The Crime Against the Ancient Reptile(Izzy) Jackson listened to the whispering waves as he wandered down the deserted beach, using his walking stick as a support in the shifting sand. The sun was a warm pink lowering into the South China Sea, and he stopped to admire the pastel colors painting the sky. His wooden walking support sunk into the ground slowly, reminding him of his true purpose. He limped slowly, cursing the lame foot that had plagued him since childhood. His eyes darted around the empty landscape, searching for the telltale signs of the vicious reptiles he swore to destroy. His gaze pounced upon disturbed grains of sand leading from the sea to a slight indentation near the rustling grasses. A wicked smile came over his face. He raised his walking stick to reveal a sharp metal point shining on the end of the wooden pole. Walking purposefully to the sandy depression, he viciously stabbed his makeshift weapon into it repeatedly. Finally satisfied, he withdrew his walking stick from the sand, yellow yolks dripping from the spike. He dug in the grains and extracted the only remaining intact egg. Looking around to assure himself of the lack of witnesses, he resumed his limping trek down the beach.

Having finished his evil deed, Jackson returned to his small shack, the walls covered with the stories of his killings. Large, mottled empty shells hung from the wooden panels, shadowing the rows of various bones on homemade tables decorated with eggshell mosaics. The turtle egg was drained and cleaned, kept as a trophy of sorts. A quiet knock on the rotting wood of his door did not seem to surprise him, as he simply turned his head toward the creaky frame and murmured a quiet “come in” to the mysterious visitor. A young boy of about ten years old peeked his head through the doorway, fearlessly approaching the intimidating man. “I’m here for more stories,” he said eagerly. “You tell the best stories.” For the first time that day, the gruff Jackson’s lips curved upward in a genuine smile. This boy did not understand the evils he had committed, instead viewing his conquests with childlike wonder. He gestured to a small stool, and the boy immediately took a seat. “It was 20 years ago, I was about your age,” he began. “I loved the ocean, the rivers, the animals that lived there. I would spend entire days, dawn to dusk, splashing through water to find and capture little snails and eels and pollywogs to study. One day, I found a turtle. It was a rare occasion; I had never seen one in person before, so naturally I was overcome with excitement. Of course, I had to capture it. I stepped toward it, but as soon as I got within arms’ reach it stretched its head and bit my leg. I had no way of knowing it was a snapping turtle, but it knew I was a threat. I refused to admit defeat, and again it tore at my leg, severing vital nerves.” Jackson briefly wondered if this was too graphic for a young boy but dismissed this thought. After all, he was young when he was attacked; he was simply preparing the boy for the cruel world that awaited him. The boy stared awestruck at the turtle-killing veteran before him. “I limped back home, but it was too late. Nothing could be done for my leg, and it has remained unusable to this day. After that encounter, I swore to destroy all turtles, so no little boy would ever be threatened again.”

The boy’s wonder was unbounded. Here stood a hero, one who worked for the greater good. Jackson, with his noble purpose, had all his admiration. He wished he could become like Jackson and eradicate plagues which threatened human life. After hearing more stories from Jackson about his most recent conquests, the boy left, determined to become more like his role model. The boy did not, could not understand the ramifications of Jackson’s deeds, each of his killings moving the innocent reptiles closer to extinction stab by stab. His only thought was to continue Jackson’s work, believing he could be a hero too. He fashioned a spear out of a small stick, clumsily creating a blunt point with a flat rock. He set off toward the beach, leaning on the stick as he had seen Jackson do. Approaching the sand, he prepared to stab his crude spear into turtle nests. His disappointment was great, however, when he realized he didn’t know how to identify where the eggs laid. Determined to follow in Jackson’s footsteps, however, he decided to venture into the sea to find living turtles. The current was strong that day, and the young boy was not a very good swimmer. Undeterred by the push and pull of the waves, the boy continued to wade until he could not feel the slimy sand beneath his feet. He began to be carried away, and his splashing attracted many creatures. Among the small fish and curious dolphins was a deadly jellyfish floating in the current, one that could kill a creature two times the size of the boy in an instant. It floated closer and closer, its lethal tentacles fluttering in the waves like a warning flag. The boy saw it and panicked. He flailed and screamed but could not get away. It came closer still, to the point where the boy could see the still-digesting creatures hidden in its translucent body. The boy resigned himself to his fate, his only regret being that he could not live the life of his hero. The jellyfish’s tentacles reached out and wrapped him in a fatal embrace, muffling the anguished moans emanating from the dying boy. Suddenly, another creature appeared. A large oval shadow moved gracefully through the waves, torpedoing toward the jellyfish. It was too late. The boy had died before the sea turtle tore apart the venomous tentacles. The turtle looked at the body in regret and resolved to return him to his loved ones.

Jackson sat quietly in his shack, thinking about the young boy. He missed his company, though he would never admit it. To have someone look up to him and validate his deeds, it was everything. A wild scream jolted him from his thoughts, and he flashed back to his own terror-filled scream as a boy, his thoughts immediately jumping to the young boy. He limped hurriedly out of his shack, but not able to swim with his lame foot, he could only watch helplessly from the beach as the young boy who revered him so much thrashed in the cruel sea. He saw a shadow come to his aid, and his heart lifted in hope. It quickly sank as the boy’s small body became still and rigid. The shadow began nudging the body toward the shore, and an identifiable shape began to take form. Jackson couldn’t believe it. A turtle had attempted to save his friend! And it was now returning his body? The turtle pushed the boy’s body onto the beach, lowering its head to Jackson in…sadness? Did this turtle really regret what happened to the boy? The turtle bowed its head to the boy and disappeared into the waves. Jackson stood silently in shock, his beloved walking stick hanging limply, uselessly by his side.

Jackson had a conundrum. His entire life had been spent hating turtles. Now, one had returned the body of the boy who respected him so much. How could such evil creatures try to help such an innocent boy? Was Jackson’s incident as a child the anomaly? He dropped his walking stick in the sand and scooped up the boy’s body. He slowly approached a dilapidated one-story house, carrying the limp boy’s body, stumbling without the aid of his stick. He shifted the boy’s body to knock on a faded, blue-painted door, lowering his head to avoid the eye contact of the woman who swung it open with a cheery smile. She let out a broken gasp at the sight of the boy’s tentacle-marked face, rushing to cup his stiff cheeks.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice trembling. Jackson slowly explained the series of events, still avoiding her watery eyes. She shook her head vehemently at his continued mumbled apologies. “It’s not your fault, Jackson. I should’ve known this would happen.” She sat on her porch, Jackson leaning heavily against the railing with the boy’s body still in his arms. “Ever since his father died…” she let out a shuddering breath. “He has—had—the same fascination with the sea as my late husband. I should have known it would have led to his death one day; after all, his father was a victim of the waves as well.” She shivered, remembering the bloated, torn-apart body of her husband washed up on the north end of El Nido 10 years prior, leaving her with a newborn at only 20 years old. She swept a hand across her eyes and breathed out slowly. “I…I want to lay him to rest in a place where he felt at peace. Could you help me bury him?” Jackson nodded softly, ignoring the aching in his arms and leg. He carried the boy reverently to a flat patch of dirt just beyond the sand dunes. Slowly he dug a shallow grave with a scooped shell, carefully placed the boy’s tentacle-marked body in the depression and pushed mounds of loose dirt back on top of his frozen figure. He hacked the boy’s name and the date, August 9th, 1989, into a thick, flat rock and placed it on top of the fresh soil. The boy’s mother looked on, her shoulders shaking, a hand over her mouth. After finishing his task, Jackson placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and limped away, leaving her to grieve for her son.

Back in the shack, he rocked back and forth in his chair, deep in thought. The turtle seemed genuinely sorrowful. He studied the biological artifacts scattered around his small home, realizing for the first time that they were once living creatures who had no idea of the trauma he had endured as a boy. He picked up the turtle eggshell he had claimed and looked at it closely, noting the slight texture and leftover residue with a feeling he had never experienced before: regret. His fingers closed gently over the fragile shell. It represented all the evil he had committed, all the innocent reptiles he had slaughtered. Picking it up and cradling it near his heart, he ventured out of his shack on a new mission.


Days passed, but Jackson still did not know how to atone for his sins. He faithfully carried the eggshell with him, wrapping it in a special cloth and keeping it lovingly in his pocket. He burnt his turtle-killing walking stick, vowing never to use one again as punishment. As part of his daily routine, he visited the resting place of the boy. Some days he was alone; other days, like this one, he stood with the boy’s mother. She suddenly spoke, shattering the silence she had carried for two weeks. “He loved you. He thought you were the most amazing man to ever live. He thought you were doing the right thing.” Her eyes studied him carefully. “I see that now even you do not think you were doing the right thing.” Jackson swallowed harshly, the sound audible in the quiet of waves crashing. “I know you are trying to repent. If you want to repent, go back to the boy you once were. Reclaim that childlike wonder for life. Protect ocean life instead of murdering it. Only then will your guilt be resolved.”

Jackson stood stock still, his mind in turmoil. How could he atone for his sins? How could saving insignificant animals bring back the boy? The truth, he realized, was that the action would do nothing for the boy. It would only make himself feel better. How could he justify such an act when the boy who loved him was gone, never to return? The boy’s mother spoke again. “Do not feel guilty. My son lived a good life, though it was cut short. I am grateful for the happiness he felt when he was with you. The best thing you can do for him now is to live well.” She gently pulled him into a hug, the abrupt motion followed by a subtle cracking noise. With trembling fingers, Jackson withdrew the special cloth holding the eggshell and opened it. The once complete shell had shattered into a million pieces that could never be put back together. Jackson made a resolution to do what the boy’s mother had said, leaving the eggshell behind as a memorial to his dissolving guilt and the boy who changed his philosophy.

Jackson finished his life story to a hushed audience. The bright banner reading “Oceana Philippines 2019” fluttered in the silence, whipping in the wind. A few wayward sniffs escaped some of the more emotional members of the audience. “It took me years to forgive myself,” his voice rang out. “It was hard to give up the only purpose I had ever known. Still, I owed it to that young boy. So, for the past 30 years, using my knowledge of turtles, I began finding nests and putting caution tape around them so no one would disturb the eggs. I worked with local law enforcement to catch poachers. I volunteered at ocean cleanup societies to eradicate the plastic that is so harmful to these amazing creatures. And as you can see, I share my story with anyone who will listen in hopes that my mistakes will not be repeated.” His bowed head hid his glimmering tears. “I will always work in the memory of that young boy, whose death brought about a new era of environmental consciousness. I will keep his innocent attitude in my mind always in an attempt to better understand the wonder of this world.” He smiled at the boy’s mother in the audience, her brown wrinkled hands clasped together and tears running down her face. He bent down, his scrunchie-covered wrist flexing to grasp his Hydroflask, and uttered his final words amid thunderous applause: “#SaveTheTurtles.”

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