Does that make me crazy? Possibly...

(2 of 3 posts)
Starting up that mountain, I knew I was in for it with this leg of the race, but I wanted to see what would happen. This sort of behavior always got me into trouble as a child, as my parents will be happy to tell you, and I still haven't learned the lesson. Probably too late at this point.

I knew this portion was more than 2 km, and from what I could see it was nothing but straight up a winding mountain road going up to a towering crest far above the valley. The top did look like about a vertical mile, but no one could be expected to run this entire monster by themselves, could they?

First it was major effort. Then it was worse. My team drove slowly past on the incline, I think I waved and tried to smile, though it probably lost translation on the way to my face and emerged as a grimace. They disappeared around a corner, needing to keep going to not stop or slide.

I was having a similar problem. Trying to keep the cadence of my feet consistent, my steps got smaller and smaller until I was barely inching my way up. Sweat was stinging my eyes and dripping off my face onto the sand as I gritted my teeth and strained and pushed.

It was like going through the stages of grieving.

First: Denial. I can do this. I will not falter, I will not fail. I will not break stride. This isn't as hard as it seems. Pain is temporary.

and so forth.

Second Stage: Anger. Aaargh! I said I wanted this and I WILL have it! I won't let my team down, damnit damnit DAMNIT!

My calves, thighs, toes, back were cramping, burning, screaming. How did my legs get so heavy? Around each corner, I could see no sign of the changeover, just the other racers faltering, struggling, suffering as I was, though they were higher class of athlete and a few passed me. It was like a slug race, though. Slowwww-ly passing, slowwwwww-ly left behind. We gasped encouragement to each other and kept going.

Keep going, keep going. I couldn't see, my eyes stinging from the sweat and sunscreen, couldn't hear for the roar in my ears. Was that my heart? I broke. Dropped to a walk. I forced myself to make it a long-stride, fast as I could, high arm swinging "in your face" walk, but it was still a walk.

Stage 3: Bargaining. I'll start running again at that rock there and not stop again. OK, that wasn't so good. Um, I'll run from there to there, and then walk some more. If I can just catch that guy right there...OK, maybe not, (at this point an extremely fit runner, maybe 75 yards up the trail from where I was collapsed and was hauled into a support car), I'll take 50 sets of 4 steps and then walk...push push push....

Stage 4: Depression I am so letting my team down. They have got to be wondering what on earth happened to me. They're going to wish I wasn't on their team, they're going to hate and blame me, they worked so hard and I'm messing the time all up...

team member Kathy

team member Tom

team captain Graham team member Sara

I stopped and took a very, very deep breath. Bent double. Then straightened.

Stage 5: Acceptance That little shack or whatever it is at the very very top? Well, that must be it. This really is a run to the very top. This is quite the mountain. There's no getting out of it, there's no quitting, so now we just do this thing as best as we can.

This didn't make it any less miserable, but I could see the valley when the leg had started far, far below me now. That the cars were having trouble going up was actually encouraging. My team would know I was working hard for them. Though I'd started out well-hydrated, my tongue was feeling thick, and though my lungs had recovered somewhat with the walking and were ready for more work, the calves and thighs simply couldn't run more than a few yards at a time. I concentrated on how much ground I was covering rather than how fast my legs were going, and that helped. Up, and up, cars and runners alike cautious of getting in each other's way. Under my feet the rubble slipped and shifted, but I huffed and puffed like the little engine that could.

There was a welcome flatter area just before the final curve and peak, and I tried to get up some speed there, but with limited success. Back on the unbelievable incline. By some miracle I made myself move my feet fast enough to approximate an attempt at running as the final summit came...and that wasn't the end either.

But up, and over, and down a small hill, there was my team! The downhill cost me much, but it was such a relief to GO again, and to release my back and legs and let myself flow down the mountain to my team, the muscle fibers pulled so tight now returning to the other direction. It felt unbelievably good. I made sure I ran every millimeter of the way to the checkpoint number, touched Kathy's hand and she blazed off.

I don't remember now much of what I did next. I think I did some walking away from the group for a moment to catch my breath, I know I got something to drink, though whether I acquired it for myself or had it pressed into my hand, I do not recall.

What I never imagined was that Graham would report my jaunt in the Dubai Road Runners newsletter when he wrote up the Wadi Bih race. He sends this out to hundreds of people, by the way. Here it is, in all its glory:

Here are a few nominations for additional awards.

The Dumbest action of the day........ Natalie Van Cleave

Natalie was getting a bit hot under the collar because she was not getting enough running. When she was given a 1.5 km leg she felt short changed. As she came to the change over point she said "Can I carry on and do the next leg too?" We gladly conceded. The next leg was 2.2 km with a climb of 300m. At the top Natalie mumbled that in the history of mankind maybe only 5 things were dumber than volunteering for that leg.

He also emailed to me the following: I just checked out the route on Google Earth. On the two legs you combined up the hill you climbed 324m or 1069 ft. I guess that statistic is going to find its way onto your blog.

How correct he was.

(to be continued---hey, this was a really long race!)

It's no surprise to me I am my own worst enemy, 'cause every now and then...

Ah, the Wadi Bih Relay Race.

(1 of 3 posts)

Now this was an experience. I rode to Dibba on the Northeastern tip of the UAE/ Oman Peninsula with Graham early, early in the morning. Dibba is a little strange in that, if you look on the map, it's Oman, but surrounded by the UAE. A brief flash of the passport is all it takes, less than that if you look like a local, to cross the border.

Our team met up at the Golden Tulip Hotel on the beach overlooking the Gulf of Oman. A team consists of 5 people, one of which must be either a woman or a man over the age of 50.

The sun was in the process of rising as our team of 3 women and 2 men set out. Me, Kathy (UK by way of Australia), Sara (last name Connor, like in The Terminator, no kidding, also UK) and her husband Tom, (our UK fill-in guy; one of the other members fell ill and was prohibited by her doctor to race), and of course Graham. Four of us started the run out together with Tom in the car going ahead to the first checkpoint to take the first solo leg when we got to him.

The way it worked was this: we were given a list of where the changeover points were in distance. There were little numbered signs at each one. We were to record the runner and the time at each changeover, keeping track on our own stopwatch. The distances varied from 0.9 km to 4.1 km for each leg.

We each took legs in turn, first running in the town of Dibba, from the beach and then turning towards the mountains, past a mosque, a huge dam that helps control the waters when they come (completely dry this day, which worked well for us!) and up. The asphalt was soon little more than a memory.


Our team, and other teams, raced along the sandy, rocky road. We went past tiny settlements made from rocks, lots of goats, few people other than racers. My first leg was within Wadi Bih, in the striking, desolate mountains. Steep cliffs rising to the sky on either side, the dry riverbed and road between. I slapped the hand of my team member running in and set out.

It was dry and cool in the morning, and I tried to find good tracks from the tires to run on, listening for the 4x4s coming up behind me or any runners. It was strangely lonely, and I hadn't quite realised how it would be, to be running, having your team come up in the car, whoop and holler encouragement to you as they drove by...and then leave you. Literally in their dust. One couldn't help but think, What am I doing? That's a perfectly good car that I just got out of...

I ran and ran, hoping to get some distance between me and my team before they went by, and they did, and I kept running. The walls of the Wadi towered above me, rocks all around, trying to get a good feel for the ground, not fighting it, trying to pace myself. This was a long, long race, and I didn't want to burn out during the "easy" part.

The line of cars at the next checkpoint came into view after about 15-20 minutes of running, hand slap and done. Raiding the cooler in the trunk ("boot") and then settling into a seat to drive past the next team member taking his or her turn along the course. We juggled the jobs of photography, timing and documenting, laughing lots, pointing out scenery and goats and interesting rock formations to one another. The camaraderie was fantastic. No one pointed out that I was the slowest of the bunch. We groaned when we drove over nasty bits we knew our team member on foot would have to surmount, we admired how quick and hard our teammates were going.

We cheered other running teams, especially "The Pink Ladies", a team with pink ribbons pinned all over their jerseys and hitting up the other teams for donations toward breast cancer research. There were some serious, serious athletes out there. We called encouragement to solitary runners as we passed them in the car, trying to give enough room on the sometimes narrow route. As the race went on, (and on, and on) the course became more and more rugged. There were 13 checkpoints going out, and then we would follow the same route coming back in. In past years the race had gone from the UAE over the mountains and into Oman, but as security was tightened at the border and the number of teams increased, it became less feasible, so now it was an out-and-back course, so as to avoid the border crossing.

At one point Graham managed to run to the checkpoint before we drove up. I boiled out of the car to take my turn. We'd been searching for a large enough rock far enough away from the course to go to the bathroom behind, you see... I think he was tickled to beat us, though he must have wondered where the heck we were.

My turn came up again at checkpoint 10. A shorter leg, and I was getting worried about doing my share. Each runner was to run 15 km of the 75. This bit was not only short, less than 2 km, it also didn't have too much of an incline. I was really wanting to contribute to my team. I wasn't fast, but I am stubborn, and I could see a major, major mountain up ahead, just past the checkpoint where my teammates were waiting. It looked just like the one in the scary macho pictures on the Wadi Bih website. I wanted it.

I started hollering my wishes to my team as soon as I was within earshot. "Can I have this one?! Can I carry on and do the next leg too?! Is that legal?!"

"Yeah!" someone yelled back and I didn't pause, passed them and started charging over the rocks and up the mountain.

Later Graham wrote the following to me: "It is always great to run with 4 (Wadi Bih) virgins (suckers) as you know that at least one of them will fall into the trap of getting the tough leg. However, I have never had such an obliging sucker before."

(to be continued...)

I went out there in search of experience...(I went wandering)

By the time you read this (well, there's an ominous opening statement for you), it will be Friday the 13th and I will be taking on something that has me more nervous than childbirth.

I assume it will hurt less, but then again, one never knows. I hate to tempt the fates with a statement like that.


http://www.wadibih.com/

I am one of 5 members of the relay run team the Wanderers in the Wadi Bih 75 km cross-country race just over the border in Oman. Graham is our intrepid leader. Lots of uphill for runners from super-flat Dubai. Also very beautiful, rugged scenery, the high cliff walls of the wadi, rocks. As far as I know, no deep sand.

We intend to run this along with more than 100 other teams, including the Stragglers, the Waddlers, the Dawdlers, the Crawlers, the Wasters...you get the idea. Each team will have a 4x4 escort vehicle, which presents it's own difficulties.

Last year the race was won in a little over 5 hours. They're going to cut off the post race feed at 8 hours, so we have a goal.

This is what I get for zooming up hills where other runners can see me. I've prepped for the race by being sick and having my left knee and foot both rebel. Nothing like feeling prepared.

But very excited, too.

I have a half marathon next weekend too, but haven't given it more than a passing thought. There will be no team that could be let down for that one, you see. Thus the pre-race jitters.

Right now, we are all crossing our fingers that the rains and wind cease. It's not the weather, it's the possibility of flash flooding that could make this an entirely different sort of race...

Send some positive vibes our way!

Listen, can you hear the distance calling...

Now, I am thinking that as many of you are feeling the chill of midwinter, you may be dreaming, just a little, of coming out to visit us here and getting some sunshine.

So you can get an idea for what you might be in for, (horrendously long flights and jet lag aside,) let me list of some of the things Pat and Colleen got to do while they were guests in our home:

We drove through the desert to the mountains in Masafi so they could buy Persian carpets. They haggled beautifully and got fantastic deals. Thomas secured a tiger-skin pattered rug for himself. We ate in another tiny one-table restaurant. Then we took a slight detour to Umm al Quwain's Barracuda Resort so they could see where we get our alcohol and I could blame them if we got pulled over with the pseudo-contraband in the back. We also found a nicely photogenic herd of camels in the desert, much to our delight, and snapped away.

We went to the beaches several times, the last of which I'm saving for it's own blog entry. Seashells, turquoise waters, and soft white sands, as promised. OK, so it actually rained on this day in the photo, what can you do?

We went out for some grown-up only evenings, including to Apres at the Mall of the Emirates to enjoy cocktails while watching the skiers, and to Souk Madinat for fantastic steaks beneath palm trees, lovely wine, and watching Dhows sail by, the Burj al Arab soaring in bright lights as our view, all beneath a glorious half moon on its back.

We paid the 3 dhs apiece to go into my beloved Safa park, wander on a balmy day, enjoy Malik burgers, and people watch, marveling at all the different sorts of cultures and families in one green space.

Mike photographing Pat and Colleen in Safa Park

We drove through a flood and went to my all-time favorite shopping spree place, Antique Mall, where they showed considerable restraint, and enjoyed Arabic coffee.

There were sunsets, an evening at the Nad al Sheba horse races, sitting around laughing.

Colleen and I donned headscarves and long-sleeved "modest" clothing and I finally got to tour the Jumeirah Mosque to learn about Islam and what it means to be a Muslim. We chased that up with the best lattes in Dubai at Central Perk, and then Pat found a giant bright green caterpillar on our walkway that we made our pet for several days and named "Fatty".

We did an almost drive-by of Atlantis, though I chickened out and didn't drive quite far enough. They'd had enough of my so-called navigating that day anyway.

They heard the soaring call to prayer, checked out the local grocery scene, checked out Bethy's school and Mike's worksite, and even took a day trip to Abu Dhabi to be dazzled by the Emirates Palace.

They saw for themselves the seemingly endless construction, the insane driving styles, the over-the-top cars and architecture, and the warmth of people here towards children.

They got to meet Rani, and Ram, and all approved.

At the end, we wanted them to stay longer...the mark of a truly successful trip.

Lots of photographs, lots of memories. Some blurry, all precious.

At this time I would also like to (very belatedly) thank Colleen for the free use I've made of the photographs she and Pat took on their trip out here for the blog. Thanks Mom!

Bright eyes

Colleen and Pat, I must say, demonstrated what perfect house guests should be. They helped clean, pay for "petrol", and even babysat. encouraging and freeing me to go running. Now that's a great deal.

In return I tried to show them as many of Dubai and the UAE's beauties as I could. They bore up admirably, especially the day I took them to the Gold and Spice Souks. Now, had I taken them the boring direct route, that would have been one thing, but I took them the "I am so completely and utterly lost it's almost not funny" route.

Pat got to laugh at me and Colleen made the best of it by getting some photos of a stretch Hummer limousine on one of the, er, detour tours, so that worked. They were calm passengers in the onslaught of interesting driving conditions as well; construction everywhere, U-turns, crazy drivers (hopefully I wasn't considered one of them...at least I didn't go twice the posted speed limit!), and signs that led one inexplicably astray. (Never follow the signs if you can help it.) I assured them that I drive much more aggressively in Dubai than I ever would in the states...you have to.

They may or may not have believed me, but they didn't argue the point. Probably worried I'd crash if I got agitated enough. As it was, I managed to have only one accident while they were here.

We finally got to Dubai Creek. The Souks are one of the best parts of Dubai, in my opinion. They are colorful and a colorful cross section of the population as well. Tourists, Indians, Iranians, Emiratis, all beneath the carved wooden beams overhead that encompass the market.

You notice they are toting the kids. This was a major bonus for me. One kid is pretty manageable, two could be a handful in a place with so many interesting people and crannies if they so chose. Along the way we ran into several people who wanted to hold or photograph the kids. Usually they want to hold Thomas and photograph Bethy. Thomas made a man missing his two-year old son very happy, and Bethy was presented with 50 dirhams after she posed for a photo for an Iranian. (Her allowance is 5 dirhams a week, so this was quite the windfall for her. I couldn't tell her no. )

The Iranian man, like every Iranian I've ever met once he learned that we are Americans, was extremely emphatic in informing us that he loves Americans. Not likes, loves. In other words, don't fall for the anti-American flag burning propaganda from his government that you see on the news now and then. Iranians feel pretty bad about it.

The Spice Souk is a treat for the eyes and nose, to be sure, but the Gold Souk has a particular effect upon people:

It's pretty overwhelming with the sheer amount of riches, store after store. Lots of bright sparkle, sold by the ounce. Described as "exhaustive", there are more than 300 jewellers. If you want your seriously over-the-top kind of bling, this is the place.

The effect of all that gold on girls

We managed not to buy anything, oogling the sights and the folks who were haggling away. We got to see the Abras on Dubai Creek, QE2 at port, and to make the kids very happy, to that oh-so-exotic restaurant for lunch...Applebees.

Oh, you want to know about my accident? Well, it was one of those things. I backed into a piece of metal sticking out from a broken grocery cart corral at one of the malls. Punched a nice fat circular hole in the bumper of Bird Car. Pat got another laugh out of it (we all did) and Colleen defended me vehemently. It was, after all, beneath my line of vision.

Souvenir.

The long and winding road that leads to your door...

A solitary camel in the morning light regarded us through long lashes as Colleen and I got back on the road from the Al-Hadd Sea Turtle Reserve. I wondered how the men were dealing with the kids. I needn't have worried; both kids were sound asleep after their late night, and Mike and Pat were relaxing with coffee by the sea.

Breakfast was memorable in that even though every care was taken to give us a delightful outdoor experience, the flies were so unbelievably thick I ended up breaking bites of toast off a piece sandwiched between two plates, sneaking them out and hustling them into my mouth before they could get covered with the buzzing black insects. Not appetizing at all.

I will eat a lot of things, but I'd like to keep flies off that list of edibles, deliberate or non.

The rest of the resort was idyllic, simple and warm, and I would have liked to spend the day lazing in the breezes off the water. It was time to head home, however. Any lazing would have to be performed in the car.

The drive home to Dubai was, indeed long, but we still had a good time. We bought nearly USD$75 worth of junk food at a petrol station. Colleen asked if the price had been correct. It had, it conspired, and the clerk got the idea that Pat would probably beat Colleen for spending so much. He came out of the store to make apologetic gestures to the (supposedly) angry husband, hopefully placate him, and save Colleen's hide. We drove away and found the whole thing very funny. Some slept, some chatted, even Thomas sat and looked at a book, and we all ate too many processed pre-packaged foods.

When we couldn't take any more of that we stopped and I managed to buy some fruit using only Arabic. All the other buyers were ancient Arabs, with the one young man wheeling and dealing. The seller pitied me when I didn't dicker the price and gave me back extra change. Flushed with success, I couldn't help myself and bought two whole rotisserie chickens from outside of the restaurant next door. The machine rotating the chickens was on the verge of being lifted off the ground by what must have been years of accumulated drippings that had run down and solidified.

It tasted delicious anyway.

Again, we had the "no napkins" issue, (there were some sort of thin waxy papers given us, not quite enough to contain chicken or wipe anything up) but we did our best and were a little greasy. Travel can be like that. Nothing like trying to divvy up two whole chickens in a moving vehicle to make you feel alive.

We had very much wanted to stop at the ancient city of Qualhat, and the Tomb of Bibi Miriam, the oldest archaeological site in Oman. Both Marco Polo and Ibn Battuta stopped there on their travels. Who were we not to do the same?

In the late 13th century Marco Polo wrote

"This city has a good port, much frequented by merchant ships from India...since it is a centre from which spices and other goods are carried to inland cities and towns. Many fine Arab horses are exported...to the great gain of the merchants."

In 1330 AD Ibn Battuta wrote

" The city of Qalhat is on the coast. It has good markets, and one of the most beautiful mosques in the world. The walls of the mosque are covered with blue ceramic tiles. It stands on a hill beside the harbour...a lofty situation from which it commands a view of the sea and the anchorage. This mosque was built by an important woman named Bibi Maryam. The people here are merchants , and they bring many goods from India. When a ship arrives the people are very happy ".

Now, thanks to an earthquake, the Portuguese, and time itself, only the tomb and a water cistern stand, though you can easily tell where the city's fortified stone walls were, and why the king would come there to be well guarded and situated in times of war. It was a lonely place, though we enjoyed exploring.

None of us went down into the tomb.

We drove back through the mountains, past the sea, past the tiny villages and children playing, old men out on the stoops, veiled women walking in groups.

By the time we were back in Muscat there was a traffic jam. Such a difference from being the only car on the road. In the restroom, which had a dipper for getting your water to splash on after going, as opposed to the sprayer, (Toilet paper? Are you kidding?) Mike cut his hand rather badly, and we all had visions of sepsis. Apparently his immunity is quite good, and as far as we know, nothing came of it beyond the need for a band-aid.

Mercedes sporting the proper Oman flair.

It was dark when we made it back to the multiple crossing stations for the border. On the UAE side, while all of us were walking back to get in the car after getting the token once-over by the authorities, Pat made a joke about "the three people still hiding in our car." Mike and I lit into him for it, also mentioning in passing that he probably shouldn't joke about bombs at the airport either.

Ah well. It's almost funny when he shakes his fist at other drivers and yells "Abu Dhabi!" (An Egyptian friend of ours once commented that the Abu Dhabi license plates on our cars put the fear of God into other drivers; apparently Abu Dhabi residents are worthy of such fear behind the wheel). It would be funny if he didn't shake his fist, but this is a land where one national was so enraged at a British woman for flipping him the bird after he honked at the taxi that was letting her out (one ends up in jail if one uses such a gesture here) that he drove up on the sidewalk in his Hummer, ran her over, then backed over her as well.

Yes, she is quite dead.

Pat was quite good-natured about our fretful schoolings on proper Middle East behavior, and also managed to keep out of jail while here. An excellent guest.

It was dark when the unmistakable lights of Dubai came into view. They were a shock to the system after being away in an older, slower, quieter culture. For just a moment, I didn't like Dubai. I liked the open roads, the solitary camel, the quiet beaches and being the only white faces...

When the bill came for our delivered dinner, that was another shock. We'd forgotten how much things cost.

However, home is home, and we were happy to be back in our bright little house once more.

Happy we'll be beyond the sea...

Our tired little family staggered back to the Barasti huts at about 12:30 AM and collapsed into bed. Though I had purchased permits for all of us to return to the beach to watch the babies hatch and the sun rise, only Colleen and I were willing to try to get back up at 3 AM, to be at the reserve at 3:45. We both set our cell phone alarms and went to bed fully clothed so as to roll out the door as quickly (and quietly!) as possible.

Neither of our alarms went off...

But, somehow, amazingly, Colleen woke up anyway. Late, we booked it out of the Barasti hut, disheveled and still half asleep. I was saying something along the lines of "Dark...we shouldn't be running..." when I saw and blurted, too late, "rocks!"


The pathway was not straight, and lined with medium-sized jagged rocks. Colleen ran right into the rocks at a spot where the path turned out, tripped, flew like supergirl and landed wham, flat out, right on top of more rocks. I thought something unprintable. Great, now I'd killed my Mother-in-law.


Good luck finding medical care out here.


Assessing the damage, we decided it wasn't as bad as it could have been. Though she was hobbling and would have some impressive bruises, she insisted she we press on. I was thinking about the long walk to the sands at the reserve, and resolved to go back if she was hurt too badly. We drove through the darkness as fast as we dared, and managed to get to the reserve on time after all.


There we were greeted by 2 other couples and some hot coffee. The coffee was an unbelievably good idea. The guide who made it for us had met me the night before and he beamed and nodded, "this is my friend, hello my friend."

He was shy about perhaps not making good coffee but it was quite good for 4 AM coffee, and we told him so. Our little group followed him out again to the beach. The moon had set and it was quite dark. But the stars, oh, the stars.

Colleen described it best later: It wasn't a night sky with stars. It was stars with bits of night sky. We sat in the dunes as before, and looking up you could get quite dizzy. I have never seen such a sky before, not even in my imagination. You actually had a sense of the curvature of the earth. The stars were so brilliant, so near...they were almost reachable.

Colleen was being her usual friendly self, chatting away with the other guests, and was immediately pegged as a teacher. Sympathy was expressed for her header, rocky encounter and the aftermath. I was somewhere in that realm between dreaming and drooling as I gazed skyward; stars upon stars, satellites, and shooting stars for wishes. Our guide kept addressing me as "my friend" and I kept managing not to hear him the first, sometimes second time.

What can I say, I was drowning in stars.

We saw a police cruiser boat zooming along the coast, lights blinking as it chased some unknown prey.

Then we got lucky. The second guide had found a mother turtle laying her eggs, and without the wailing Thomas, short of a Tsunami, I knew I would see this one. In due time we were allowed to approach her as she laboured with covering her eggs. Lit in the reddish light the stewards used, we crouched down behind her, so as to not alarm her too much.

First thumping one gigantic flipper, than the next, flipping and pushing the sands behind her, she would occasionally exhale a tired whoof, blowing and then continuing her exhaustive work. She'd already had to dig the body pit, a crater in the sand to accommodate her large size, then shoveled out an egg cavity using her real flippers as shovels, and laid 100 or more eggs.

By the time she got to this point I was feeling thoroughly sorry for her, out of her buoyant watery home and up on this beach, so heavy. She flipped plenty of sand over us as well as her eggs, as we sputtered and grinned. "This very good turtle," the guide explained "she hide these eggs from the fox, the fox think the eggs here so she pretend to bury them here." He pointed to one section of the nest, then another. Ah! All the work we were seeing was not even to truly bury her eggs. They were already buried...she was making false signs in the sand to try and fool the foxes who come down from the rocky cliff sides to dig and eat the eggs.

A lot of work for a sea creature.

Only 1 out of 1000 sea turtle eggs survives to adulthood. so it was a little sad, even while it was wonderful, to watch her.

The sky was lightening slowly, the turning stars disappearing. Seabirds began to wheel overhead, so we knew the baby turtles, 60 days after their eggs had been buried, were about to hatch and emerge. A few baby turtles dug their way out of the sand, little flippers going frantically as they tried so, so hard to make it over the shapes of the sand into the sea. The guides shone their lights into the babies' faces so they would follow them the correct direction down the beach, and made pathways in the sand so the babies would have an easier time of it.

The seabirds had their breakfast, but there were few babies that morning, so the skies soon emptied again. The mother turtle was still thumping her flippers as she shifted sands.

The sun was slowly making its liquid orange way up over the sea, and we could now see where other turtles had lumbered their way back to the water, the marks of their flippers not unlike tractor tracks. We could see our turtle more clearly as well, when we could tear our eyes away from the glamorous sunrise. She was patterned all over, subtly but attractively. I could see why anyone would want her enormous shell for decoration. Her eyes were fathomless black, and I wondered what she might have seen in her travels of the ocean.

A noise or movement in the cliffs alerted us to another sort of creature; a fox was about to join us. Bounding down onto the beach, the fox was both playful and very bold. Plume of a red tail waving joyfully behind, the fox scampered and searched on the beach, paying us little mind.

The sea turtle finally began to heave herself out of the nest, having concealed it to her satisfaction. Obeying the instincts that had commanded her to return to her birthplace, now she heaved her way, inch by laborious inch, back to the sea.

The fox ran to where she had been and dug and dug until finding some eggs, hers or another turtle's, I do not know, and had its breakfast as well. Clever fox. The turtle and the fox didn't even acknowledge one another's presence, as far as I could tell. I suppose nothing is personal in nature.


The fox also found a lone baby turtle, alive or dead we don't know, but the fox toyed with it like a cat does a mouse, throwing it up into the air and jumping; playing with its food. When a bird got too close the fox pursued it down nearly the entire length of the beach. When the fox returned darned if it wasn't looking looking entirely pleased with itself.

At last for the turtle, the final push to the sea, then into the waves. Still, the turtle didn't hurry, and pushed herself at the exact same cadence until the waves lifted her, she raised her head for a deep breath, and disappeared beneath the waves. Patient soul.

We had been on the beach for nearly 4 hours. Our guide had decided that my curly hair was beautiful and that I was quite the woman, what with jumping into sinkholes and eating crabs. He'd said that crabs were bad (they pinch and kill the baby turtles) and I had said, oh no, crabs are very good...for eating. This garnered me a laugh and more admiration.

Fishermen drove past in their boat, standing proudly in the prows, "Like you", our guide said to me, "No sit, stand, brave." On a par with Chuck Norris now, we crazy American women walked back to the car, fending off persistent invitations to Omani coffee and some hand holding. (Very risqué behavior! Had to put the kibosh on that one.) We were due for breakfast in the Dhow, and a very long drive home to Dubai.