By: Jason Thompson
My wife, Sarah, and I found ourselves at a turtle sanctuary while on a cruise to celebrate our 12th wedding anniversary. Each stop on the cruise offered various activities, and since we’re not the adventurous types, we opted for guided tours. This turtle sanctuary was Sarah’s pick, and I’ll admit, I wasn’t particularly excited about it.
Turtles have never been my thing. I don’t see them as adorable or cuddly, and the only time I think about them is when I watch animated shows like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, which are, of course, fictional. However, when I finally laid eyes on the enormous 500-pound turtles, my perspective shifted. The sun blazed overhead, mingling with the scent of saltwater and animals. The turtles were fascinating as they splashed and grunted.
“These creatures are incredible,” I remarked.
Sarah beamed. “See? I told you a turtle farm could be fun!”
As we walked from one tank of turtles to another, their sheer size was astonishing. They had massive shells and beak-like mouths, and aside from a sign stating “Do not touch the turtles,” there was little separating us from these magnificent animals.
“Why can’t we pet them?” I asked.
Sarah shot me a sideways glance that clearly communicated, “Don’t even think about it.”
Just then, our guide chimed in, explaining how these turtles have strong jaws capable of biting through another turtle’s shell, and that our fingers might resemble their food. “A turtle could easily bite off your hand, which would be unfortunate for both you and the turtle,” he warned.
One turtle glided over to me. It appeared soft and friendly, and I figured this might be a once-in-a-lifetime chance to touch such a creature. Maybe it was just my inner child reacting; when someone says not to do something, I often feel compelled to do it anyway.
So, when Sarah turned away and the guide led the group to the next tank, I reached out and touched the turtle’s shell. I thought I was safe, but to my surprise, the turtle swatted at my arm with its flipper as if to say, “Don’t mess with me.” It grunted loudly and swam off, splashing water everywhere. Startled, I pulled my hand back, only to see Sarah turning around.
“You touched it, didn’t you?” she said, half-amused and half-annoyed.
I raised my hand defensively. “Look! I’m fine!”
“What if you’d lost your hand?” she retorted.
“But I didn’t,” I replied, waving my hand again. “Everything’s okay!”
We lingered by the tank, and while Sarah didn’t seem angry, her expression mirrored the one she gives our son when he misbehaves—furrowed brows, pursed lips, the classic “You should know better” look. But here’s the kicker: I’m not her child; I’m her husband. I should have known better, and it isn’t her role to remind me.
Reflecting on this, I recalled jokes I’d heard from mothers of multiple children who would claim that they had four kids, including their husbands. I had always found that amusing but somewhat unfair. Yet, in that moment, standing beside the turtle tank, it dawned on me: perhaps Sarah really does have four kids—not just three.
Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly. “If you lost your hand to a turtle, how would I explain that to people?”
I tried to lighten the mood. “Would you still love me?”
She smirked a little. “Honestly, if you’d lost your hand, I’d have to explain that my husband lost it to a sea turtle, and that would take some getting used to.”
I chuckled, thinking of the show Arrested Development, where a character loses a hand to a seal. It’s funny on screen, but I knew it wouldn’t be quite as amusing in real life. The thought of being that guy who makes headlines for losing a hand to a turtle was mortifying.
As we sat in silence for a while, I initially felt defensive, but eventually, I turned to her and said, “I’m sorry for touching the turtle.”
“It’s fine,” she replied. “I still love you.”
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In summary, a trip to a turtle farm turned into a playful reflection on responsibilities and the dynamics of marriage, reminding us that sometimes, we can act like children—even as adults.