Author: Malory Goy

Image: © Vianet Ramos, Unsplash License, Source.

Author: Gaia Masiello

Each group of three volunteers was assigned three nests to patrol in rotation. The first hatching happened on the fifth day of the first week, and I missed it. 
We wake up early in the morning, have breakfast, and by six, we’re all down at the beach for the assignment of tasks. We work until eleven; then it gets too hot. We start again in the afternoon for a few hours, and then we’re all completely worn out. In the first few days, I always volunteered to clean the beaches. It’s the most important job here at camp, but it’s also the most exhausting. If you really had to clean a beach— I mean, really get it perfectly clean— you’d surely go crazy. All sorts of things wash up from the sea, and some trash has deteriorated so much that it’s as small as grains of sand. Only they’re red, green, or purple. You can’t possibly pick them all up, and in the end, it feels like you haven’t collected enough even when your bag is full of garbage. And then, all it takes is one night’s storm, and you’re back to square one. 
The group from the first hatching told us everything in detail. A marvel: a hundred tiny turtles emerged from under the sand in a little eruption, reached the sea, and began their long journey, uninterrupted. They know exactly where to go and how to get there, from the very first second of life.  The nets and plastic waste we collect, we put aside in special bags. We make decorative garlands out of bottle caps that we hang on the bunk beds in the dormitory, and the nets in good condition are cleaned up and resold to fishermen at a symbolic price. With the rest, Antonio, our supervisor, makes hammocks that will always smell of the sea. Some say they smell like fish, though. The rest of the plastic we donate to the guys at MedCleanUp. They recycle it, and with a 3D printer, they make all sorts of things: deck chairs, fabrics, shoes, cell phone covers, and handles. Some of their items are sold at the camp’s reception. 
Starting from the second week, hatchings happened almost every day, and soon all the volunteers could say they had witnessed the miracle of life. When the last marked nest hatched, I still hadn’t managed to see a single one. There were two days left before we left, and I really didn’t want to leave the island without seeing the turtles. Antonio told me I could always come back next year. I kicked the bag of trash I had collected that morning into the pile next to his desk, and he told me I could spend the last day exploring the beaches that hadn’t been patrolled. Maybe I’d find an unmarked nest. But that’s not the point, he told me. I told him I knew, and then I walked away. 
I’m heading to Cala Pozza, and it’s my last attempt. It’s not yet dawn, but I need to hurry because the project’s closing ceremony starts at nine, and the beach is a half-hour walk away. It’s unlikely there’s anything at Cala Pozza, since it’s the surfers’ beach, so it’s busy year-round. But it’s very long, so it’s not impossible that in the north corner where the cliffs start, the spot surfers avoid, there could be an unmarked nest. I have to walk the entire length of the beach to get there, so it’ll be another ten minutes or so. I need to hurry. At this hour, the island is submerged in silence, now that even the wind has calmed. Only the distant sound of waves can be heard. As I walk, I only look at what enters the cone of light from my flashlight. Antonio lent it to me and told me to be careful not to bang it around because it’s a good flashlight, a real one. To get to Cala Pozza, you walk up a path that leads to the top of the cliffs on the south side of the beach; then I have to cross it all the way to the north corner. From the cliffs, I can see the wooden roof of the surfboard shack at the beginning of the beach. I point the flashlight toward the far end of the beach and turn the crank to the largest dot. 
There’s something floating in the water. The waves are pushing something toward the shore. I don’t understand what that is. I am too far away and the light is not strong enough. 
I see dark shapes on the beach.   Bodies. 
They’re people! It looks like four of them. Six with the ones in the water. Maybe more, it’s hard to tell. I feel my stomach drop. One of them stirs in the water.  I don’t remember very well anymore; so many years have passed. 
I remember my voice, though it didn’t seem like my own. I could hear myself screaming, loud. But it no longer felt like my voice.  By the time the sun rose, many of us were there, but by then, it was all useless.