A soft knock on the door to my room wakes me from a deep nap and Silvia, the refuge’s resident biologist, peeks her head in and asks, “Listo pour la patrola?” With an excited burst I jump from my bunk bed, grab my headlamp and follow her down the stairs and out on to the beach where Trevor and a couple of other volunteers are waiting. The night is warm, with a strong ocean breeze blowing salty gusts over our heads. We begin the 6 kilometer hike using only the half moon’s calm blue glow to light our way. Far to our left, the low tide crashes ceaselessly, mimicking the sound of distant thunder. Ahead, giant trees lay lifeless on their sides, roots stretching out wide and up into the air casting cool blue shadows across the otherwise barren sand. We pass the sea turtle hatchery and then a small creek which wets our feet.

A few hundred meters past the creek Silvia comes to a stop. In front of us, reaching from the far crashing waves at our left to the low growing costal grasses on our right, is a dark, bold line resembling a single tire track. We follow the line slowly into the vegetation where it becomes hidden. Silvia pulls a red light from her backpack and scans the grass. It is an unnecessary gesture. The sound of a heavy breath, followed by sand hitting my leg makes me turn completely around; leaving me face to hind-flipper with a nesting Olive Ridley sea turtle.

Though small compared to other species of sea turtles, she is easily the largest turtle I have seen in the wild, with a carapace that must measure around 1,200 sq. cm. Her shell is dark and smooth with a steeper curve than I have seen in other terrapins. She lets out another deep breath and, again, sand flies onto my feet as I stand motionless in the red light, watching her skillfully dig her nest. She employs her powerful hind-flippers to hollow out the sand below. One flipper reaches down into the hole and, with the dexterity of a hand, takes a scoop of sand to the surface. After a brief pause, and a breath, she flings the sand and begins the process again with the opposite flipper.

Silvia turns the light off and we sit patiently on a piece of driftwood, waiting for the turtle to finish digging. Soon the sand stops flying and the heavy breaths become more rhythmic. Silvia digs a small, diagonal hole behind the tail leading into the chamber. She gives me a latex glove from her backpack and tells me to reach under with my fingers stretched wide. A moment later the turtle lifts her hind-side briefly and two ping-pong ball sized eggs fall into my hand. I pull my hand out and examine the soft, leathery shells before placing them into a white plastic sack which Silvia has laid out for me. The turtle raises her back again and another pair falls into the bottom of her hole. Within 15 minutes I place 117 eggs into the white plastic sack. Silvia takes measurements of her carapace and notes the placement of the nest of the beach. She takes two metal tags from her backpack and, with an instrument resembling a pair of pliers, places one tag on each of the front flippers. The turtle fills in the empty nest and turns to face the ocean. As we sit in the sand, watching the bulky body crawl back down the beach, the familiar sound of heavy breathing is once again apparent – just to our side in the darkness. Silvia aims her red light 5 meters to our right where another Olive Ridley has just emerged from the sea and has begun to dig her nest.

In all, we find nine nests – some while the mother is lying and others with a second trail where the turtle has returned to the sea. We carry the bags of eggs back along the beach in the direction of the hatchery, stopping at the edge of the river which had previously only wet our feet. The incoming tide has made the water level rise, and as the moon’s blue glow reflects off the breaking river waves it is apparent that the current has also increased. We take a step, then another into the quickly deepening waterway. Fishing bats pluck minnows from the water with their razor-like talons. Far up the tributary, beneath the overhanging reeds and banyans of the mangrove, my flashlight is reflected back as small, red illuminating orbs floating motionless in the water; eyes of crocodiles waiting patiently for their next meal. By mid-river the water is almost to my ribcage and I am fighting to keep the eggs above my head while still retaining my balance in the turbulent current. We emerge from the river on the other side and water pours from my synthetic fiber pants.

We make our way to the hatchery just a few meters beyond and, after recreating the dimensions of each nest, deposit the eggs back into the sand.

Next, we scan the older nests looking for any that may contain hatchling turtles.

We fill two blue tubs with the “tortugitas” – 227 in all – and take them out to the beach for release.

Covered in sand, the group returns to the house for cold showers and dry clothes. It is nearly 2 am and I am worn out from the night’s excitement. I lie down in my bunk bed and drift off to the sound of the crashing ocean outside my door.

The next morning, after a breakfast of fresh papaya and banana, we return to the hatchery. The nests of the turtles which had hatched the night before must be dug up and the contents sorted. I sit on the beach, just outside of the hatchery’s door, with a recently exhumed nest poured out in front of me. The odor of rotten eggs is quite pungent in the warm, tropical air and almost immediately the pile is swarming with flies. The contents represent all stages of the turtles’ development. Most are spent shells from the previous night’s hatch. But amongst these are also unopened eggs, from turtles which died before coming to full term, or that had never began the developing process. These eggs fill more full then the fresh ones I had unearthed the night before, as though time had built pressure inside the leathery skin. I make a hole in an egg to examine the inside and, like opening a can of shaken soda, the putrid, yellow yoke sprays from the casing and splatters across the side of my neck. I open another, this time more gently and on the other side. There is no rotten yoke inside, but rather a small turtle-like form attached to a solid egg sack.

We finish the exhuming the nests and, after burring the mess in the sand, begin the walk back to the house. We are halfway there when a swarm of insects, no doubt attracted the horrible smell of decaying turtles permeating from our bodies, totally envelopes us. They are biting my neck where the egg yoke had landed, and everywhere else for that matter. A cloud surrounds my head and as I inhale two or three are sucked into the back of my throat. I am coughing and spitting profusely, trying with all my might to dislodge the pests from my windpipe, when I see Trevor throw down his shovel and bucket and make a made dash for the ocean. He does a complete flip over a breaking wave and completely submerges himself in the instantaneously relief of the salt water - shirt, shoes and all. As ridiculous as it looks it takes me all of two seconds (and a few more breaths of fresh bugs) to follow suit. I hit the surface of the water with as much force as I can muster and lay under the waves which are rolling over me in a rejuvenating manner. Immediately feeling calm, I raise my head from the sea to find Trevor standing beside me, looking down in concentration, as if trying to recount what had just happened. We look at one another for a moment and then break into a loud laughter. I wipe the salt from my eyes and glance up onto the beach. A line of pelicans in perfect formation glide effortlessly over the beautiful green palms and sapling Ceibas which seem to radiate green and yellow in the orange glow of the setting Sun. “The bugs may be thick”, I say to myself, “but this place is absolutely magical.” I pick up my bucket and shovel and take another look at the beach I will call home for the next two months. Trevor ambles next to me and we both walk back to the house for a shower and some coffee.

I had obviously picked the wrong side of the bus on which to sit. I should have given a bit more thought as to where exactly the sun would be during an early afternoon, southeastern jaunt down the Pacific seaboard of Coast Rica. Now, as my friend Trevor naps a few rows back – on the opposite, shaded side – I am battling with my broken window, which as far as I can tell is permanently stuck in the closed position, trying to get a little fresh air moving to take to edge off of a bus full of passengers and the tropical sun which is barreling down on my cheap sunglasses.

I suppose I am a bit cranky from a lack of sleep. Trevor’s plane had arrived the previous day with no delays and we had celebrated his first night in Costa Rica with my friends Dave and Dan at a few late night places around Alajuela. This morning, with the music still ringing in our ears, we had hailed a taxi to the Coca-Cola station in San Jose, purchased a couple of tickets for Playa Hermosa and, saying goodbye to the city, stumbled aboard the cramped coach. The route was familiar to me as I had taken just over a year ago on my way to Mastatal. It is a windy road which cuts though the southwest slanting mountain slopes, passing lush foliage on its sides and crossing steep creeks which at several points cascade their waters down sharply to join other, larger tributaries also bound for the Pacific. I remember it being a beautiful drive. But today, as I am sitting on the side of the bus facing the intense coastal sun, wedged up against the smoldering glass of a window that, for all my effort, refuses to give me even a scent of fresh air, and wanting nothing more than to catch a few extra moments of sleep before I have to exit and find a way to the refugio on Punta Judas, I am not paying any attention to the view.

Our driver pulls in for a pit stop at an open air market and I have to restrain myself from jumping over the other passengers and making a mad dash for the door. I finally reach the exit in a civilized fashion and, after a few moments of giving my full attention to the marriage of sweat and breeze occurring all over my soaked skin, I begin to survey my options for a mid-trip snack. The market is small, yet big enough to handle a few buses, and is full of people who are traveling from different directions, to different locations, and who are taking a break from it to shop for a piece of fruit or some bread or a plate of rice and beans. I settle on a baggie full of globe grapes and a small piece of pan de maiz and pay the vendor, who gives me a toothless, “Gracias”. I climb back on the bus opportunistically early to seek out any seats on the shaded side which may have become available due to passengers who had reached their final destination. Seated comfortably in my new shaded chair with one arm hanging out the open window and the other lifting grapes into my mouth I glance outside and begin to regain the since of optimism and sanguinity that had thus far been the driving force of the journey.

It is not long after we resume the ride that the seemingly endless downward slant of the road meets with the flattened terrain of sea level. Placing the back of my hand to the window I notice an immediate increase in the outside temperature. The clouds, which have been forming all morning from the condensing moisture in the mountains, now break and allow even more sun to shine down on the vehicle. The trees and dense foliage turn into cow pastures and monocultures of rice and corn. Along the perimeter of these fields, atop fence posts made of live cane, iguanas and whiptails bask, chins held high, in the increasing solar radiation.

We pass the crashing rocks of Playa Jaco’s southern boundary around mid-afternoon and it is not long after when the driver pulls to the side of the road and yells back, “Playa Hermosa, Playa Hermosa!” We step out into the humid, salty air and pull our packs from under the bus, which leaves us in a trail of dust as we turn to assess our new location and to plan our next move. I have no information on how to get to the refuge save for a piece of paper with the name of a furniture maker, Roberto, who I had been told knows the directions. I ask a couple a teenagers sitting at the bus stop waiting for a ride back to San Jose if they know the location of the furniture maker’s workshop. They discuss the question for a few moments and then point their fingers in unison across the street to a pile of felled teak trees. As the late afternoon’s setting sun begins to paint the sky in cotton candy pink, we cross the road and walk up the drive way leading to an open, tin roofed structure. The yard is filled with different species of gorgeous tropical hardwoods lying out to dry. Some are cut into cross sections displaying rich purples and vibrant yellows, while others retain the girth of their beautiful, buttressed roots. Inside the workshop, finished tables, chairs, desks, shelves and cabinets are lined up row after row, some waiting for another coat of varnish, and some just waiting to be delivered.

Two headlights pull into the driveway and the door to an old, International work truck with a makeshift bed on the back swings open. Out steps Roberto in a pair of beautifully detailed leather cowboy boots and a large Tico smile. “Que tal mine?”, he says walking toward us with his hand extended forward. I tell him of our plans to reach Punta Judas and, after negotiating a price, we toss our bags up on the makeshift bed and climb on ourselves.

Riding down a Central American road, on the back of a filthy furniture delivery truck, sitting atop a piece of freshly cut tropical wood in total darkness, is one of those experiences that everyone should try at least once. This particular stretch of road runs parallel to the nearby beach and as the wind blows my hair back behind the ears I can taste the clammy salt sticking to my face and lips. Though the rusting metal of the vehicle amplifies the noise of every bump, it is not enough to drown the melody of cicadas and frogs calling from the rapidly receding ditches and overhanging foliage.

Soon, Roberto slows the truck to a crawl and we make a hard right onto a small dirt road leading off into the dark vegetation. Potholes and water puddles lining the middle of the road push us into the tall grass at the side. As we pull off the path into the undergrowth a startled caiman lifts its large reptilian body from a puddle ahead and clambers into a stand of thick, yellow cane. Giant palm leaves which hang from trees in a plantation to our right brush my face and shoulders as I stand over the cab peering down though the headlights at all the life along this road.

We pass from the palm plantations to fields of rice to horse pastures. Finally a sign which reads,
ESTACION DE VIGILANCIA
PUNTA JUDAS, PUNTA MALA

comes into our headlights and we can see the amber lights of the station house in the blue background. Roberto parks the truck directly in front of the door and a couple of volunteers, Silvia and Abby, are there to greet us before we have time to jump down.

We are set our gear down in our room and grab some dinner. Afterwards we take a small tour of the house and its time to take a small nap. The sea turtles have already began their nightly emergences onto the beach and in 2 hours Trevor and I, the new guys, have first patrol.