During a cruise to commemorate our 11-year anniversary, my wife, Sarah, and I found ourselves at a turtle sanctuary in the Cayman Islands. While we typically prefer organized excursions over wandering aimlessly, the turtle farm was Sarah’s choice. To be honest, I wasn’t particularly excited about the visit.
Turtles have never held much appeal for me. They lack the charm of cuter animals, and my only real exposure to them comes from fictional characters like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. However, upon encountering the impressive, 500-pound turtles, I was taken aback by their size and grace. The sun was blazing, and the air was thick with the scents of saltwater and animal life. The turtles were active, splashing around and making grunting sounds.
“Wow, these creatures are incredible,” I remarked, genuinely impressed.
Sarah beamed. “Told you! You can enjoy a turtle farm!”
As we moved from one tank to another, I couldn’t help but admire the turtles’ enormous shells and beak-like mouths. There was only a flimsy sign warning us not to touch the turtles standing between us and these magnificent creatures.
“Why can’t we touch them?” I inquired.
Sarah shot me a sideways glance, a warning look that seemed to say, “Don’t even think about it.”
At that moment, our guide chimed in, explaining, “These turtles possess the strength to bite through a shell, and your fingers might resemble their food. A turtle could easily chomp off your hand, which would be unfortunate for both you and the turtle.”
A turtle glided toward me, appearing harmless and inviting. It was a rare chance to interact with such a majestic animal, and the temptation was too strong to resist. Despite knowing better, I succumbed to the urge and, with Sarah’s back turned, reached out to touch the turtle’s shell. I was confident I was at a safe distance from its mouth, but I underestimated the turtle’s reaction. It swatted my arm with its flipper, letting out a loud grunt before swimming away, causing a splash that startled me. In that instant, Sarah turned around.
“Seriously?” she said, her disappointment evident. “You were told not to touch the turtle, and you did?”
I raised my hand defensively. “Look, I’m fine!”
“What if you had lost your hand?” she challenged.
“But I didn’t,” I replied, holding up my hand again. “All’s well!”
Next to the tank, Sarah’s expression shifted from annoyance to a resigned disappointment. It was the same look she gives our son when he reaches for something dangerous. A furrowed brow and a stern mouth conveyed her disbelief that I, an adult, could act so foolishly. After all, I wasn’t her child; I was her husband, and I should know better.
Reflecting on past comments from mothers of three, joking about having four children (including their husbands), I realized perhaps Sarah did indeed have four kids—not just three.
“Wait,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “If I had lost my hand to a turtle, would you still love me?”
She smirked a little but quickly regained her composure. “Honestly, if you lost your hand, I’d have to explain to people that my husband was foolish enough to get bitten by a sea turtle. It wouldn’t be easy to get over that.”
The thought of becoming the butt of jokes made me reconsider my actions. I could imagine the headlines, “Man Loses Hand to Turtle,” and how embarrassing that would be for Sarah. Realizing I had become that guy in the group who didn’t heed warnings, I felt a wave of shame wash over me.
Eventually, as we boarded the bus to return to our cruise ship, I turned to Sarah and said, “I’m sorry for touching the turtle.”
“It’s okay,” she replied, “I still love you.”
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In essence, my encounter at the turtle farm reminded me that, while I may be an adult, I sometimes exhibit childlike behavior. It’s a testament to the playful dynamics of marriage and the lessons we learn along the way.
Keyphrase: turtle farm experience
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