Mars and I pull up at an all-but-empty beach parking lot. He parks the truck in the front row and we open our doors at the same time. A sloping sand dune cuts off my view of the beach, but I can feel the sea air and smell the salt on the breeze.
A young man waves us down, jogging over in a pair of board shorts and a half-zip pullover. “Hey, there he is! Mars Attack, lookin’ good, man.”
I glance over at Ilmari. “Mars Attack?”
“Do not encourage him,” he says as he slips out of the truck.
I can’t suppress my smile as I hop down too. Mars quickly steps around the front of the truck and comes to stand by my door.
The young man swaggers up to us in bare feet. His hair still looks wet and sticky with salt from his morning surf. He’s maybe in his mid-twenties, his face already deeply lined and weathered by the sun. Behind him, a beat-up, yellow Jeep sits stuffed with several surfboards.
“How’s it goin’, Mars Mission?” He says, offering out his hand to Ilmari. “Whoa, who’s the duchess?” he says, looking at me.
“Your new boss,” Mars replies, shaking the surfer’s hand.
“Awesome,” Surfer Joe replies, nodding like a bobblehead.
“Mars Attack?” I say with a smile. “Mars Mission? Are those his nicknames?”
“Oh yeah, totally,” Surfer Joe replies.
“May I ask why?”
Surfer Joe slings an arm around Ilmari’s broad shoulders as he flips the sunglasses on his head down onto his face and says, “‘Cause this guy is out of this world.”
The pained look of tolerance on Ilmari’s face is giving me life. Surfer Joe may just be my new favorite person. “You know, I’d have to agree,” I tease, flashing Ilmari a grin.
“I said don’t encourage him,” Mars mutters.
“Oh, come on now, Rocketman, where’s the fun in that?”
Mars gives me a look clearly meant to convey sentiments of deep hate and loathing. Then he gestures at me. “Tess Owens, this is Joey Ford. He’s the current head of the organization.”
Surfer Joe’s name is Joey? I nearly choke holding back my laugh as I eagerly shake his hand. “Joey, nice to meet you.” His hand is rough as sandpaper and his grip hard as iron.
“The king is dead, long live the queen, eh, duchess?” Joey says with a grin. “I don’t know the first thing about running a nonprofit. I’m just here to give the turtles a fighting chance.”
“And behind you are Cheryl and Nancy Lemming,” says Ilmari at my side.
I turn to see a pair of smiling older ladies walking up to us holding hands. They, too, look like they just came from the beach. Their bare toes are sandy, and their cheeks are flushed from the wind.
“Hi,” I say with a wave.
“Oh, Nance, she is so pretty,” coos the one who must be Cheryl. She’s tall and willowy with kinky grey curls. Meanwhile, her partner is shorter and more pear-shaped, with dark hair and eyes. “Honey, you are just the prettiest thing.”
“Thank you,” I reply with a smile.
They close the distance and shake my hand, then Ilmari’s.
“We’re so excited to meet you,” says Nancy. “Mars said you were a wizard with nonprofits.”
“I’ll admit, we’re new to this game,” chimes Cheryl. “But what’s the proper sports vernacular? Put us in, coach,” she says, and they both laugh.
“We’re willing to do the work,” adds Nancy.
I glance up at Mars. “Are we waiting for anyone else?”
“No,” he replies. “This is it.”
I glance around at the four of them: the goalie, the surfer, and the lesbian nature lovers.
And now me.
“All present and accounted for,” chimes Joey, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “Welcome to the Northshore Turtle Crew.”
An hour later, I’ve forgotten all about the cold. I’m sweating and panting, my feet sinking in the sand as we walk along the base of the dunes. We’re nearly back to the parking lot now. I can see the patio of blue umbrellas marking the entrance.
I don’t know what I expected for my first meeting with the Northshore Turtle Crew, but it certainly wasn’t a grueling hike in deep sand while Joey, Nancy, and Cheryl rapid-fire explained absolutely every aspect of sea turtle conservation and dune restoration. My mind is spinning as I try to hold it all in my head and remember to breathe at the same time.
Fuck, I’m outta shape.
Meanwhile, Mars Attack looks almost bored as he strolls barefoot, his hands in his pockets, easily keeping pace. The crazy Finn is wholly unbothered in his shorts and T-shirt, the wind whipping at his hair.
“So that’s pretty much it,” says Joey, gesturing with both hands at the expanse of beach in front of us. “Any questions?”
We all slow to a stop, and I place a hand to my chest, trying to catch my breath. My Achilles heels are screaming at me, unused to the stretch and pull of walking in this deep sand.
“Umm—I guess—well, I guess I need to know what you all want,” I get out at last, using rooted tree pose to open my chest and take deep breaths.
“We want to save the turtles,” Cheryl replies.
The other two nod fervently. Mars does nothing, standing slightly back from the rest of us.
I look to him. “Mars? I need to know what you want from me here.”
“We want to save the turtles,” he echoes.
I huff a laugh. “Well, you guys just downloaded an hour of data into me and the long story short is that the options seem to be endless.” I gesture around at the quiet expanse of beach. “I mean, is this a conservation group? Beach walks and clean ups and ‘save our oceans’ rhetoric? ‘Cause you’re already doing some of that.”
They glance around at each other.
“Or is this a citizen science group where you’re tagging and monitoring turtle nests? ‘Cause you’re doing that too. Do you wanna raise awareness about turtles and their nesting grounds for the general public? Or is this a civic action group? Are we taking the fight to local lawmakers and beachfront property owners, fighting for change?”
“Well…can’t we just do it all?” says Joey with a shrug.
“Yeah, it all needs to get done in the end,” Nancy adds with a nod.
“In my experience, the fastest way for a nonprofit to fail is for it to try and do too much at once,” I explain patiently. “I just listed off enough work for like five different organizations to tackle over the next ten years. You can do one of those things really well and two of them well enough. If you try to do all five, you’ll just flounder and fail.”
“But they’re all interconnected,” says Cheryl. “We certainly need the conservation education just as much as the citizen action.”
“I don’t disagree,” I reply. “But it’s about specializing.” My gaze lands on Ilmari. “Take Mars Attack here for example,” I tease, flashing him a grin. “He plays hockey, right?”
They all nod.
“Well, to play hockey you need people passing the puck, right?”
They nod again.
“But you also need guys protecting the other players,” I go on. “And you need someone standing in the net. When Mars gets on the ice, he doesn’t play all the positions. He has to trust that other people will fill those roles. He does his job and only his job, and he does it well. We gotta think of this the same way. We need to specialize.”
“I say that’s what we do, then,” says Cheryl, smiling up at Mars. “Let’s all play goalie.”
“What do you mean, honey?” says Nancy, glancing at her wife.
Cheryl gestures around at the expanse of dunes. “This is our net. This is our home, Nance. Our beach. And we’re going to protect it for those turtles. I say we’re dune defenders now. Let’s step out of the net and take the fight to all the bullies and the businesses who want to tear these dunes apart. If they want a piece of this beach, they’ll have to get past us first.”
“Yeah, goalie power,” says Joey. “I’m in.”
“Save the turtles by saving the dunes,” Nancy says with a smile. “I like it.”
I smile too. “It’s perfect.” I glance back at Mars. “And I think Cheryl just gave us a name for the rebrand.”
Ilmari raises that scarred brow at me.
“What, no more Northshore Turtle Crew?” says Joey, glancing between us.
“Nope,” I reply. “With NHL superstar Ilmari Price as our key patron, a goalie-themed name feels very on-brand. The fans will love it. Thanks, Cheryl.”
Cheryl looks from me to her wife. “What did I say?”
I grin wide. “Folks, welcome to the first official stakeholder meeting for Out of the Net.”
