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.