The sea is turquoise here, save for the speckling of white sea-born chess pieces that litter the bay. Peering past the catamarans, yachts and fishing vessels, you can see the floor of the bay and, occasionally, the bait-fish that Boobies and Pelicans wait for anxiously for, floating high on the breeze off the ocean. To the south-west the walls of the bay are sheer cliffs, only ten metres in height, but impassable enough. To the north-east, mangrove swamps. Sandwiched between the two is the tiny port of Santa Cruz, the largest settlement on the Galápagos Islands.
It is on Santa Cruz that we will finish our whistle-stop tour. It has been eight days, but feels like 80, such is the enchantment of these isles that all sense of time, and place, is lost to the soothing temperatures and "flapping in the breeze" lifestyle.
Which is not to say that these eight days have been spent poorly, or if not richly then in more languid pursuits. Of course I think we have all found time to read more than a few chapters of our books, and there have been a few too many cervezas consumed once the sun begins its twilight trek, but these eight days have also been filled with the small discoveries that these islands allow.
Isla San Cristobal is, like any tourist mecca, built for the itinerant. A well manicured, if relaxed, waterfront esplanade, complete with souvenir shops, caters to the elderly, infirm or simply nautically-minded tourist who spends most of their time on one of the many small cruise ships to navigate the archipelago. At night you can see the endless shuffle of, mostly American, snow birds emigrating to the warmer climates as they wait out the last of the northern hemisphere winter. They are boated in, they eat and, sometimes, drink before buying a nick-nack and then are shuttled back to the floating nursing home that they are berthed in, ready to move onto the next island.
For us, however, staying on the island meant walking the maze of backstreets to find the local BBQ restaurant, waving to the local we meet the day before and, yes, finding the bar that doesn't cater to the tourists.
San Cristobal is the island of diving - at Leon Dominico or any of the protected bays on the long coastline. It is the island where, most likely, you will first swim with sea-lions, sea-turtles, manta and sting rays and occasionally a shark. It is the island where Charles Darwin first stepped ashore to epiphanise about the origin of the species and the island where you could lose yourself, caught between the last century and the current. Touched by tourism, it is nonetheless beautiful.
A short boat-ride away, Isla Floreana is everything that is not San Cristobal. Few tourists step off a boat here - why would you when there are no paved roads, only two restaurants and no souvenir shops? It is the closest to how I imagined the smaller of the Galapagos islands would be. It is the wild west and the undiscovered country. It is the island of playing in the water with penguins - solely on their terms - and of the marine iguana, Godzilla-like in every aspect but size.
Isla Isabela is caught somewhere in between San Cristobal and Floreana and is, in my opinion, the pick of the litter. The paved roads extend for little more than the first few metres off the dock and power is generated by diesel turbines - provoking much discussion about wind and solar power. Isabela is home to the Sierra Negra volcano - second largest crater in the world, immense lava fields and poorly exercised tsunami evacuation plan - although I suspect that is every island in the Galapagos chain. It is heaven. If you could imagine your tropical paradise, then the chances are that Isabela is close. Azure waters lap on sun-bleached coral beaches, followed closely by lime-green mangroves. Beach restaurants and bars cater to those who want nothing more than to relax as a hard days drifts away from them. There is simply no more relaxed place that I've found in this world.
Certainly not Isla Santa Cruz. Catering entirely to the tourist market, you will find more Americans in Santa Cruz than in Miami and, while the Galapagos have been home to visitors throughout their history, you have to wonder what the sea-lion thinks of the bright yellow trainers over knee-length socks, slightly-too-short shorts and bum-bags. It is the place that, by far, most tourists would spend time and, for that reason, the place I want to spend the least time. Give me two night on Floreana over this utopian dystopia. As with many places in the world, you have to wonder if our ambition has run rough-shod over the natural beauty of the world around us.
Tomorrow, we leave these islands, sorry to see them set behind us as we make our way back to the mainland. If only there was room on these islands for just two more people.
Cam
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