this story is trapped somewhere in the middle of that ecological nightmare

HILTON HEAD, SC- As these words are written, this writer is gazing absently upon the ancient gnarled live oaks and Spanish moss of the very civilized and quietly beautiful Sea Pines Plantation on Hilton Head Island, South Carolina.  This week is family vacation and one night I decided to slip out for a walk on the beach at midnight.

My brother Chadd decided to tag along and we made the short walk down to the beach. As I mounted the boardwalk that spanned the fragile dunes at waters’ edge, I could see the tide was out and a hundred yards of dry sand lay exposed. We turned out our flashlights and walked onto the beach.

Being an exclusive and very stringently regulated area, there were very few lights along the beachfront and it was so dark that the stars appeared to be an expensive glass paperweight that had been shattered and launched into space. Off to the south the lights of Tybee Island twinkled across the Savannah River shipping lanes as small crabs lifted their skirts and scuttled away at our approach.

All this was entertaining, but not necessarily something that would make for an interesting outdoor column. I mentioned this point to my brother, two steps behind as we headed back home, when I nearly jumped out of my damp bathing suit.

In the flashlight beam was a huge black creature. In the spatial disorientation of the night, the thing appeared the size of a dome tent and I jumped backwards, uttering a strangled “Whoaa”. My brother also saw the object and my reaction, causing him to jump and utter a word that stunned a nearby land crab.

After a second, I realized the mountain was an endangered sea turtle, an uncommon visitor to terra firma.  By some quirk of fate, the turtle had chosen near our boardwalk as the place to crawl above the tide line and lay her Ping-Pong ball-sized eggs. This spectacle is seldom witnessed and somehow we had stumbled upon the event just as the turtle began to dig.

The creature was huge, the size of a large coffee table as it slapped at the sand with its flippers. The turtle formed a hole to receive its eggs, which would incubate unattended in the sand for 30 days until the tiny turtles emerged and began their dangerous journey back to the sea.

It was apparent that our lights bothered the turtle and we used them sparingly. After a minute, sudden realization struck me and we sprinted back to our house to obtain another flashlight with a red lens from my bag. While there, we found the phone number for the regional turtle protection agency and made the call. The operator thanked us and we headed back to the beach.

The turtle was still there laying eggs and the red lens worked well. The light was even bright enough to film video proof of our night, in case the spouses doubted the purpose of our late prowl.

We spent another hour watching and listening as the turtle completed its mission. The hole was finally covered with several cubic yards of sand, forming an obvious mound and the turtle began crawling back down the beach, leaving its distinctive three-foot wide track.  After a dozen rest breaks, the surf began slapping the turtle in the face and rejuvenated, it began moving forward powerfully through the water. I removed the red filter and we tracked the animal until it submerged like a nuclear submarine.

Now the beach was as before, except for the mound and the bulldozed trail that would soon disappear. After spending a few minutes contemplating the spectacle just witnessed, we realized the nest was in great danger due to its location at the foot of the boardwalk. With a sense of guardianship, we returned to the nest and engineered an impromptu barricade of beach chairs, a shovel and a trashcan to guard against the feet of early-morning beach walkers.  With a mixture of apprehension, satisfaction and wonderment, we retired back to the house. It was now nearly 3 a.m.

Though I slept late, my brother returned to beach just after dawn. Chadd found marine biologists had just finished moving the nest to a safer location in the dunes, marking the site with stakes and ribbon to prevent accidental destruction.  The biologist said that 124 eggs had been transferred while her assistant remarked that she had never actually watched a turtle build a nest.

After hearing the comments of the biologists, I realized how truly fortunate we had been to witness such a rare event. In retrospect, the whole episode posed that one question that every memorable happening in the outdoors seems to raise: why?  Once again, we are reminded that people are only a small piece in the mystery that I hope is never solved.

I also hope that in 30 days, on another dark night, there are 124 new pieces in the puzzle.

Photo: U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service

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