SOME THINGS WON'T BE SAVED

They Don't Know They Need To Be

Two weeks ago, I found myself in the dim interior of a backless overwater building, the creaking boardwalks were missing an occasional essential crosspiece. An hour after closing time, it was ghostly and the spiders had begun to create their overnight curtains. One of those fresh threads clung to my intentionally outstretched forearm as I explored the boatshed, amazed at the wealth amassed behind unfinished, decrepit walls. Imposing, bought-to-impress vessels were reflected perfectly on the surface of the dark water.

I discovered this place for the first time just after I began my fourth life (the one where I leave the desert and become immersed in a world of boats). Back then I was perhaps even more to-my-toes astonished at the multi-million dollar vessels floating in tannic Virginia backwater behind unlocked doors with rusty hinges. The occasional bare light bulb dangled dustily. History and untold stories ooze from those floorboards, luxury wooden yachts of the rich and famous stopped here on their way to and from Florida along the Intracoastal Waterway. Celebrity photos, black, white and faded, line the dated office.

Somewhere, behind that reception desk, there is most certainly a genius, and what he offered took hold. Wealthy clients find safety, quality, discretion and knowledge. Atlantic Yacht Basin was one of the few three-generation, family owned and operated places left on the US East Coast. STEADFAST, when she was SIXPENCE, spent time here in the twentieth century, floating beside similarly old-fashioned, glamorous and famous hulls. There are no wooden girls here, today. None to behold. Just rows and rows, sheds and sheds of looming fiberglass power yachts, hundreds of millions worth. In January, this enterprise was sold and there is a five year plan to ‘improve’ all this old school charm and intrigue. They are rescuing a boatyard that didn’t know it needed saving.

Alongside the shining yachts are ancient steel military vessels relieved of duty. My favorite…the maneater.

I followed the walkway out of Shed #3 to find a vessel outside under repair and behind it, for the protection of the environment, was a floating oil confinement system. These are tubes used for a known spill; since petroleum products float on water, they are (somewhat) containable by these devices. Modern ones are made of absorbent material, but these were plastic.

The turtle. A stroke of genius from Mother Nature that can’t win amongst so much unnatural happenstance. I could be a hero, I thought.

As I approached I saw the head and one foot of a turtle attempting to climb out of the enclosure. He (yes, that’s an assumption) couldn’t quite get a grip on the slippery, unnatural surface, so I held down one portion of the wall to let him through. He refused to cross, instead urgently following my fingers with what my imagination or a rare dose of caution told me was his snapper. I pushed the barrier down so he could pass, trying not to allow the shimmery oil to escape, and he would veer his head toward my gullible fingers, which I then hastily withdrew.

Minutes passed; he tried vigorously to reach my tender phalanges. I finally got him oriented so I could reach behind his front feet, therefore avoiding the radius of jaw. I grabbed and placed him on the boardwalk, where he promptly created a round, oily turtle-print. He gazed directly up at me for a very long moment, (no small task for his physiology), and my still-active imagination believed he was thankful.

And then. He does it; turns around with clear intention and climbs awkwardly back into the contaminated space. I, thinking the turtle should know I’m a hero, cock my head both ways to see where the Candid Camera could be hidden. Remember that show? It could be downright hilarious.

Back on the pond I sputter, “I’m doing what’s best, I’m saving him, whether he likes it or not”. We went through the entire routine again. I once again get him extricated; he gazes up at me for long unblinking moments. This time I think to myself, could it be the ‘really, lady??!’ look rather than the thankful adoration I personified the first go-round? Who am I to say? The turtle then promptly returned to his poisonous choice of swimming hole. I glance sarcastically back for the camera again, still squatting next to the second shiny oily outline, ineffectively wiping my grimy hands off.

You can’t save some things. Especially if they don’t know they need saving.

I spy another, smaller turtle within his confines. “Oh, turtle,” I say gently, “Oh no, turtle. Did you go back for the girl?” I laugh out loud in the echoing silence. He didn’t head her way. I’ll never know what was happening inside that reptilian brain.

Was it the girl in the oil slick?

This week I saw three people stop to help turtles across busy roads. My heart warms as I have risked my own hide to save those creatures. It’s the right thing to do but they don’t know they need saving and maybe they don’t need saving. Or maybe they do. Please don’t stop, you turtle-helping types. I’m with you.

Maybe I just want to FEEL like I’m doing what’s best. And when the other entity in question has another opinion altogether? “Enjoy your life!” Is what I should say. We don’t always do what’s BEST for ourselves, do we?

We take risks, we know there are dangers, we go forward anyway. Let freedom ring. ~J

fireworks & the half moon

We celebrated INDEPENDENCE DAY in America this week. Here on the ‘Stack we’re independent writers trying hard to get the word out to folks interested in what we have to say. I’m thrilled beyond words that YOU chose ME. Please feel free to comment, like, share, and restack (all those fancy symbols found top & bottom) because if so more folks can find my work and engage; all of my work is available for free. ~J

Still haven’t finished your coffee? Read last summer’s SAVING story!! You’ll like it.

SOME THINGS ARE WORTH SAVING