Can we leave the Olive ridley turtle nesting beaches alone?

Subscribe to enjoy similar stories. The sound of the sea was music—rock music. Hum, roll, crash, cymbal, hum, roll.

We were on the shore, just behind the surf, in complete darkness. When we started sand-walking, the moon had been a scythe in the sky, cutting the dark only a little. Now, the moon had set.

The stars were out. I was walking blind. My marine biologist friend said to me: Close your eyes/ press them with your hands for two minutes/ when you open them again/ you will be able to see in the dark.

In that dreamscape, it sounded like a magical spell. I raised my grubby hands—brined in sea salt—to my suddenly tender eyes, carrying out the spell. Two minutes later, I could see.

A little. There were two layers of waves in front of us, crashing majestically and noisily. Of all things to distinguish, they drew the eye the most.

One was a higher line of waves, pushing out towards the beach with decisive force. The other was a smaller, gentler layer—frothy wedding cake tiers—which shattered into nothing on to the surf. Within the shades of black and grey, I realised the waves gave out a faint bio-luminescence, a touch of neon.

And above them, I could pick out the Big Bear and the Orion’s belt in the sky. Were we seeing from the light from the neon-white foam of the sea, or the pinpricks from the sky? It was hard to be certain. I only knew that as I walked clumsily on the sand, thinking of camels that sailed through grit with not a foot out of place, that this was a special place.

A special place where we awaited sea turtles. There are many things that live in the sea, but they don’t always come to land. Unless they are sea turtles, who spend their lives at sea, making long, oceanic migrations, holding their breath under