Day 3 – Punta Cormorant, Floreana
From Espanola we headed west toward Floreana, formely known as “Charles” after King Charles II. The island holds a grim spot in the history of Galapagos, mostly because it possessed a fresh water spring that attracted whalers in the late 1790s followed by the island’s official resident, an Irishman Patrick Watkins who landed here in 1807. He stuck to his Irish ways of fermenting whatever he can to stay hydrated and survive. Although I think the history is a bit murky, but Patrick was a human example of survival against all odds, especially for his exit strategy. He stole a ship, headed for Guayaquil and allegedly tossed his captives overboard because he grew hungry. Then, a few Germans arrived.
Nowadays, Floreana hosts a human settlement on the western side which we had the privilage of completely avoiding. Instead we took a short dinghy ride and landed on the northernmost tip of the island. A few blue footed boobies chilled on the rocks gradually led to the beach that supposedly glittered with a distinct green color from volcanic crystals. Personally, I didn’t notice a thing, mostly because I was already walking a mile toward Flour beach on the other side of the island.
Along the way, we passed a saltwater lagoon that was absolutely teeming with flamingos provided you had a supersonic spy telescope to spot them on the horizon. I completely ignored the local ducks, left the flamingos and kept walking while Darwin’s finches chirped overhead. They could have been warblers. The trail itself was a mild obstacle course: I actively tried not to step on lava lizards or walk face first into spider webs. All around us, towering cacti of every shapes and sizes blended into the bush, until the blinding white sand of Flour Beach finally peeked through the trees. We watched pelicans and boobies plunge into the water for lunch, which kept us entertained before it was finally time to head back and snorkel around the jagged peaks that stuck out of the ocean like a shark flashing a lovely grin, Devil’s Crown.
Despite a raging current and average visibility, the underwater scenery at Devil’s Crown did not disappoint. We could easily make out the formations of the sunken volcanic caldera teeming with reef fish. Through the murk, most of us managed to snag a solid glimpse of a white tipped reef shark and a passing sea turtle. Then, right as our time was up, a lethargic sea lion swam over to investigate us. It lacked the high energy acrobatics, leaving us to wonder if it was just chill or ill.
Post Office Bay, Floreana
Later that afternoon, the skies turned appropriately gloomy, perfectly matching the eerie history of Post Office Bay, which we were blissfully ignorant of before setting foot on land.
But first, we were treated to a panga ride along the coast near Baroness Lookout – named after the infamous self-proclaimed Baroness who arrived and immediately decided the island needed more chaos. Before we learned about the reality-tv style shenanigans that went down here, we simply enjoyed the scenery: green sea turtles playing peek-a-boo and lazy sea lions lounging on the islets, occasionally swimming right up to us. It was a peaceful contrast to the true-crime documentary we were about to learn and the literal siege of flies we were about to battle upon landing.
As it turns out, a group of German eccentrics arrived here in the 1930s to find utopia or whatever existential nonsense they were chasing. Instead, they created their own version of hell fueled by fragile egos and insecurities. The small handful of residents suddenly had to deal with the arrival of the aforementioned Baroness and her two lovers who later mysteriously disappeared. Eventually, almost everyone either vanished or died under suspicious circumstances, leaving only one couple behind. They stayed, raised a family and opened a hotel because nothing says ‘Island Utopia’ like a side of unsolved murders.
A hundred years before the drama unfolded, whalers set up a makeshift post office in 1793 using an old whiskey barrel. They used it to leave letters for passing ships to carry back home, all while eating up the local tortoise population, a minor detail Charles Darwin later noted when he realized the island was devoid of giant turtles.
Today, the postcard tradition lives on, tourists get to awkwardly flip through a stack of postcards left in the barrel, pick out the ones addressed to cities near where they live and deliver them to total strangers. None of them were addressed to the UAE so I was spared the chore of being a mail carrier.
We then walked a kilometer to an ancient lava cave to get our feet wet. I used my iphone torch, while my the other hand clinged for dear life to a slimy rope. One wrong move on the steep slippery stairs could have permanently revoked my mobility for life. At the bottom, we finally reached the prize: some cold water that flows to the ocean.
Was it worth it? Nope. Our guide had planned to tell us all the juicy details about the ludicrous affair down there, but three guests had opted out of the cave excursion. Not wanting anyone to miss the drama, he saved the tale for the boat ride as we set sail north toward Santa Cruz, which has gone through a name changing identity crisis at least five times.
CRAYSCAPE 