Unseen, far out beyond the breaking waves where the water holds black shadows in its depth, the opalescent body still bobs and rolls in the quiet surf. It’s a ghoulish place of first rest now for the turtle babies tired from their long beach crawl and frantic first swim.
Seaweed being their natural realm, they instinctively cling to floating strands of long blonde hair when they reach it. Ten cling there while others crawl on the vacant-eyed face, its contours providing safety for three and then three more. The lee side of one curved arm shelters a latecomer. Half opened palms on both hands–their red-lacquered fingernails catching the moonlight–teem with baby loggerheads.
The little turtles linger there, crawling across and rearranging themselves on angled pelvic bone, tanned bare belly, mounded breast, over swollen lip and upturned lash until the path lit by the moon across their ocean home seduces them seaward. Then, one by one, they slide from their island of flesh back into the sea, leaving the quiescent blonde in her indigo-blue bikini awaiting the incoming tide to move her landward.