I Found a Sea Turtle… Upside Down
The salt spray was a cool mist on my face, and the only sounds were the rhythmic crash of waves and the distant cry of gulls. It was the kind of perfect, quiet morning on the coast that feels like a secret gift. I was walking along the high tide line, scanning the collection of seaweed and shells, when I saw it: a dark, rounded shape that was distinctly out of place.
My first thought was that it was a piece of weathered marine debris, maybe a large buoy that had broken from its mooring. But as I got closer, the shape resolved into something tragically familiar. It was a sea turtle, lying completely on its back, its pale, ridged plastron (the underside of its shell) exposed to the morning sun.
A jolt of adrenaline shot through me. My peaceful walk had just become a race against time.
The turtle was still. For a terrifying second, I thought I was too late. But then, one of its powerful front flippers gave a slow, weak wave, a gesture of desperate, silent struggle. It was alive, but utterly helpless.
A sea turtle on its back is in mortal danger. They are not built to right themselves on land. The position leaves their soft underside vulnerable to predators, but the more immediate threats are the sun and their own weight. The sun can quickly overheat and dehydrate them, while the pressure of their internal organs can eventually suffocate them. This beautiful, ancient creature was slowly dying on the sand.
My mind raced. I knew the general rule with wildlife is to keep your distance and call for help. But there was no one else on this stretch of beach, and every minute counted. The sun was already beginning to feel warm on my own skin. Waiting for a wildlife hotline to dispatch someone could take too long. I had to act.
Approaching cautiously, I spoke to it in a low, calm voice, more for my own nerves than for its. “Okay, buddy. I’m here to help.”
I positioned myself at its side, bracing my feet in the soft sand. I had no idea how heavy it would be. I gripped the edges of its carapace—the great, domed upper shell. It felt ancient, covered in a fine layer of algae and small barnacles, a living map of its journeys.
I heaved.
It was heavier than I ever imagined, a dense, solid weight of muscle and bone. The first push barely budged it. The turtle flapped its flipper again, a movement I now interpreted as a panicked reaction to my touch.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I repeated, planting my feet again. “Just one more push.”
This time, I put my whole body into it. With a great, grunting effort, I rolled the turtle over. It landed with a soft thud on the sand, right side up.
For a long moment, it didn’t move. It just lay there, its head tucked in, likely exhausted and disoriented from its ordeal. I stepped back, my heart pounding, watching and waiting. Had I helped, or had I just prolonged its suffering?
Then, slowly, its wrinkled head emerged. It blinked its dark, liquid eyes, taking in the world from the correct perspective once more. It took a deep, shuddering breath. After another minute of stillness, as if gathering every ounce of its remaining strength, it began to move.
With slow, deliberate pushes of its flippers, it started its arduous journey back to the water’s edge. It was a painful-looking crawl, each movement an immense effort. I walked alongside it at a distance, a silent, humble escort.
When the first foamy wave washed over its shell, the turtle seemed to get a new surge of energy. It pushed harder, digging into the wet sand, letting the ocean pull it home. Another wave came, lifting its great body, and then it was afloat. With a powerful kick of its flippers, it propelled itself into the surf and disappeared beneath the waves.
I stood there for a long time, staring out at the empty ocean, the only evidence of the encounter being a deep impression in the sand and the frantic thumping of my own heart. It was a profound reminder that the beach is not just a place of relaxation, but a fragile, living ecosystem where life and death play out every day. Finding that turtle was a rare, humbling privilege—a chance to intervene, to tilt the scales, and to watch a life return to the sea.
What to Do If You Find a Stranded or Overturned Sea Turtle
My direct intervention was a judgement call based on the immediate danger and isolation. However, the best course of action is almost always to contact professionals. Here’s what you should do:
- Do Not Push it Back to the Sea: The turtle may be on land because it is sick, injured, or a female attempting to nest (even during the day). Pushing it back could endanger it further.
- Call for Help Immediately: The most important step is to call your local authorities. Look up the number for your area’s “Marine Animal Stranding Network,” “Sea Turtle Patrol,” or “Wildlife Rescue” ahead of time and save it in your phone if you live near the coast. They have trained experts who know how to handle the situation properly.
- Note Your Location: Be as specific as possible. Use GPS coordinates from your phone or note nearby landmarks, access roads, or mile markers.
- Provide Shade (If Possible): If the turtle is exposed to direct sun, you can use a towel, t-shirt, or beach umbrella to create shade without touching the animal. Do not cover its head or nostrils.
- Keep Your Distance: Keep people and pets away. A crowd will cause the animal immense stress. Observe from at least 50 feet away while you wait for help to arrive.
