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Those moments when you can spontaneously interact with a wild animal, one on one, in their environment - whether it's under the ocean, on a mountain, in the middle of the desert - are pretty special, life changing even.
"Ah Maria! Ah Maria!" Juan calls excitedly from the bow of his 18-foot fishing panga, the Caribbean Queen. We're just outside of Baja California's Magdalena Bay, and I wonder if Juan is exclaiming jubilant Hail Mary's, when the reason for his excitement comes into view - a domed turtle shell floating on the ocean surface in the distance, a tern perched atop it. For a minute, I consider that it might be a hunk of discarded rubbish, but as we approach, the tern alights and the turtle attempts a slippery escape.
Before it can dive under, my husband Matt jumps into the cold Pacific and grabs the large creature from behind. His legs kicking and his face barely above water, he steers the turtle toward the panga, where the rest of the crew - Juan's brother Gabino, schoolteacher Louise Hayward, University of Baja California student Melania Lopez, field assistant Marc Taylor, and the instigator of the project, Wallace "J." Nichols, help lift the turtle onto the boat. Juan jumps into the ocean on the opposite side, fully dressed in jeans and a shirt. Laughing, he climbs back on, fully dressed and soaking wet from head to toe, and says "I don't know why I jumped in!" We all get a good chuckle.
Despite appearances, we're not seeking meat for turtle soup, but data and canaraderie. I'm joining in a day of turtle scouting and research with Nichols, escorted by two fishermen, Juan and Gabino Sarrabias, from the Baja California town of Puerto San Carlos. Juan tells me amarilla - pronounced "Ah Maria" - means yellow, a name for Loggerhead turtles in the local lingo, but this turtle turns out to be an Olive Ridley.
Nichols, a University of Arizona doctoral student, hires the brothers as boatmen to take his crew-of-the-moment out with their fishing panga. "I can't say enough about these guys," says Nichols. "They are very honest, super fishermen, and really into the project." Even though he could easily rent his own boat, Nichols likes to give back to the communities he works in, and has formed some genuine friendships and loyal turtle fans along the way.
Nichols is here for more than just his doctoral research. Besides an inordinate fondness for turtles, he holds some unorthodox ideas about the interplay between science and conservation. Amid many biologists that prefer to remain dispassionate about the subjects of their research, or who desire little interaction with local citizens, Nichols stands apart. He believes conservation, science, and community involvement go hand in hand - particularly in countries like Mexico where endangered species law enforcement is sparse, despite strict laws prohibiting harvest or possession. "It's a combination of greed' and need' that perpetuates the illegal activities," Nichols says. "Turtle is still considered the sea's best food' and even politicians regularly partake."
In spite of many obstacles, Nichols has succeeded in influencing attitudes, arousing interest, and effecting positive changes in the way Baja citizens from around the peninsula think about sea turtles. Using a 'bottom-up' approach, Nichols encourages people he encounters - including fishermen, students, teachers and professionals - to help out in his conservation and research efforts. He regularly hires or trades with Baja fishermen in exchange for acting as boatmen while his crew scouts for research turtles, and encourages them to record information on turtles they spot when he is not around.
The turtle work has become "their project" as much as Nichols' own. He downplays his role in the effort, "I view our work as a partnership," says Nichols. "I played a part in getting it going but now it's just a matter of feeding it, or getting out of the way if necessary."
The term Community Based Conservation' (CBC) has been coined for the type of community involvement Nichols cultivates. CBC is perhaps best known in Africa, where wildlife refuges regularly employ Africans as refuge guards to prevent poaching, and biologists and eco-tourist companies hire locals to haul gear or lead wildlife safaris.
In Latin America, CBC is a newer concept, but few doubt its effectiveness - if done properly. In a chapter on CBC and sea turtle conservation for an upcoming book, Smithsonian Institution's Jack Frazier states, "Realistic conservation practices must be integrated with, and supported by, the communities that interact with the turtles and their habitats." Frazier notes that it's not unusual for people to wrap themselves in the shroud of a noble conservation cause when their real motives are exploitation or self promotion, but he says, "In J.'s case," he says, "this is not a reality. J. is a person with great personal charm and honesty."
Likewise Greg Carter of Ocean Resources Foundation (ORF) says, "We cannot venture into Latin America and tell the locals this is the way they should live their lives. We can only lead them to draw their own conclusions and change their customs for the consideration of their children, because they feel it is right." ORF helps supports Nichols' project through research grants and public education.
The sound of the 55 horsepower motor humming over the ocean is interrupted by more excited pointing toward another Olive Ridley with a tern perched upon its shell. "I no look for turtles, I look for birds!" jokes Juan in English. Marc and Matt jump in, and guide the turtle toward the panga, lifting her sixty-pound bulk over the edge.
Over the next couple hours, we find and capture four turtles, all Olive Ridleys, and three donning perched gulls. The Ridleys are an unusual catch - Nichols has only seen twelve total Olive Ridleys at sea in the past six years he has worked in Baja. Once the turtles are on the panga, Melania Lopez places a t-shirt over the turtles' heads to calm them. The reptilian beasts squirm and crawl on top of each other, but their activity quickly abates. I reach down to stroke one of the turtle's necks. I am surprised at the soft feel to the cool reptilian skin. I didn't expect it to feel so, well, alive.
"It seems that as a society we are moving further away from the animals, although we care so much about them," Nichols says. "Those moments when you can spontaneously interact with a wild animal, one on one, in their environment - whether it's under the ocean, on a mountain, in the middle of the desert - are pretty special, life changing even."
I watch the way my husband, a long-time outdoor enthusiast, is radiant from his one-on-one interaction with the sea turtles, and I understand what Nichols means. Hands-on turtle work means more than us helping the turtles; it is also about the turtles changing us.
In addition to the community based conservation, Nichols started an international network of students, teachers, aquariusts, and conservation organizations that follow the global movements of his satellite-tracked sea turtles using maps and the Internet. A few of these teachers and a group of students raised funds to travel to Baja to help out with the turtle work in person, versus from the classroom. Louise Hayward, who is with us today, came down so that she could make the project more alive to her students who track the turtles during the year.
With the afternoon sun growing long in the sky, we head back to San Carlos where Nichols and crew will measure, weigh, and id-tag each turtle. After that, they will release the turtles back into the vast Pacific.
On the way, we stop at a laid-back island town for snacks. Not ten feet from where we beach the panga is a pickup bed used as a trash dumpster, and inside lies the rotting carapace of an adult Loggerhead turtle - one that might have been the perfect size for a satellite transmitter. . .
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