People walking down the beach, seeing the yellow caution tape and the trench watched over by do-gooders in bright Turtle Patrol T-shirts, wandered over to ask questions, and the crowd grew. At night, they’d sit with infrared flashlights, intently staring down, watching for the slightest movement, with their cameras at the ready.
“It’s actually called a boil,” Kathy told me. “That’s because when the eggs hatch, and the babies claw their way to the surface, the sand churns.”
The boys weren’t terribly interested in the turtle boil taking place in back of the house, but I thought they might change their minds if they saw the baby loggerheads. The eggs were the size of Ping-Pong balls, and were supposed to hatch on Monday.
David Sedaris, “Father Time,” New Yorker (Dec. 31, 2018)