The end run.
The final moments of a game are usually the most intense... filming a documentary can be like that, too.
I filmed a release of a juvenile green sea turtle today that was a great practice run for the upcoming release of one of the film's "stars."
I hate to call them that, really. They didn't ask to be injured by humans and they sure as heck aren't happy to have suffered through unimaginable pain and peril just to end up as patients at LMC.
Watching center staff gently place the young turtle into the lightly rolling surf is almost a religious experience. It sure is spiritual in the moment.
The turtle took off, its flippers flapping in anticipation before it even hit the salt water. Then it was simply gone.
Part of me hopes to see something different when my "star" is released next week. Part of me wishes for a quick surfacing just past the breakers...a momentary look back towards those who cared so dilligently for it. A larger part of me sincerely hopes the little turtle shoots away like a torpedo and never, never looks back.
I'll cry. I didn't think I would be this attached...but I am. It won't happen in the moment. I'll film it, all of my attention will be on that moment behind the lens. But later...watching the footage...I have no doubt it will hit me.
I was there when it arrived, injured and sick. I was there when the LMC staff and volunteers nursed it back to health. I was there when it went from a small, shallow pool to a large deep pool. I was there for all of it.
They will be happy tears and grateful ones for having been allowed the chance to get to know such a brave and courageous survivor.
In the end, the release only lasts for half of a minute. The lesson I'll carry away...the story I will share with the world...will last a lifetime.
The final moments of a game are usually the most intense... filming a documentary can be like that, too.
I filmed a release of a juvenile green sea turtle today that was a great practice run for the upcoming release of one of the film's "stars."
I hate to call them that, really. They didn't ask to be injured by humans and they sure as heck aren't happy to have suffered through unimaginable pain and peril just to end up as patients at LMC.
Watching center staff gently place the young turtle into the lightly rolling surf is almost a religious experience. It sure is spiritual in the moment.
The turtle took off, its flippers flapping in anticipation before it even hit the salt water. Then it was simply gone.
Part of me hopes to see something different when my "star" is released next week. Part of me wishes for a quick surfacing just past the breakers...a momentary look back towards those who cared so dilligently for it. A larger part of me sincerely hopes the little turtle shoots away like a torpedo and never, never looks back.
I'll cry. I didn't think I would be this attached...but I am. It won't happen in the moment. I'll film it, all of my attention will be on that moment behind the lens. But later...watching the footage...I have no doubt it will hit me.
I was there when it arrived, injured and sick. I was there when the LMC staff and volunteers nursed it back to health. I was there when it went from a small, shallow pool to a large deep pool. I was there for all of it.
They will be happy tears and grateful ones for having been allowed the chance to get to know such a brave and courageous survivor.
In the end, the release only lasts for half of a minute. The lesson I'll carry away...the story I will share with the world...will last a lifetime.
This little one (not one of my main "stars" is a Kemps Ridley (the most endangered type of sea turtle in the world). I just thought I'd share the pic. :)
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