It was just after midnight when my friend and I joined the others, half way between the point and the lighthouse. There, under a full moon, we watched the loggerhead hatchling crawl from the dunes down to the sea.

He was so small that we talked of carrying him down to the water's edge. But the one who knew about turtles said no, let him take the steps that someday he might retrace. So we stood aside as he made his way across the sand, on his own, inch by inch.

We covered our lanterns with red cellophane. We shooed away prowling ghost crabs. We swept a smooth, bee-line path to the surf. When he favored instead a more southerly route biased toward the moon, we had to free him first from the footprint, then from the tire track.

We saw no nudging mother nor playful sibling, nor any hope of an adventure-sharing comrade. But he never looked back and he moved ahead with a jaunty gait.

When he finally reached a wave's spreading edge, he stopped, and stopped long enough that we wondered if he would go on. What was it? A voice? The voice that roused him at midnight?

"Now is the time to start your journey. The sea gulls are sleeping and the white surf a beacon under moonlight."

Did the voice speak again, telling of what lay ahead? Is that what gave him pause?

He soon went on and he crawled with a quickening pace and head held high. Each new wave swept him into deeper surf, until finally a large wave carried him away.

When the noise of our cheering died down, the one who knew about turtles said, "Only one of 5,000 will live".

As we stood listening to the sounding of the sea, our thoughts raced ahead 100 years.

Somewhere along the way he had become ours.