WINTER IN THE SUN
WINTER IN THE SUN; Where the Turtles Hang Out
By JULIE LASKY;
Published: October 30, 1994
LAST spring I hiked to a remote shore on the island of Culebra, down a milelong trail edged by thorny branches and lighted by fireflies, to be midwife to a reptile. Situated 52 miles east of San Juan and 12 miles west of St. Thomas, Culebra is a lovely, rather rustic part of the Puerto Rican commonwealth consisting of 7,000 acres (including surrounding cays) and 1,600 inhabitants. Like Vieques, a sister island nine miles to the south, Culebra attracts sun worshippers from the continental United States in winter and vacationers from the "big island" of Puerto Rico in summer. Its powdery beaches also lure several varieties of sea turtle, including the giant leatherback, the largest of all marine reptiles. Between February and July, leatherback females, averaging 6 feet and weighing as much as 1,000 pounds, clamber onto Culebra's shores at night to deposit their eggs before returning to the water to undertake a long and (to humans) mysterious migration from the Caribbean Sea to colder waters.
Unlike other sea turtles, of which there are seven species in all according to the Center for Marine Conservation in Washington, leatherbacks venture into open ocean and frigid latitudes. They dive more than 4,000 feet -- even deeper than whales -- to procure jellyfish, their major food source. The carapace that gives them their name also sets them apart from greens, hawksbills, loggerheads, and ridleys, turtles whose carapace is made of bone.
What leatherbacks share with all other marine turtles, sadly, is a place on the endangered list. Threatened by predators, waterfront development, and pollution, these animals may ultimately depend for survival on human efforts to preserve their nesting sites. The 12-year-old Culebra Leatherback Project is a program set up to study and protect the turtle population. And though financed by the United States Fish and Wildlife Service, the program relies on volunteers, including tourists, to help collect data in the nesting season.
Leatherbacks can be spotted on Culebra as early as February, but nesting activity usually begins in earnest in late March. The first nighttime patrol involving volunteers is on April 1, and the patrols continue daily until the end of June. When I arrived on the island on the appointed day, I phoned the project to confirm my reservation. I was told to bring sleeping gear and a flashlight and meet workers from the project at 7:30 P.M. outside the Happy Landing restaurant next to Culebra's tiny airport. Nervous at the thought of a long, foodless night, I drove my rented truck -- Culebra has few paved roads, and four-wheel drive is essential -- to the spot ahead of time to fill up on one of the restaurant's three menu selections: chicken, pork, or beef, served with rice and beans. (I chose, and can recommend, the beef.) I bought two cans of RC Cola and rolled them up in my sleeping gear, which consisted of a shower curtain borrowed from my hotel room and assorted shirts to use as bedding. Already, I was torn between regret for not having brought a sleeping bag and self-congratulation for remembering the mosquito repellent. I was soon joined by Anna Ramirez and Monica Grant from the project, and nine students from Inter-American University on the Puerto Rican mainland. The students, all science majors, smoked and chattered in Spanish with each other or practiced English with me.
Together we drove to the trailhead, where we would begin our half-hour hike to the beach. Monica explained in English, Anna in Spanish, the etiquette of turtle spotting. We were to work in shifts, two people at a time. Each team of two was to separate and move in opposite directions from the center of the milelong stretch of sand and wait at the endpoints for precisely half an hour. (Anna had brought along cooking timers, which can be set easily in the dark, to measure the interval.) Because bright lights may disturb the turtles and send them back to the ocean prematurely, we were cautioned to use our lights only to communicate with each other. If we saw a turtle, we were to signal three times while remaining behind the animal. Under no circumstance could we photograph a turtle with a flash. Thus I found myself strolling along Playa Brava, on Culebra's northern shore, shortly before 11. The slim wedge of moon had long set, and the disorienting blackness was relieved only by the blossom of stars, an occasional gleam of phosphorescence in the sand, and a gaudily lighted cruise ship on the horizon.
THE air was warm and breezy, filled with the sounds of surf and insects. And while I paid close attention to the almost indistinguishable border between sand and water, I dreaded the prospect of having a six-foot-long creature with a 100-million-year pedigree cross my path in this dark, isolated spot.
The cooking timer began to ring. I sent a quick beam of light to my partner at the other end of the beach and received an answering flash. It was time to head back to the makeshift camp at the center where another pair of volunteers would be waiting to relieve us. No one had seen a turtle yet.