IN THE MORNING MUM SURVEYED the battered sweet corn, yesterday so tall and proud. Dad tinkered with the generator. Only the birds were singing. Chellie ran through the swishing wet bush to the rain-pocked sandhills. The sea was calming now, as if its roaring and giant waves had only been part of her dream. But it had been no dream. Clots of foam as big and white as enamel camping plates were bowling along the beach. And the sand was littered with clumps of brown seaweed, like the dung of a vast herd of mythical seacows.
But of Caretta there was no sign.
Chellie scrambled down and ran along the bank of sea wrack. Had the high tide dumped her here among the very refuse which had brought about her death? She searched from one end of the beach to the other and back again, in case she had missed the brown shell somewhere among the mounds of seaweed. But there was no sign of her.
Caretta was gone.
Chellie ran home. The generator was humming. Dad was helping Mum prop up the sweet corn and re-stake the tomatoes.
‘Caretta’s gone!’
Mum and Dad straightened up.
‘The sea has claimed its own,’ Dad said. ‘She’s where she belongs, Chellie.’
Chellie nodded. Her mouth felt too dry to speak, but her eyes felt wet.
‘Let’s all go down and search together,’ Dad suggested. ‘Three pairs of eyes are better than one.’
Chellie nodded again. It was true. Her eyes had been blurry while she searched.
Together they combed all that the sea had cast up overnight. But Caretta was nowhere to be found.
‘She’s gone back to where she belongs,’ Dad repeated, trying to comfort Chellie.
But Chellie could only think of all those hungry mouths in the sea. She did not want to think of them swallowing Caretta’s eggs, their teeth tearing at Caretta’s flippers, her tail, her head. Tears rolled down her sun-warmed cheeks.
Dad seemed to know what she was imagining. ‘It’s the chain of life, Chellie. We’re all part of it.’
Chellie nodded. She knew. But if only Caretta had laid her eggs. If only her babies would be hatching soon . . .