When The Turtles Come Home.

On Turtle Adoption Day

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The late-November breeze swept salt and sea-foam across the dark sands of Agonda as Sara, a marine-biology student home for the holidays, stepped onto the wet shoreline. The waves whispered under the moon, but the beach was almost empty — except for a lone figure, his silhouette ragged in the moonlight, scanning the sand with a torch.

“Uncle Sardesai?” she called softly. She had heard about him: a retired armed-forces officer turned turtle-rescuer, now running a small sea-turtle rescue centre along Goa’s coast.

He turned, lowered his binoculars, and gave a half-smile. “Welcome to the night shift,” he said, “where we chase the slowest travellers on Earth.”

That night, under the rhythmic hush of waves, Sara asked the question many Goans silently wonder: With all this tourism — lights, beach shacks, parties — do our turtles really have a chance?

Sardesai didn’t laugh. He simply pointed to the faint stamp of flipper tracks leading from the surf toward the dunes. “They try,” he said. “But they need silence, dark sand — and a little sense from us.”

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A Record Nesting — and a Fragile Hope

This season has been a strange mix of record-breaking numbers and cautious optimism. According to the latest report from the state forest department, Goa saw a total of 34,630 eggs laid across its nesting beaches in 2025 — a steep rise compared to past years. (The Times of India)

Of those, 13,654 eggs were laid on Agonda beach alone; 10,983 on Morjim. Even Anjuna — seldom known for nesting — saw egg laying, albeit a small tally of 132. (The Times of India)

Across South Goa’s coast, forest-department personnel tracked 229 nests this season, many relocated safely to protected hatcheries; in good batches, hundreds of hatchlings have already been released. (The Navhind Times)

At a small, dimly lit hatchery outside Agonda, I met a local volunteer, Pradeep Mokhardkar. He crouched beside a cluster of empty eggshells, the smell of damp sand in the air. “We’ve never seen so many nests at once,” he said. “It gives hope. But it also scares me — because more nests mean more responsibility.”

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From Eggcrack to Sandcastles — The Real Threats

Hope, unfortunately, isn’t the same as safety. Last year alone, in parts of Canacona, nearly 53% of hatchlings died before they could reach the sea — due to heavy rain soaking nests, beach erosion, predators, stray nets, pollution, and human disturbance. (The Navhind Times)

Sardesai leaned near a nest protected by a bamboo screen. “Imagine this — a perfect clutch of eggs laid under a clean moon, and three nights later, a drunk tourist lights a bonfire fifty metres away. Hatchlings crawl toward the glow, not the surf.”

He shook his head. “One lousy beach party, and you can wipe out a nest.”

He spoke with a sharp edge of bitterness. “There was a time,” he said, “when some beach-side resorts thought turtle eggs made exotic curry. As if baby turtles were appetisers.” He didn’t name names. He didn’t have to.

That cruelty has largely receded — thanks to stricter patrols, community pressure and increasing awareness — but the threat remains. Stray dogs, litter, nets, artificial lights, careless beach-driving — every little thing can derail a turtle’s 50-million-year-old script.

At a command post just beyond the dunes, I met RFO Rajesh Naik, head of the south-Goa turtle-conservation zone. “We have night patrols, volunteers, rescue-centres,” he told me. “But the biggest protection still comes from you — the people on the beach.”

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When Tourism Learns to Tiptoe

In several nesting zones — beaches like Agonda, Galgibaga, Morjim and Mandrem — local authorities have begun enforcing what might sound absurd to resort-goers: curfews, light bans, sound bans. No loud music after 10 pm. No bright lights on the dunes. No vehicles on the sand. Zones declared “no-development” during nesting months. (The Times of India)

And it works. In seasons where sound and light curbs were respected — along with clean-ups and patrols — nesting numbers surged. One record season saw over 45,000 eggs laid across Goa. (The Times of India)

Back on Agonda, under a sky brushed with starlight, Sardesai whispered, “See that hut thirty metres back? Its owner agreed to shut off lights by 9 pm after we spoke. He asked — ‘Will the turtles come even without disco-lights?’ I said — ‘They’ll come. They’re far better dancers.’”

Sara giggled. Then she asked — “So I can help? Even as a tourist or a local staying for a few weeks?”

Sardesai’s face softened. “If you care, yes. Turn off your torch. Don’t leave beer bottles on the dunes. Ask your friends to keep voices down. Walk on the boardwalk, not the sand. Volunteer with us.”

She nodded.

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A Pledge from the Sand

That night, they waited. After the moon rose high and the tide slowed, a rough outline emerged from the dark sea. Slow, heavy, ancient — olive-hued.

The turtle dragged herself up the beach, flippers leaving prints in the wet sand. She paused, sniffed the air, and began digging. The labor was rhythmic, slow, sacred. When she finally covered her clutch and turned back toward the surf, she left a hollow in the sand — and a question for us.

If we really care about Goa, the question isn’t whether we’ll see turtles next season. It is: will we protect the sand they remember before they arrive?

Because for every nest saved, for every hatchling released, there is a fragile hope. A hope that one day, another Goan student will stand on the same beach and see flippers emerge from the surf — not footprints following disco lights.

As one volunteer told me, eyes fixed on the horizon: “We’re not just releasing turtles. We’re releasing hope.”

And that, perhaps, is the best way to mark Turtle Adoption Day — not with selfies and hashtags, but with silent beaches, dark nights, and a conscious promise: no lights after 9, no parties on the dunes, no sandcastles over nests, no plastics underfoot — just soft sand, quiet waves, and a future under the stars.

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