Be the moon, she thought.

Linnea walked deeper into the sea, stopping at her knees. Then she flicked her flashlight to white light and let it shine across the waterline to compete with the bright lights of the streetlamps and houses. She watched as the hatchlings turned once again toward the white light, toward the sea. Cara reached the shoreline and, lowering to her knees, tilted the bucket and released the hatchlings. They raced off in their comical fashion, flippers scrambling, forward toward the bright light and home.

Then it was over.

Linnea slowly returned to shore, her heels deep in the undersea sand, the warm water swirling around her thighs… her calves… her ankles. She stepped out of the sea as the last hatchling’s dive instinct kicked in. A winsome smile crossed her lips as the tiny creature caught an outgoing wave, flippers stroking hard. Then, in an instant, it disappeared.

She felt akin to that young turtle, seeking its destiny in the swirling, dark waters. Moving forward, always onward, toward… what?

Cara and Linnea turned in tandem and slowly walked back to the nest. They knelt in the cool sand and in a companionable silence, began scooping sand and filling in the gaping hole. When the nest was closed, Cara smoothed out the surface then placed an X on the top so the turtle team would know that the nest had emerged.

Finished, Cara sat back on her haunches and took a deep breath. There was a unique stillness in the wee hours of the morning. Solitude was keenly felt.

“This never gets old,” Cara said.

“Never,” agreed Linnea.

Cara slid to her side to sit comfortably, appearing not ready, even unwilling, to let go of this serenity. Linnea felt it, too. After so much turmoil, she felt no urgency to pack up and head indoors. The night air welcomed them with gentle breezes, the velvety darkness blanketed them, and the gentle lapping of the waves in the distance was a crooning lullaby.

She thought again of the turtle.

“When the hatchling enters the sea, do you think it wonders what tomorrow will bring?” she asked. “Does it fear the darkness? What propels that young creature to stroke so determinedly, even eagerly, into the unknown?”

Cara didn’t reply for a while. As she sat in silence, Linnea began to wonder if she would, or if she’d even heard her. Linnea joined her in looking out into the sky so dark she could barely make out the outline of sea and surf. Then she heard Cara’s voice.

“Long ago, on a night much like this,” Cara began “my mother told me a story. I, too, was feeling unsure. About a lot of things.” She laughed shortly. “About a man. Should I stay or should I go? Should I marry or live on my own? Should I, should I, should I?”

She paused and Linnea thought about her own litany of should I questions running through her mind.

“Mama told me to remember the turtle,” Cara continued. “ ‘They’re ancient dinosaurs. They’ve been around for over one hundred million years, and they survived all those years because they follow their instincts.’ ” Cara turned to look at Linnea. “Mama looked at me and said, ‘Follow your instincts.’ ”