The trouble with going on turtle patrol alone in the middle of the night is that for people afraid of the dark, it's a horror flick where the never-ending music is on the screeching violins. And the trouble with being afraid of the dark is that it sounds ridiculous as a reason for refusing anything.
So, on turtle patrols I went.
Out there with a little headlamp where only the infrared bulb was allowed (white light scares away turtles), paranoia. The wind is high. I will myself not to run away screaming with every rustle of a leaf. Still, chagrin, as it gets hard to walk doubly fast in the fine sand. Easier on the firm sand along the waterline. But the waves are deafening and in the limited light, look dangerously like they're rushing in to devour everyone, anyone on the beach. I don't walk anywhere near the waterline.
The sky is invariably black and heavy with stars. Is it sucking me into space, or is it coming crashing down me on earth? Am I breathless from the expansive sight, or suffocating because I'm too small to bear the weight? I have to look away, focus on the sand. But I dwell on Chicken Little, I might know him.
It's always a relief when patrol ends, when I throw down the headlamp and flee to bed.
But then, a new perspective presents itself unexpectedly - in a motorcycle sidecar.
If you look up into the laden night sky as you hurtle along the narrow path snaking through the forest, it's almost as if you're travelling through space. What a rush.
