Overhead a perfectly clear night, the Milky Way visible as a white band through the middle of the sky. The moon is obscured by a storm on the horizon making the beach dark. Occasional flashes of lightning highlight our small group as we walk down the beach. After three months walking the beach each rock is familiar and we find our path easily.

Ahead, a flash of light reflects off the wet carapace of a large turtle. We stop, ten meters from her, watching as she hauls herself out of the waves. Her flippers lift the huge body forward in lunges. She pauses half way and you can hear the intake of breath. She readies herself for the second half of the climb oblivious to her audience.

Near the palms at the top of the beach she selects the site for her nest. A spray of sand tells us she has started to dig. Talking in whispers, our group organise tasks for each member. Who will collect the eggs, who will measure, who will take the identification tags.

Tonight I will be collecting the eggs. I crawl forward to check our turtles progress with the nest. Approaching from behind I can see the rear flippers excavating the egg chamber. She lowers one flipper into the hole she has dug. In the dim light I can see her curl it like a cupped hand and lift out a small pile of sand. She places it on the side of the hole before shuffling sideways and lowering her other flipper into the hole. A flick of the original flipper brushes the sand out of the nest. I lie only a couple of meters from her now, my face near the sand. I can smell the wet jungle and hear her breathing.

She has finished digging; placing her rear flippers to either side of the hole she has dug. I shine my filtered torch into the nest. In the red light I can see the ovipositor hanging ready to lay the eggs. With a clench three white balls fall from the turtles body to the bottom of the nest with a soft thud.

Turning, I signal for help from the other volunteers. Someone arrives quickly with a bag. Lying with my head in the nest now, I reach under the turtle to lift out her eggs. My arm brushes the ovipositor as I reach in and the warm jelly that protects the eggs sticks to me. I can feel the eggs in the bottom of the nest. Pulling them out gently I hand them to the other volunteer who counts then adds them to the growing pile in the bag.

Fifty eggs and we signal the whole group to come over. The turtle is in a trance now. As the volunteers reach over her to measure and check the tags on her front flippers she is oblivious to them. Her only worry now is to cover her precious offspring and return to the sea as quickly as possible.

The last of the eggs falls to my waiting hands. Her rear flippers dig down into the soft sand on either side of the nest, collapsing it on top of the eggs. She moves quickly now, filling in the egg chamber and throwing sand over the nest with her front flippers. We move away, more to get out of the way of the flying sand than for the turtles benefit. The nest is now covered and once again she lunges forward, toward the ocean now. On the lip of her nest she pauses, as if finally noticing us. She looks to our group, her black eyes blinking a salty tear. Her prehistoric mind reaches some sort of decision and she turns back to the sea. Following her own trail down the beach she slips under the waves.

With the turtle gone we walk down the beach to our hatchery. Another group of volunteers has already dug a new nest above the hurricane zone of the beach. The eggs lie safely with seventy other nests, growing in the warm sand. We record our turtles details and carry on our nights walk, knowing we will see her babies soon.