A Few Words Beforehand While browsing through some old files recently, I came across this story again. I wrote it about 25 years ago, after accidentally stumbling across the newspaper article mentioned above on the internet. The memories in this story, however, aren't entirely my own. They actually belong to my ex-wife, who experienced all of this herself as a little girl. This is also the only piece of writing I've ever had published for the absolutely staggering fee of 50 euros, so I thought I'd share it with you. After all, you don't get to look back on a writing career like that every day. :D And since my English skills once again weren't quite up to the task of translating my own story, I had to enlist the help of the internet. I hope the result doesn't sound too strange to you. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 06/08/01 **Stray Sea Turtle Lays Eggs on Spanish Tourist Beach** Malaga (dpa) – A sea turtle has strayed onto a bathing beach in southeastern Spain and laid its eggs in the sand. Normally, these animals choose African coastlines far away from settlements and tourist resorts as nesting sites, conservationists from the Centre for Endangered Species in Malaga explained. It was the first time in a long while that a sea turtle of this species had laid its eggs on a beach on the Iberian Peninsula. According to press reports on Sunday, police officers and conservationists are guarding the eggs around the clock on the beach near the small town of Vera, in the province of Almeria. They want to prevent beachgoers from getting too close. Experts expect the young sea turtles to hatch in mid-September. A tourist had witnessed the mother turtle crawling ashore a week earlier, digging a hole in the sand and laying her eggs there. The animal then disappeared back into the sea. In the Mediterranean, these turtles, which can grow up to a metre in length, are threatened with extinction because they are finding fewer and fewer quiet beaches. / ©dpa --- Like a sluggish giant, only half-awakened by the emerging tide of mass tourism, the little town of Lloret de Mar dozed in the Spanish summer sunshine of 1965. Bored holidaymakers, enjoying their newfound prosperity, strolled through the sultry streets, looking around with varying degrees of interest at the little souvenir stalls lining the seemingly endless beach. Their merchandise appeared to include just about everything, from shimmering seashells and knives adorned with tortoiseshell to postcards depicting the local scenery. One of the day's special attractions was watching the fishermen, whose boats were moored close to the bathing beach, as they brought their catch ashore or mended their nets. So it was hardly surprising that news of the unusual catch spread across the beach like wildfire, eagerly absorbed by every holidaymaker as a welcome break from the monotony of a day in the sun. The curious hurried across the hot sand in their beach sandals, readying their bulky cameras so as not to miss the chance of an unusual snapshot that they could proudly show to their astonished friends and family back home after the holiday. The little German family was no exception. They had just been standing at one of the souvenir stalls, debating whether the tortoiseshell-handled knife or the simple fish carved from driftwood would make the nicer souvenir. Now they quickly joined the growing crowd, eager to secure a good viewing spot for their little five-year-old daughter, from which she could get a good look at the fishermen and their unusual catch. The little girl cheekily squeezed her way to the front, taking care all the while not to let go of her mother's hand. And then she spotted it: the enormous sea turtle. At the sight of it, a radiant, utterly captivating smile spread across her little face, smeared with sun lotion. Her brown eyes grew enormous beneath the shade of her wide-brimmed sunhat, seeming almost determined to rival the sparkle of the sunlight reflected off the sea. Excitedly, the little blonde tugged first at her mother's hand and then at her father's open shirt, making it virtually impossible for him to take even a single decent snapshot of the fishermen's hectic activity. By now, four of them had managed to haul the huge animal onto the beach. Ignoring its flippers thrashing about in panic, one fisherman looped a rope around its head and one of its hind flippers, while another pulled a knife from his belt and approached the now-restrained giant. At the sight of the gleaming blade, the joyful smile on the little girl's face turned into a startled gasp. Fearfully, she pressed herself against her mother's hand, tears welling up in her big eyes. Even her father, who could finally have taken the long-awaited snapshot, lowered his camera and looked anxiously from the fishermen down to his daughter, his hand ready to cover her eyes at any moment and spare her the sight he feared was about to come. But to everyone's relief, there was no blood. The fisherman climbed onto the turtle and used his knife to carve his initials, MR, Miguel Ramos, into its shell, marking it as his catch. Afterwards, they tied the other end of the rope, with which they had bound the gentle giant, to a post and let it crawl back into the sea. The little girl watched the fishermen suspiciously, unable to understand why they made no attempt to stop the animal. Instead, two of them pushed their way through the onlookers and ran towards the promenade, where the hotels and restaurants were located. She looked up at her father questioningly, but all he could do was shrug in bewilderment. By now, the turtle had disappeared back into its element, with only the occasional twitch of the rope tied to the post proving that it was still out there. Most of the sensation-hungry spectators had got their coveted snapshots and, since nothing more interesting seemed likely to happen here for the moment – much like Lloret de Mar itself – the majority of the crowd dispersed along the beach to continue working on their tans. Some looked visibly disappointed by the brief spectacle, which had nevertheless become one of the highlights of their holiday. The mother of the little German family wanted to turn her attention back to the problem of choosing the nicest souvenir, too. But the little girl at her side stood rooted to the spot and could not be persuaded to move, despite every assurance that the animal would be all right or the promise of an extra-large portion of ice cream. She looked questioningly first at her mother, then at her father. Finally, a muffled, pleading “Daddy?” escaped her lips. Defeated by his daughter's gaze, he beckoned Miguel over. In response to his questions, the fisherman, who spoke passable German, explained what a rare catch he had made and that his brothers had set off to ask around at the hotels and restaurants to find out who would pay the best price for it. Until that had been settled, the turtle was to remain in the sea, so that the soup could be made from what he described as lovely, fresh meat. At the word “soup”, all the little girl's defences crumbled. Huge, salty tears, probably enough to fill an ocean of their own, left clearly visible trails across her little face, smeared with sun lotion. A wail and sobbing, whimpering and howling burst forth from the depths of her little soul, enough to break anyone's heart. Every attempt to calm the little one down or finally get her away from the fishermen met with about as much success as trying to empty the Mediterranean with a thimble. Whenever her parents picked her up to take even a single step away from the spot, the little waterfall erupted into an almost hysterical scream. The child had decided to give full vent to her grief and outrage right there until a solution satisfactory to both her and the turtle had been found. The amused and accusing looks from the remaining onlookers and the fishermen were slowly putting the poor, helpless parents in an embarrassing situation. While the mother tried to comfort this little howling creature with a particularly loving embrace, the father quietly slipped away from the scene as unobtrusively as possible, wearing a worried but determined expression. Heaven alone knows whether one of the increasingly extravagant promises the desperate mother made to her daughter finally brought her to silence after a good quarter of an hour, or whether the little one simply had no tears left to shed. In any case, the hysterical crying slowly subsided into dry sobbing. Exhausted, the little girl pressed her bright red face against her mother's bosom. Her convulsive gasping seemed to be slowly calming down. Perhaps this would have been a good moment to carefully move her to somewhere less exciting. But the mother hesitated when she noticed that her husband was nowhere to be seen. Unfortunately, she hesitated a moment too long, because the two fishermen who had gone in search of a buyer with deep enough pockets now reappeared on the beach, accompanied by a stout Spaniard dressed in the white clothes of a chef. The fishermen eagerly set about hauling in the rope that held their valuable prize. The little girl apparently failed to notice the fishermen's critical glances at one another over the lack of resistance from the rope, for her eyes were already beginning to prepare for another veritable flood of tears. But before that could happen, her father unexpectedly appeared beside her again and whispered something in her ear. He accepted the mother's withering glare without so much as batting an eyelid when she noticed his wet blond hair, his damp swimming trunks and the telltale salt marks left by freshly evaporated seawater on his tanned skin. The little girl now watched the rope intently as it was slowly pulled out of the water. The moment the fishermen hauled the cut end of the rope ashore, every tourist within earshot suddenly discovered an unsuspected wealth of Spanish swear words and curses. In direct proportion to the fishermen's growing fury, the little girl once again began to bestow her heart-melting smile upon her father. He picked up his radiant little daughter and gestured to his wife to follow him, for he was suddenly in a great hurry to get away from the furious fishermen. A few steps away from them, the mother stopped. Apparently expecting an explanation for his sudden disappearance, she gave her wet husband a thorough once-over and spotted the tortoiseshell handle of a souvenir knife beneath his shirt, tucked loosely into his swimming trunks. After an incredulous glance from her mischievously grinning husband to the raging fishermen, who seemed intent on invoking the wrath of Poseidon upon the culprit with their curses, she burst into hearty laughter. She quickly took the camera from around his neck, positioned her husband with their beaming daughter in his arms so that the furious fishermen could be clearly seen in the background, and took the photograph that was destined to become the finest souvenir of all. I hadn't thought about this story for a long time, until I recently stumbled across the press report mentioned above on the internet. Although the small town of Vera lies further south than Lloret de Mar, and I never saw the turtle myself, I still like the thought of imagining that the letters MR might have been carved into its shell. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Render in DAZ. Photoshop. No Ai