Sleepwalking alone the shoreline: In search of the Olive Ridleys

After a three hour boat ride from Bhitarkanika National Park and a three kilometre hike through the lush mangrove forest of Rhizophora and Avicennia, we finally reached Habalikatti. Someone once said that the weariness of a journey disappears when met with the beauty of the destination. Here, where the land kissed the sea, that sentiment rang true. Blue skies stretched above tall Casuarina trees, the sea breeze danced across our faces, the sun poured generously, and the rhythmic crashing of waves made it feel like a coastal paradise.

I decided to sit back and relax. The chair wasn’t a reclining one, but I knew how to balance it on two legs. There are moments in life when stillness overtakes you, when time dissolves, and past, present, and future become one. In those moments, one feels like a missing puzzle piece, now found and placed perfectly in the vast design of nature. A spiritual experience, of some sort. My mind was calm, my eyes sleepy, my body aching, and my tummy restless. A plate full of rice and fresh local fish later, I found myself in a meditative state where mind, body, and soul moved in synchrony. The moisture laden breeze carried messages from afar, an ancient language of the ocean. Just as I drifted deeper into this harmony, the voice of our course director startled me awake. He was not pleased that I had dozed off.

The water was so pleasant that none of us felt like coming out. After the mandatory seaside photo session with the class, we finally emerged. Bathrooms are always scarce in group travel and such times call for foresight and sprinting ability. I had both. I returned to find my classmates shivering in line, looking comically miserable, while I sipped on tea, basking in my small victory.

Later, during a chat with Gopi Sir, I learned that Habalikatti is one of the mass nesting sites for Olive Ridley turtles. We had seen mating pairs the day before, floating just below the surface. Male turtles never return to land after hatching, while females return to lay eggs, often in large synchronised gatherings called arribadas. The mere thought of witnessing such a phenomenon was enough to wash away all fatigue. I finished dinner and went for a walk. I tried taking some long exposure shots, but without a tripod, it was tricky. Using logs and mounds of sand in true Indian jugaad style worked decently. I managed a few shots. In one attempt, I set the camera on bulb mode and wandered too far. When I returned, the camera was missing. Or rather, I was in the wrong place. After fifteen minutes of frantic searching, I stumbled on a log, saw a faint red light, and heard a shutter click. I had kicked my camera so hard it had rolled five metres away, covered in dust, without capturing a single worthwhile frame. Alas.

Back at base camp, I brushed the dust off my camera, grabbed my torch and wind sheet, and set off in search of Olive Ridleys. We hoped to witness mass nesting. The plan was to walk 3 to 4 kilometres and return before dawn, as we had an early departure. Excited and alert, we scanned the sands carefully, not wanting to step on a nest. We soon spotted a mound. But as we drew closer, our hearts sank. It wasn’t a mound. It was a dead turtle. A scar on its shell suggested it had collided with a boat propeller. The waves had carried it ashore, perhaps on the same beach where it had once hatched two decades ago. Now, it was food for jackals, wild boars, and gulls, the very predators it had once escaped. With heavy hearts, we moved on.

That wasn’t the only carcass. We came across several more. The excitement of seeing a live arribada faded into sorrow. The shoreline ended near Kalam Island. We had walked nearly five kilometres through starlit night, waves whispering beside us, encountering only silence and death. Some classmates turned back. Sutirtha and I hesitated too, but decided to press on. We knew moments like this are rare.

Hope is a funny thing. It often overpowers logic. We walked a few more kilometres. Still no turtles. We hadn’t brought water, surrounded by the sea, yet parched. Torch batteries were dying. So were we, slowly. It was 2:00 a.m. The excitement had faded, leaving only stubborn will. Our torches finally gave out. Stars lit the way. With the forest on our west and Bay of Bengal on our east, our eyes adjusted. Suddenly, a shadow moved ahead, a wild boar. Not very tall but bulky and fast. It had come from the forest, likely for the turtle carcass. We froze. So did it. For a moment, none of us knew what to do. We stepped back cautiously. The boar charged a few steps, paused, then returned to the carcass. It tried dragging it back to the forest but failed. Eventually, it disappeared. Our hearts still raced, but we kept moving, more alive than ever, unlike our torch batteries.

We kept looking back, still wary. A few kilometres ahead we found Doli and Himanshu. We walked together, swapping stories. I sat briefly, and they disappeared into the distance, their lights flickering like fireflies. It was 3:30 a.m., and I was unbearably sleepy. I decided to walk with my eyes closed. The sea's melody was now familiar. Cool breeze kissed my face. I was sleepwalking along the seashore, a rare luxury. Occasionally, I opened my eyes to reorient. I thought about how far I had come and how far I had to go. At one point, the sand turned moist. Before I could realise it, a wave splashed over my ankles, waking me to a dreamlike sight, dawn. Light blue and crimson painted the sky. The wind picked up. I spotted my classmates and joined them.

We arrived at the end. A narrow stream separated us from Kalam Island. Distant lights shimmered. We were all elated. Despite the disappointment of not seeing mass nesting, the journey itself was magical. We rested on the beach. With sea to the north and east, forest to the west, and our long trail south, I dug a pit like a turtle, wrapped myself in my wind sheet, covered in sand, and slept.

I woke to Dr. Gopi’s cheerful call, “Brothers and sisters, good morning!” We set off again, this time with a dog that joined us, Abir's new companion. The sun rose like a red orb in the west. Birds flew overhead. Sutirtha and I walked, still chatting about the wild boar. Pratik, walking ahead, pointed to the sea. Dolphins, he shouted.

We ran like children. A pod of about 50 dolphins swam close to shore. Titto took out his binoculars. Some dolphins came so close, we didn’t need them. One leapt out of the water, sunlight glinting off its back like silver trails. We jumped in joy. First dolphin sighting for many of us, from land no less. The fatigue dissolved.

The return walk was easier. We knew the sun would soon be overhead. I jogged at times, out of boredom, then tired myself out. Familiar signs appeared, carcasses, trees, the scent of salt. I had walked nearly 23 kilometres in 24 hours. At last, the rest house appeared. The same chair waited. This time, I didn’t bother balancing it. I slept, only to be woken again by Gopi Sir. Time to pack.

Three more kilometres to the ferry. As we left Habalikatti, I looked back at the beach, took a deep breath of the moisture laden breeze, and left for Chilika Lake.