When I was about ten, I’d search out the giant sea turtles that crawled on the pilings just past Hogan’s, the ice cream and sundries concession on the boardwalk that divided Bradley Beach from Ocean Grove. Hogan’s was a white clapboard building. The paint grew thicker through the dozens of summer seasons I knew it. There was a large gap underneath the boardwalk where Hogan’s sat. There was just enough ocean to allow the sea turtles access for a nice respite on the pilings where the ocean ended and Fletcher Lake began. I’d rent a row boat for fifty cents from this older, blond haired kid that lived right across from the lake. My mother didn't even know I did this. I’m not sure if his mother knew he rented their row boat. I’d get in the boat, row toward Hogan’s and hope to see the turtles. The days they were there were all right. I’d hover at a respectful distance to watch them. They don’t move much when they are taking a spell from the ocean. I imagined how good the sun must have felt sinking into their limbs, surely tired from their long swim.
Sometimes
when I went rowing I would have to fight off other kids that tried to knock me
out of my boat and dump me into the lake. It’s funny how that never seemed
unusual or frightening. It just was what
it was. Besides, I was strong and they couldn’t best me. I also knew not to head toward the turtles if
those kids were around. If they had fun trying to knock me off, a turtle would
be that much of a better target. And my sea turtles needed their sanctuary.
Fletcher
Lake is the first body of water I ever heard was polluted. It was the first
time I ever heard the word pollution too. That never meant much to me as a kid
until the day my nephew Ange, about three years old, watched me throw balled up
bread into the lake to see the sunnies come to the surface and grab it. He wanted to try. I rolled some white bread
between my fingers and loaded his little fists with the doughy pellets. With
his first toss, both he and the bread went into the lake. All I could do was bend over the low bulwark
and stare at his submerged face under a glaze of scum in the polluted water. How
the heck did he manage that? ‘My
sister-in-law is going to kill me,’ rushed into my head before I picked him up
out of there. Then, I gauged the sun and how hot it was hoping he would dry
between there and our summer rooming house. That didn’t happen. First words out
of her mouth was a squeal which kind of sounded like, “What happened?” And kind
of felt like I was in big trouble. I mean, several decades later, my nephew is
fine. There’s a moral to that story. Polluted lakes and people can clean up.
And you can’t trust three-year-old’s not to get you in trouble.
from
turtle crossings and crow women (sanctuaries) ~ 10 in bird dreams, riding
hope, - sometimes a fable, weaving
our connections to birds,
meandering rivers and dragons, fermenting miso and consciousness,
wetlands,
our extended kin and ancestors, our mentors, and Wisdom.
Inspired
by actual events and a sense of place and belonging by a woman who addresses
the reader on behalf of the earth
