A Few Thoughts About Turtles
I didn’t set out to rescue turtles.
Truth is, if you’d asked me ten years ago to name the creatures least likely to need rescuing, turtles would’ve been at or near the top of my list. I always figured the hard shell they lugged around with them provided all the protection they needed – against predators, the elements, and their surroundings – not to mention a safe and secure place to rest at the end of the day, which is why, not unlike most, I hardly ever gave them a second thought on those rare occasions when I drove or walked past them. “Those things have been around for a million years,” I thought to myself. “Surely they’re good for a few million more without any help from me.” And, on my way I went.
But, about four years ago, we moved into a zoo. Not an actual zoo, but a residential enclave filled with all makes and models of animal life – bobcats, black bears, sand cranes, deer, river otters, alligators, bald eagles – and more turtles than you can imagine. Hardly a day would pass on one of my walks when I wouldn’t see them sunning themselves on the shore of one of the many lakes that populate the development or taking an early or mid-morning stroll of their own from one to the other across the web of residential streets that separated them. They came in all shapes and sizes. Some were adorable. Others had a face only a mother could love. But all were impossible to ignore.
Late one summer afternoon, I happened upon one of them struggling mightily in the South Florida sun to scale the 6-inch curb that stood between him or her and home. As I drew closer, I could tell my new friend likely had been at it most of the day. Its shell looked like a post-re-entry tile on the Shuttle’s heat shield and its legs were weary. Left to its own devices, it would’ve died there in the street. It was never going to get over that curb alone – and it was oblivious to the sidewalk cut out just a few feet away. It needed help and I was it. I bent down, placed my hands gently on either side of its shell, picked it up, walked it over to the water’s edge some ten yards away, and put it down.
A moment later, my friend slipped into the water . . .
Turned out, it wouldn’t be the last time I found myself in that position. Unbeknownst to me, this is “a thing” with turtles. They step off of curbs without a second thought and with very little effort only to realize when they get to the other side of the street, they have no way of getting back up. Their feet are simply too short and their shell too heavy. The harder they try, the weaker they get. Eventually, they give up, but not by choice. They want nothing more than to find their way home. They just can’t get there – not without help. I must’ve “rescued” half a dozen of them that summer alone. The thing is, somewhere along the way, it occurred to me that my initial encounter with my parched-shelled friend may not have been as random as it seemed.
When I was a little boy living in Cheshire, Connecticut, the homes in our neighborhood were built on a steeply-sloped street. As a result, the lots were “stepped” such that there were small slopes leading from one to the other. One day, after a heavy snow, my brother and I found ourselves at the bottom of the slope that divided our neighbor’s home from ours. I’m not sure how we got there, but I remember being unable to get back up. I remember the struggle, fear turning to panic, and our screaming for help. And I remember our mother coming out and standing at the top of the small slope laughing at our tears, our predicament and our failure to realize, at the ripe old ages of 3 and 4, that “all” we needed to do was walk over to the street and come up the sidewalk.
I’ll never forget that moment as long as I live. Come to think of it, maybe I was meant to rescue turtles after all . . .
