Across the great bay from where the Dragon's Throat lay, a particularly emotional grandfather went about his day.
Yes, it was most poetic - A grandfather turtle, of over one hundred years old was washing his papery face in the brine and sea salt, the very waters he had called home for his century-long existence. While he had not spent that long on his lonesome, this morning was one he spent in isolation. His beloved, Mrs. Tortimer, had passed only last winter, and so it was with the heaviest of hearts that he combed the last few sprigs of hair upon his head, straightened his shell and checked his beak-like mouth for any ghastly chips.
What was the occasion, you might ask?
Well, having been happily sea-wed for the better part of one hundred years, Mr. and Mrs. Tortimer had procured quite a hefty number of children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, great-great-grandchildren, great-great-great-grandchildren, great-great-great-great-grandchildren... and so on.  
Anyway, today was Mr. Tortimer's great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson's sea-wedding, and Mr. Tortimer was most excited to be seeing his sons, daughters, cousins, grandchildren, and all of their friends, because he never really got many visitors.

Turning his tiny tail towards the water, his coconut of a head now facing the dunes, Mr. Tortimer gave a great sigh. It was probably about time he set off; it would take a few hours of turtle time to get there - it was just so far across the bay to the Dragon's Throat oasis. Twelve o'clock sharp he had to leave, he had made note of his before he went to sleep the night before.
Just as he turned once again upon his rugged flippers, The finned paralian gave a glance towards the sun. By it's angle, it was at least twelve o'clock - right on time!
Though, it would take him at least four, five... or maybe even six hours to get there.
Six o'clock for a sea-wedding to start? He'd never heard of such a thing.

Eyes slowly sinking from the sun, jaw slacking, Mr. Tortimer quickly realised he had made a most horrible mistake. The heaviness, metallic sickness he felt in his heart was the kind he couldn't associate to any other; it was pure dread.
Standing grief-stuck on the shoreline, the hundred-year-old turtle watched as the waves rolled in, his gaze threatening to train upon the island of his destination, knowing that his entire family lay in wait for him. Or did they? How was this day any different to all the others? They chose not to visit him on those days too!
Regardless, Mr. Tortimer was certainly not one to ever give up.
Turning again upon his rickety old shell, the turtle searched his immediate area for an intrument for which to write. He was a skilled reader, though not much of a writer given his anatomy. Begining at the top of a sand dune, the old man began to carve out a word;

H E L P.