Read an Excerpt
I'd been thinking of pain and death and loss when the turtles first came to me. I'd been seeking some sanctuary of the spirit-asking for guidance. When I closed my eyes I'd see them-great, graceful sea turtles gliding through the blue waters of my dreams. They came not once, but many times. To understand these visits, I read about sea turtles, photographed them, studied them. But when, in dreams, they still floated up before me, I had to listen to them-to hear the story they would tell. . . .
A woman walks out onto the deck of a ship. It is a cruise ship-the Blue Pearl-famous for its level of luxury. It's filled with happy couples, people escaping, people paying for an illusion of the exotic. But it is early morning and still, and she passes no one as she pads softly on bare feet from her stateroom to the lowest of the outer decks-the one that offers no obstructions between the railing and the sea.
She is calm, perhaps more tranquil than she has been in a very long time. Her stateroom is in order. Her small suitcases and camera bag are packed and sitting on the still-made bed. There is a tip for the woman who has cleaned her stateroom each day and arranged for fresh flowers to be delivered. There is a letter for a friend on the dresser, stamped and addressed and ready to be posted. The bottle of complimentary champagne in her stateroom is unopened. She has avoided her prescription sedatives and antidepressants. She has not been crying. The few passengers who might later recall meeting her will not have observed any particular sadness or air of melancholy about her. Mostly, she will not have been noticed at all, as if the light by which we are able to see each other in her had been snuffed out.
She finds a point along the railing more in shadow than the rest. She drags a deck chair into the shadow with her but does not sit. She looks out across the moon-sparkled night sea. It is warm, and the only breeze seems to come from the ship's forward motion. The wind is barely enough to lift her dark curly hair from her shoulders. Except for the humming vibration of the ship's engines, all is quiet.
She breathes in the salt scent.
She unties the belt of her silk robe and lets it fall from her shoulders as if casually shrugging off a skin. Naked, she steps up onto the deck chair and swings first one leg then the other over the railing. She finds a ledge, just wide enough for her heels, on the outboard side of the railing and stands up. She steadies herself by holding a vertical brace and takes a deep breath. She is not nervous or frightened. She does not regret. She feels only a primal urge to return to the sea from which her ancestors once crawled.
Her compass spins.
She has strong legs and they carry her surprisingly far from the edge of the ship before she begins to drop. It is a long way down, but she enters feet first, slicing into the water. She is drawn through the curtain of ocean. It is strange and enveloping. The warm darkness wraps around her like a shroud.
Time stops.
