Tortuga

When I made the late-night post on social media, I assumed that a few people might see it, find it amusing, and then move on. I thought about, and even started a few updates over the past few months, but each time I began writing, I kept thinking “who cares?” and dumped the details. Well, apparently, “who cares” is a lot more people than I assumed. Pretty much every conversation I have starts with:

“WHAT ABOUT THE TURTLE???”

For those who didn’t see my post about the turtle that was gifted to us, here’s a recap: On a Thursday afternoon in mid-November, I was out when our housekeepers showed up for their weekly visit. As I was en-route home in the early evening, I received a text that they had left me a gift they hoped I’d like, but if I didn’t no problem; they’d collect it when they came the following week. And sure enough, I arrived home to a sparkling clean house and a tiny turtle, the size of a small sandwich bun, peering out from a bright green bucket in our foyer.

My post closed with a picture of the makeshift “tank” I’d hastily concocted out of a plastic storage bin, some decorative rocks from our yard, water from our garden hose, and a “wish-me-luck” sign-off for later that night when John would call from London and I’d break the news about a houseguest who would spend at least the next seven days at Casa Priest.

So. Finally. Due to demand that I didn’t know was popular…A Turtle Update:

1 HOUR AFTER MY TURTLE POST:

John called, and his reaction was 100% exactly as I (or anyone who has met my husband for even five seconds) expected: sheer rage. Turtles can live up to a hundred and fifty years, and why would someone unilaterally lay such a huge responsibility on us? The highlight of our midnight conversation included this gem:

“Jesus, Hillary. How the f**k am I supposed to know if our house is f**king turtle-proof?”

DAY 1:

Also not a shock to anyone who has met my husband: John called back early the next morning to wonder if turtles are solitary creatures or perhaps should I be looking into finding this one a friend? Furthermore, his extensive late-night Google research on pond turtle habitats had him re-thinking that maybe the one I’d concocted should be revamped. I couldn’t have been more grateful for his help; I’d also spent the night doing the same searches and finally fell asleep around 3am, deflated. I scoured the pictures he’d downloaded and tried to recreate a suitable turtle Airbnb to get us through the next 6 days.

Throughout the day I added, subtracted, and shifted the garden rocks enough times that when I heard the crack, just around bedtime, I wasn’t as surprised as the poor turtle was when the water slowly drained out of the cheap plastic bin.

Exhausted from the night before and without a better option, I put the turtle in our yard. I mean, heck, it had been on its own before coming to us and would survive until I could figure this out. But. For the love. On Day One I lost the turtle. Who knew being a Turtle Mom was so hard?

DAY 2:

Of course I didn’t know that I was a Turtle Mom until one appeared in our foyer. I reached out to the cleaner who had left it there to tell her I’d already failed. She assured me that the turtle should be fine in our garden, and also gave me…

THE BACK STORY:

Our favorite housekeeper Dounia was driving to work on the careterra, aka the highway, when she saw the scone-shaped shell attempting to cross the road during morning rush hour. Being a Turtle Mom herself to a 17 year old shell baby, she threw her car into park and jumped into the middle of the highway traffic, waving her arms and yelling at the drivers behind her to STOP! As the queue of cars piled up, so did the curse words, colorful hand gestures, and blaring horns, until Dounia plucked the tiny turtle from the pavement, lifted the small shell over her head, turned towards the angry commuters and presented it to the protestors “Lion King” style. Just like that: the curses turned into cheers, the blaring horns into applause, road rage into a celebration of The Circle of Life.

Turns out people in the Costa del Sol have a thing for turtles. But more on that later…

(Back to Day 2):

That morning I had a glimmer of redemption when the turtle appeared on our driveway, by our front gate. One could argue that it was trying to escape, as it was wedged against the sliver of space between the gate and the pavement. But I also happened to note that there was no way the turtle could fit through, and, upon further investigation, that it is the only part of our property that isn’t sealed off to the outside world. Well, well, well. Might our house actually be f**king turtle-proof? Promising my little friend that I’d never lose it again, I popped it back into the green bucket and beelined to the pet store for help.

And, to my surprise, the help – even on a Saturday – was, in fact, refreshingly helpful. As the weekend store manager rang up the reptile tank, I showed him pictures from my phone to make sure I was making the right purchase. He assured me that I was, and from the photos, revealed that our turtle is “una ama” who is about six or seven years old.

“Wait…It’s a GIRL???“

The store manager smiled and nodded as he handed the phone back. My daughter Holly echoed my thoughts perfectly when I texted her the news from the Uber on my way home:

“I don’t know why but this makes me love her more.”

(She also demanded that I immediately put a bow on her, and I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t also the second thought that popped in my head.)

And, speaking of my Uber trip, during our requisite small talk I explained to the driver why I’d just loaded a giant aquarium in her trunk. To which she mused that when sea bass is on her family’s dinner menu, she always buys a little extra to share with their turtle. I got out of her car, thanked her for the advice, and marvelled at how fortunate I was to have been paired with a turtle owner for my ride.

DAYS 3& 4:

The turtle and I got into a routine I devised with advice from the three turtle social media groups I’d joined (of course I did) and Dr. Google. We had Tank Time in the water and supervised Garden Time to “bask” in the sun, as all the while I presented her with my best dining options. Baby kale. Fuji apple. Red lettuce. Baby bok choy. Dried mealworms. Raw shrimp. And of course raw sea bass in a shout-out to my Uber driver. John arrived home from his business trip to the most freshly stocked fridge he’s seen, possibly in entirety of our marriage. And promptly had me ripping the two skewered prawns I’d cooked the night before out of his hand. Until we could get her to eat, I informed, he was to assume everything was for the turtle.

With John finally home, once again as predicted, it took zero time for his Zero Turtle Tolerance stance to flip. I couldn’t bring myself to be as angry as I’d normally be when he pulled me to the front door during my sacred Zoom exercise class to present the turtle’s feat: She had climbed over a curb in our driveway. Now, one could once again argue that she was trying to escape as she was headed towards that little space under our gate. Instead I hoped that she was basking in adulation because I’m pretty sure I’ve only ever seen John that proud when the kids learned how to ride a bike or do long division.

Later that day I took advantage of John being home and put him on Turtle Duty while I went to the DIY garden store to look at a better solution for a water source. Even if we only had a few days to go, Helicopter Parenting was draining.

And, had it been in stock, I would have come home with the pre-fabricated, in-ground pond that the Garden Center Guy showed me from their outdoor water feature range and, of which, he joked that his turtle would be jealous. I left empty-handed but with a list of dimensions, which would bewilder John when I came home. As he pointed out, that said pond would cover the better part of a corner of our backyard.

To be fair, that back quadrant isn’t particularly pretty, nor are we using it for anything else. But what bewildered me was the burning question: Does everyone in southern Spain have a turtle?

DAY 5:

David the gardener showed up. I asked him to be careful with the his electric lawn tools, but he already knew to look out for a minuscule turtle. He and the housekeepers work for the same property management company, and he was there when Dounia had come into work, shaken and frazzled, after her heroic rescue. And he was also there when Dounia pondered where to take the turtle, as she couldn’t take on another. And he’d agreed with the whole team that Casa Priest was the right call. They’d all witnessed our grief when we lost our two beloved doggies last summer and thought that we’d appreciate another four-legged friend. They they also know that we’re animal lovers. And, let’s be honest, therefore suckers.

I asked David his opinion on whether he thought the turtle would be safe and happy at our home, especially since we aren’t in Spain full-time. He echoed Dounia that absolutely, our property is fit for a turtle. Cool, I said, and took him to the back corner of our yard to ask how skilled he is at installing prefab ponds.

David glanced at the reptile tank and cautioned me that it had been turtle hibernating season for at least a couple of weeks. This one didn’t want swim sessions or my baby bok choy. She needed a spot against our garden wall to bury herself for the next few months. In the spring we could talk about turtle garden protocol and water features. But now we needed to do what we two new empty nesters are still obviously finding hard. We needed to let go.

DAY 6:

The turtle showed up in the late morning in the backyard.

Our builder, Oscar, had just arrived to discuss some work he’d been doing on our upper terrace. From our bird’s eye view, I pointed out the turtle as she meandered across the driveway. And as Oscar described to John how he uses a cat litter box to create a “pond” for his turtle, I watched the little shell lumber into the grass. I joined the conversation for only a split second, but when I turned my gaze back to the yard the turtle had already disappeared.

DAY 7:

Thursday. The day that the cleaners had promised to take the turtle back if we didn’t want to keep it.

Except there was no turtle to take, even if we wanted them to.

Dounia had a thorough look around our property, confident that she knows how to detect secret spots that a turtle might find appealing for an extended snooze. She looked around and under each shrub and tree in the garden, careful not to disturb any of the foliage that the turtle may hide under, yet found nothing.

She agreed; the turtle had accomplished what she’d been trying to do since she ventured out onto the careterra the week before; she had shed her hovering hosts and could finally hibernate.

THE NEXT 4 MONTHS

We’ve known for the five years we’ve been in the Costa del Sol that turtles hibernate. Each year we mourn when they disappear when it gets cold and celebrate when they emerge sometime in the spring. Every time we walk into to town, we stop on the bridge over the Rio Verde to play “Spot the Shells.” The thrill of seeing our turtle friends appear like magic when the weather gets warm never fails to make us as giddy as if we were catching a glimpse of Antonio Banderas on the paseo.

But, being responsible for a turtle is a whole different game. Our turtle was hibernating (or at least we hoped), yet we didn’t know where she was, if she was safe, or if she would ever come back. I found myself in an unforeseen predicament: Who knew that when you’re missing a turtle, everything looks like a turtle?

Where you might see dead leaves, dirt, and rocks under our hedge…

…I see at least ten possible turtles milling outside our kitchen window.

My heart skipped when I was running errands in town and thought I almost stepped on a turtle…

…until I looked up and saw the funky podlike leaves falling from a tree above.

The day before we were headed away for the holidays, I left home in the pouring rain to attend my women’s group Christmas party. I returned after the storm had cleared to find nothing other than our little miss in the driveway.

I dropped my purse and ran across the driveway as fast, or at least fast as one can in high heels. I told the turtle that I was happy to see her and that I had been worried about her. I told her how strong and healthy she looked, but shouldn’t she still be sleeping?

I texted the picture to Dounia for advice, and, once again she told me not to worry. She said that sometimes big storms briefly bring turtles out of hibernation; she would soon go back to her long nap.

I knelt down and thanked the turtle for stopping by to tell me that she was okay and that I needn’t worry about her while we were gone. It was the only holiday greeting I needed.

I figured we wouldn’t see any signs of our shelled gal when we returned to Spain in February, to the disappointment of friends who were hoping for a little turtle gossip. As John kept reminding everyone, a turtle cameo would be a bad thing this time of year. But after poking fun at me for doing a “turtle scan” every time I peered out of a window or walked through the yard, knowing that there shouldn’t be anything to see, he came clean and admitted that of course he had been doing the same.

MONDAY:

My expectation was equally low when we arrived again last week to low temperatures. March is unpredictable in southern Spain. My local friend put it best last year when I told her I’d be staying the entire month: “Why on earth would you do that? March in Marbella is crap!”

Which is why John forgave me when I let out one of those gasps that at first startles and then infuriates him, the terrible noise that I make inadvertently when it suddenly dawns on me that I’ve missed an appointment or discover a black sock lurking in a load of white shirts after they’ve gone through the wash. This time, when he came running into the foyer and saw me scrambling to get out of the door that the nasty weather had made me avoid all day, he knew immediately what was going on. Our green girl had to be back.

Her neck was outstretched towards the sky, her teeny face taking in the light rain that had just prevailed over the downpour moments before. John watched me race out to welcome her, then race back in to get her snacks, at first shaking his head but then joining me for a selfie.

We figured that she’d just come out because of the storm and would go back to her comfy spot as she did in December. Still, I ventured out to the store in the drizzle to pick up a head of red leaf lettuce. You know, just in case.

WEDNESDAY:

David the gardener motioned me outside. I assumed he wanted to talk about the sprinkler I thought might be broken, but he led me to the other side of the yard and to a pet carrier base I’d left out in December. I’d picked it up when I decided to take Oscar the builder’s advice but was wary that the climb up a ramp to a cat litter box seemed too steep for a mini turtle. A small pet carrier might be a gentler slope with the piece of tile I’d excavated from an old pile of materials I’d found from when our house was built, but it had been sitting in the yard getting murky and, we thought, unwelcoming with collected rain water and leaves. Just the day before John and I had agreed that it was a lousy substitute and would be banished to the basement alongside the reptile tank. But now there she was, peeking out under the red lettuce I’d laid in the grass but which David moved to the carrier when he found her lounging in it. It turns out that turtles like to eat in water. He’s had his two turtles for six years; he would know. I feel terrible that we’ve been doing it all wrong, offering her food on the ground. But it also turns out that I did something right and my “pond” contraption isn’t lousy at all; in fact it’s just good enough. Our home is totally f**ing turtle proof after all.

David told me that everyone at his company refers to the turtle in our garden as “Suerte”, or “Luck[y]” because of her unbelievable fortune to have survived the careterra. I love how much they all love her and look forward to checking on the critter they brought into our lives every week. I admitted that I’ve been contemplating a proper but ridiculously long Spanish name for such a tiny creature, as in Maria Esmeralda Rosalita de la Concha (and whatever nickname comes of it), which has been my front runner. This unstoppable little thing will have an official name someday; one that reflects how she’s captured hearts and created a crew of people who are committed to making sure she has the best life a turtle can have. Starting with the prefab pond which will arrive next week.

TODAY:

Another Thursday; another Cleaning Day.

I couldn’t wait to tell Flores, another member of the team, about the two turtle encounters we’ve had this week. And she couldn’t wait to show me how to coax a third.

I pointed to the side of the yard that I’ve always seen the turtle, but Flores shook her head, went to the opposite side, and started rummaging through the plants. She let out a familiar gasp that sounded just like mine. “HOLA, PRECIOSA!“

I guess the exhilaration of spotting a shell doesn’t just happen to us newcomers to southern Spain. It’s part of the culture of the Costa del Sol. Which, as our new little friend has taught us, is why YES, it’s true. Pretty much everyone in our community has a tortuga story.

And now, so do we.