Why it Pays to be Late

Stuck in gridlocked traffic, my eyes were glued to the GPS. Ten, 20 then 30 minutes creeped onto my estimated arrival time. Accident ahead. Growing antsy, I considered “faster alternative routes” which only played a joke on me every time I hit “accept."

Why is it that whenever I need to be somewhere important, that’s when I’m running behind?

Bumper to bumper, there I sat driving myself nowhere but up a wall. There was absolutely no way, no how, I could be late to release a cadre of rescued juvenile sea turtles back into the ocean after seeing them through their months-long recovery. To top it all off, I’d been invited to personally accompany one of them down to the waves – a total dream.

Unless I missed the whole thing.

I know I’m not alone when I say I often wake up feeling behind without even stepping foot outside the bedroom. Feeling like I have to play an imaginary game of catch-up against a whirling world obsessed with achieving. Behind on my writing. Behind on my goals. Behind doing chores. Behind, behind, behind.

To which my coach, Rebecca, is likely to gently remind me, “behind is really an illusion” and “can I give myself some grace and space?” I try. Really, I do. I want to believe this idea of being late is nothing but superfluous even though there’s stillllll a teeny tiny fraction of me that’s like, nope. Clock’s ticking, gal. Get on it.

But whatcha gonna do when the road forces you to relinquish control? You daydream.

Back floated the scene where this passion re-ignited a few years ago. To not one, but eight adult sea turtles scooping their way out of the waves and onto the shore illuminated by nothing but moonlight. Mere feet away from the sole human in a secret little cove. The night, I made a soul contract to play my part, relying on whole-body chills despite knowing nothing about what lay ahead.

Eventually, the traffic grids changed from red to blue and off I went, over the Bay Bridge towards Assateague Island.

With about forty minutes to go … could that be? Wait, for REAL?

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Sometimes, that delay turns out to be where the juice lies. One day, it's like it just decides to whip off all its camouflage clothing and reveal a shocker: we’ve been on track all along. Well, hot damn!

It’s fascinating to watch this play out in the world of animal communication. I’ve been on both ends–either giving or receiving an intuitive message–that doesn’t instantly “click” in the moment. Only to find out later, *tire screech* WAIT A SECOND!

A few weeks ago, a fellow animal communicator read Ferg. “Did you move around a chair recently where he sat? He’s saying you changed up ‘his spot.’” I searched my mind, but nothing turned up. Until, later that night, I passed by a chair in my bedroom where I had draped a sentimental article of clothing associated with him and, bing! The lightbulb went off. I had switched that seat out with another, just an experimental switcheroo. “He liked his spot the way it was.” Yeah, you know what I did next.

Another time, it happened with my parents’ dog. “He’s showing me a fire hydrant near a white picket fence where he likes to meet his friends,” my communicator friend relayed. Mom was stumped. Their neighborhood had none of this. Until, weeks later, she texted a photo of that pup at his doggy daycare. The exact spot, a spitting image of the original description.

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I stepped on the accelerator to get a better look. Sure enough, my hunch was right. The duo of white suburbans up ahead were marked with that token aquarium logo. Aligning myself with the driver’s window, I did a little playful honk-honk-honk! To get my manager’s attention. Upon eye contact, we both burst out laughing. My team could see me. I could see them. Caravanning in utterly perfect timing.

Together, we rolled up to a crowd bursting with excitement. People (including members of my family!) had traveled across state lines to see this moment. For some, it was the first time they’d ever seen a real, live sea turtle.

photo by Grant Grindler

“You wanna take Grace?” my manager asked, lifting her from the Chiquita banana box. I chuckled to myself. Way to give yourself some grace!

The last to enter the water was a loggerhead named Westie. I kid you not. Promise, I had nothing to do with choosing his name. Except, acknowledging that wink from Ferg ;)

And, this morning, in true delayed fashion as I chicken scratched my way through writing this story, it dawned on me. Hold on a sec, how many turtles did we actually release? I ruffled through my email to make sure I wasn’t making it up.

Not six. Not seven. But eight.

Westie heads back home

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Photos courtesy National Aquarium: all work conducted under appropriate marine turtle permit