This is the second part of our Galápagos blog, so if you haven't read part 1 yet - stop!
Find it here.
Day 3
Ellen:
The following morning had us up early, with me feeling no ill-effects of my electrocution of the night before. The shower was of the heat-the-water-as-it-comes, mini-boiler with a shower head attachment that we had seen a fair few times on our trip. I had located the switch on a box on the wall, turned it on and stepped in. The water was gloriously hot after my previous chilly swim and quickly steamed up the small bathroom. Then there was a loud click and the water went cold on me. Disgruntled I peer out of the shower and see that yes, the switch had been tripped. If I had thought sensibly for a second I might have seen some correlation between it tripping and the large amount of steam in the room. And if so, I would have realised that moisture in the air really shouldn't be able to affect electronics in a bathroom. But I didn't. I was just chilly and half-shampooed. So I reached out to press the switch, and in doing so, placed half my hand on top of the box, which was totally open to the air, exposing it's live wires to my wet hand as I turned it on. The jolt shot right the way up my arm and I yelped loudly in pain. Thank goodness, other than some mild tingling in my fingertips, there was no damage done. George and I were shaken for ten minutes or so, but were recovered by dinner time and were soon regaling the group with tales of high drama. The evening was spent chatting companionably over card games and a deep nights sleep where I dreamed vividly of turtles.
Back to the next morning and we breakfasted and were led down to the shore and the famous barrel! It's contents consisted of the same 6 postcards of varying age and vastly varying destinations. We all sifted through them eagerly, hoping to find an address close to home. A few were memorable, including a postcard with no address and a request that it be left in the barrel. On it was written a heartfelt and slightly crude message to the writer's future wife, whom he had yet to meet.
"Aha!" Cries George and I turn to peer over his shoulder. He is holding a postcard addressed to somewhere in Reading! Success! It's message reads simply "Hi!", with no to or from in evidence. I have guarded it safely since then and will be sure to deliver it to it's destination.
The journey onwards to Isabella Island wasn't too choppy and we passed close by the cliff-sides of a couple of tiny islands, un-inhabited by anything other than nesting sea birds. Petrels and frigate birds keeping speed with us, occasionally dipping low over the water before swooping off and away. With the fresh sea air whipping us and salt water spray occasionally misting our vision, it made for an invigorating and exciting trip. We all peered out eagerly, hoping to spot the elusive Blue-footed Boobie. But alas only black and brown here. Amy (marine biologist) and Phoebe (artist) from Perth are still mightily excited, as they are playing "marine bird bingo" - roughly drawn pictures of the birds of the Galápagos, arranged in boxes to be ticked off when seen. It will become a running joke that they cannot seem to spot a frigate bird, no matter how many we pass.
The dock on Isabella consists of a wooden boardwalk sitting lower and at a right angle to a short stone peer, connected together by a low set of steps. The pier pokes out of a mangrove-lined shore. There is a small sandy beach to the left and to the right the mangroves meet the shallow, turquoise waters unhindered. As we wait for our bags to be unloaded, we peer down at the clear, lapping blue and across into the dense plant life. One day on the islands has us expecting exotic and exciting wildlife in every direction. And we are not misguided. Suddenly, the wall of the pier rising to our left moves and I realise that what my peripheral vision had thought was a darker patch of stone was actually a sprawling heap of baby marine iguanas, basking in the sun. In fact, I didn't know they were young ones at first, as I had only seen these reptiles under water on nature documentaries and had no real idea of their scale. It was only when we spotted an adult swimming towards us that we realised the difference. Black, rough scaled and muscled, the iguana moves through the water with it's forearms tucked backwards, undulating side to side like an alligator or shark. Above the water sticks it's very own dorsal fin; a row of exceedingly Jurassic looking spines. And it's babies are exact miniatures, perfectly to scale, but about 20cm instead of 100.
Onto another 'milk float' and as we start our trip to our first actual campsite, we are treated to the delightful view of a sea lion deep asleep and laid flat out on a park bench by the shore. We rock and sway with the vehicle as we trundle over gravelly roads and watch the landscape go by. It's more of the same scrubby trees and the occasional cactus near the coast, but as we move inland the foliage gets more lush and familiar. We pass the occasional trail of cows, swaying their sharp-hipped backsides down the road and gazing wetly at us as we squeeze past.
Our camp is in the 'highlands', which, having come from the Andes, is a comparatively amusing name for it. These islands are as flat as pancakes. Apart from the volcanoes that created them, which rise in a condensed manner to their peaks. The campsite was not on a volcano; 'highlands' in this sense, meant 'not on the coast'.
It was evident on arrival that this would be 'glamping', not the budget camping we were expecting. Our campsite sat in a small gully, lined with trees. Following the grassy path down to the hollow we pass mango trees and a beautifully arranged vegetable garden. Our tents were lined neatly on the far edge of a lush lawn and were spacious and came with two mattresses. There were streaming hot showers in wooden cabins and a fresh rainwater shower in a secluded bush. And a family of giant tortoises on site, chewing lazily on the mangoes that drop from the trees. And there was a well stocked, circular bar made from dark polished wood and flanked on either side by long sheltered tables for our communal meals. There was happy hour on passion fruit cream cocktails. Bloody luxury.
That afternoon's activity was visiting the creator of the nearby Sierra Negro volcano. What started as an exciting prospect soon became less and less promising the closer we got. The fog closed in dense and chilly around us as we huddled on the milk float. Rain started to spit. By the time we arrived at the start of the trail it was raining fully. A large percentage of the group were looking soggy and fairly dubious as Alex pointed to our destination on a standing map and headed off, un-daunted. George and I were frankly British about the whole situation and welcomed the rain like an old atmospheric friend.
The trail led us up a winding, rocky and fairly steep path. The stones were shiny with moisture and the fog hung heavy over the moss and fern draped trees to either side. Muffling sound and clinging in minuscule droplets to every surface, the fog created a twilight fairyland of glints and shadows. As usual, George and I were soon at the back of the group, taking our time and seeming to enjoy the climate more than most.
We caught up at one point to hear Alex point out the fruits on the floor and hanging from some of the squat trees. "These fruits are Guava!" He puts such enthusiastic emphasis on certain words that it's hard not to be immediately and extremely interested in anything he is saying. These fruits are different to the guava we have seen in the rest of South America - in both skin (which is pale yellow) and fruit (which is a warm pinky orange), they are the Galápagos islands' own variety. "Feel free to eat some!" Alex tells us and sways away. So the next unblemished fruit I see I pick up and break open. The flesh is fairly slimy in texture, but with a pleasantly light tangy flavour and lots of tiny white seeds. Not the most delicious fruit I have ever eaten but interesting enough to keep nibbling it as we walk.
The islands are not exporters of anything much. They make and sell small quantities of coffee. Most things you find in shops are ridiculously over priced as they have had to be shipped 1000km from mainland Ecuador. (500 ml of sun lotion for 28 USD!?) They have no livestock to speak of. But what they do have is fruit. In many cases, in varieties unique to the islands. Most notable are the oranges, which are so fragrant and sweet that they suffice as dessert even for the cake loving George. And the first time we are given their juice to drink we do not believe that it hasn't had sugar added. The guava is not quite as impressive as that, but has the added enjoyment of collecting it myself, like a tropical version of a scrumped apple.
At one point we came upon a rare break to the green and black palette of these islands - a miniature meadow of tiny pink wild flowers on delicate stems growing in thick grassy clumps, stretching out either side of the path.
Having been gradually soaked to the skin we reach the top of the volcano and find the rest of the group similarly soggy and standing, staring out and away from us at the 9.3km wide creator. Or, at least that would be what they were looking at, if it wasn't for the fog. So, in actuality they were staring out at a vast, uninterrupted sea of white, starting at their feet where the land drops away in leafy swiftness and ending ... nowhere. We settle ourselves on the mossy ground to see if the fog will clear enough to reveal anything. Alex sits and chats to us happily about the creation of the islands through volcanic eruption and George decides to wander around the trail a little more - it goes around the crater's edge in both directions but does not join it's self, and so causes a choice of a two hour trek in one direction and a five hour trek in the other. That should give you some idea of the size of this creator, even if I am unable to give you a visual description. I CAN tell you that it was so wide I couldn't even see the other side.
Hoping that George doesn't decide to walk too far, I settle in for the wait. Sitting in the shifting fog with the hot sun occasionally breaking through to warm my shoulders, it was still and peaceful and pleasant. Even aside from the slightly unsettling moment when I looked down to discover half a small caterpillar in my guava (exactly the wrong amount of caterpillar you want to find; at least none means you keep your blissful ignorance even if not your bug-free diet). At one point the fog cleared just enough to glimpse the very bottom of the crater - distant, distant volcanic rubble far below us. But as for the far rim, or indeed any other part of the volcano, our (and your) imagination will have to do, I'm afraid.
After a democratic amount of waiting it seems the time has come to leave - though I think we would have comfortably waited a little longer, the Australians are looking positively hypothermic from the mildly damp weather.
"Don't rush!" Says Alex, pushing himself to his feet. "No hurry!" He dusts down his bottom. "Relax. Take your time." He shoulders his backpack.
"But we are leaving!" The rest of us chime in.
Hang on, George isn't back yet. So I set off to find him, with the others gathering their things. It has already become an established understanding that in any and every situation, George will be last, accompanied or unaccompanied by me. Getting on the bus - George is last. Getting out of the tent - George is last. Arriving at a destination - George is last. Leaving a destination - George is last. And we all know that the reason for this comes slightly from occasional laziness (especially in the mornings), but also from an inability to be hurried by anyone and a will to take his time and for this, you cannot fault him (trust me, I've tried!). As I head off to herd him back, I am already confident in the group's acceptance of this state of play, evident in their gentle, affectionate ribbing. "Keep together!" Alex might call, then purposefully find George in the group and squeeze him by the shoulder and look him in the eye. Or I would stop in my tracks, look around me, frown at the people I had been talking too and turn back to find George without having to explain it to them. Sometimes they will call "George!" In the same manner as I might call "Lily!" Down the path for me. There is a lovely and well developed group dynamic. We are already a little family.
So off I trot to look for George. To my left, the clouded crater and to my right a mass of dripping vividly green foliage. On my quest I spot a couple of the bigger, yellow warbler birds. We meet and begin our journey back together.
"See anymore of the crater?"
"Nope. You?"
"Nope."
"Ah well!"
At that point we are met by the smiling, bobbing figure of Alex appearing out of the mist towards us.
"Found him!" I call. "We're coming!"
"Don't rush!" Calls Alex, the twinkle in his eye belaying his self-referential humour that in fact what he means is "Come the Christ on, the Australians have frost bite and if you fall down the crater that's a lot of paperwork"
[G. I was only gone ten minutes!]
Thank goodness the group doesn't feel the need to wait for us on the walk down and we take our time enjoying the atmosphere to make up for the lack of vista at the peak. It was a little to wet to get the SLR camera out, but I tried to capture some of the beauty that was tiny droplets of water sitting on George's beard and glorious eyebrows. Magnificent.
Our milk float dropped us of at a bar near a beach down the coast from the dock, where we drank Baileys and Irish coffees and watched the sun set over the Pacific, warming our hands and cockles.
That evening we had categorically the best fish ever eaten. Swordfish caught a couple of hours earlier by our hosts, cooked with salt, pepper and a little lemon and I could have happily eaten that every day for the rest of our trip. Then we gathered around the campfire, drank passion fruit cream cocktails (two for one!) and got to know each other a little better. The heat warmed our faces merrily as the chill of the night crept up our backs. We exchanged stories of our travels, seeing each other's faces only in silhouettes of shadow and flickering light.
Day 4
George:
By the time we wake the campfire has long since died down and the porous lava boulders that surround its base have lost their heat to the morning air. I unzip the thin plastic of the tent flap and peer out at our group members making the walk, one by one across the dewy grass to the bathroom and back again. The sun is already up and for once it feels almost equatorial. Perfect weather, for the moment at least, on the ever changeable Galápagos.
The milk float jostles us down the hillside at a rate designed to wake up every member of the group, regardless of how late they stayed up the previous evening and it is in short time that we pull up beside our first stop for the day, a small lagoon in an old disused quarry. Here standing in the shallow water we find an animal that I for one did not expect to find on the Galápagos. Flamingos. There are two of them in fact, standing in what is little more than a shallow puddle a few meters below us.
But the trouble with travelling sometimes is that we have seen it all before. The puddle is a lot less interesting than the borax lakes on the salt flats and two flamingos are not two hundred. Nevertheless it is at least interesting that they should be here at all, and the tracks in the sand made by their beaks give some small insight into their feeding technique. So we satisfy ourselves with that and after everyone is done taking photos we stroll onwards to the real reason we are here. The largest tortoise breeding centre in the Galápagos.
It is a stampede in slow motion. There are baby tortoises absolutely everywhere and they are all extremely keen to get to the food that they think we have. Which unfortunately we don't. They are so keen to get to us in fact that they scramble on top of each other in a frenzy, albeit one played out over a longer time period than normal. Even at a young age their shells already make up most of their mass and they make weighty grinding noises as one slides over another. There are wince inducing thunks as errant tortoise toddlers topple onto one another and constant scraping noises made by hundreds of circular feet moving as fast as they can on the sand and gravel. The small section of concrete behind the knee high wall that separates us from them is especially chaotic. Tortoises are piled high, falling over and getting squished and poked and stepped on. But they seem to care not a jot and watching them is an extremely entertaining experience. The youngsters are noticeably less ponderous than the elder statesman sitting in a separate pen nearby, but even the simplest task can still be an epic undertaking for a tortoise. Ellen wanders off with the camera and returns a little later with a grin spread ear to ear. "I just took a very long video of a tortoise getting into a pond." She says happily. Video length more than 3 mins. Total distance moved about a meter and a half.
Alex leads us around with a little explanation about the variety of species and their differences - this one has a flatter shell because their are lots of low trees on the island it comes from, this one has a long neck because the food grows higher up on the island it comes from. And so on. But most of our time is just spent watching the babies jostle each other around. After our brief tour we are introduced to the owner of the centre who comes out to show us some of the newest hatch-lings. He knows his audience, and presents the baby tortoise to the girls in the group by producing it from behind an egg with no indication that there was about to be a small cute thing on display. Ellen, along with everybody else (although the guys pretend to be macho about it) melts on the spot and spends a happy few minutes staring into its tiny blinking eyes. And I am no different.
When we leave we do so by foot and follow a trail past more lagoons and more flamingos. There are cacti, and holy trinity flowers, and finches and iguanas. If you haven't got the impression yet, and if you have read this far then I really hope you have by now, let me be clear. There is life everywhere on the Galápagos Islands. It is in the water and on the streets, in the forests and lagoons, in the distance and right next to you plodding around your feet. It is something you get used to while you are there, but should be considered no less astonishing for that.
Ellen:
I am staring down the beak of a blue-footed boobie. He looks both ridiculous and serious, he blinks up at me through tiny, round, front-facing eyes that sit very low on his domed face. He looks like a startled elderly librarian, peering at me through round spectacles down the long blue beak in an affronted and fearless stare. We are scattered across a jagged maze of volcanic rock islands about a 45 minutes' boat journey from Isabella and have stopped on our way to a major snorkeling point. It is rare that the weather and water are good enough to allow disembarkation at this place, but today we are very lucky. We balance and tip-toe over craggy bridges over crystal clear aqua marine. On our way we have passed a manta-ray in the water, mating sea turtles and a pelican looking at us inquisitively from atop a bush on a rock. With it's oversized beak tucked vertically to allow it to look down, he stands like a tall man with a long neck and a receding chin.
And finally there are boobies. I stare at the one facing off with me, trying to make sense of his various ridiculous features. Underneath him are the over-sized, webbed feet, the periwinkle blue of which (along with their clownish size) give this bird it's name. It is a bizarre looking and lovable creature. However, in between its cartoon head and ridiculous feet, its body is nothing but streamlined, elegant sea bird. Its wings end in angled points like a fighter jet and its feathers are sleek, strong and perfectly ordered. Despite the extreme waddle it must adopt to walk on land (which reminds me strongly of George in flippers), we see for ourselves the true nature of these birds when one suddenly leaps and dives into the water - it moves as fast and smooth as an arrow straight from the bow. It is apparent that everything about this bird is for a life of sea fishing and swimming. The blue, however, is still a mystery, Alex informs us. There are different theories about the cause or reason for the colour difference between this boobie, the red footed boobie or indeed any other seabird, but none of them, erm, stand up in the water. It's very striking though. And the boobies show it off proudly when trying to attract a mate. As they are completely unphased by our presence (occasionally one will waddle up to us and wait for us to step out of it's way before moving on past) we have been wandering amount them without them stirring a single feather in reaction. Therefore, we are lucky enough to see their mating ritual happening - a male following a female, lifting his feet high in the air with each step as if to say "check these out baby!"; the boobie equivalent to getting your guns out. They click and whistle through their beaks at each other and lift their wings up behind their bodies. You can tell the difference in gender only by the eyes - the males have a small pupil surrounded by a pale yellow iris whereas the females have a much larger pupil with only the very thinnest of yellow lines around it. This is because, Alex tells us, the females do most of the hunting in the deep water where it is darker. The males look startled, the females look high.
The sun beats down in full Equatorial strength when the clouds are away and it is soon time to head back to the boat and on to our snorkeling, before we all fry to a crisp.
George:
I can only imagine, as I hang horizontally from the side of the boat one arm gripping furiously to the wooden rim, one flippered foot still out of the water on a ledge, mask on my forehead and wet-suit bunched around my armpits that I look every inch the snorkeling expert. Stylishly I roll into the water. The boat gives a slight rock as I disembark but otherwise is totally placid. We have moored up in a cove between lava tunnels and the ocean is wonderfully calm and clear, and warmer than my first snorkeling experience as well for which I am extremely grateful. I use the correct technique to splosh my way to upright and take a moment to look around. The location we have landed in is totally alien. So much so that it warrants some explaining, so please bear with me.
When a large amount of lava flows from a volcano, as it did here in years gone by, it takes a long time to cool completely. But inevitably it is the lava in contact with the air which cools first and fastest, and in most cases while the molten rock beneath is still flowing. This means that the top of a lava flow quickly becomes black in colour, a thin crust of cooled rock on the surface of a much larger, deep orange molten mass. It is in many ways a version of our earth in miniature. And in keeping with that idea the thin crust on the surface moves and cracks as the molten rock beneath continues to flow. Over time the crust grows thicker, and the windows through to the lava beneath become fewer and farther between until they disappear altogether, the crust becomes immobile and if you couldn't feel the heat you might not know there was anything but solid stone beneath. At this point the lava flow is underground, and now it is insulated from the air it stays hot and flows fast. It creates a tunnel for itself down the mountainside and flows until it hits the sea. Eventually the volcano stops erupting, and the lava flow dries up. The tunnels stand empty, and where they meet the sea they are weathered and eroded, parts collapse while others remain standing, bits break off and become smooth under the force of the waves and rock pools form in the dips on the surface. What were once the upper ceilings of tunnels are now bridges between stranded islands of lava. The sea has roared in to claim the ground and the waves have started to make their own channels through the cracks. On the higher points plant life has taken over, cacti in their hundreds sit atop rocky perches, bright green standing out against the black of the stone and the blue of the sea and in the water kelp and seaweed latch themselves to the undulating sea floor. The landscape left behind by such a dramatic process is stark, and labyrinthine, and beautiful, and colourful, and harsh.
And alien.
I check my mask and pull it over my face, grip the snorkel between my lips and take the time to look at what's beneath me. Now I'm in the water it is instantly apparent that my mask fits much better than last time, and with a little experience with flippers I find that when I am not trying to stand up or walk on them they work much better. And so with everyone in the water we set off behind Alex and the captain of our boat as they lead us into the maze.
"...ver here......nd a......hors..." As my head dips in and out of the water I only catch fragments shouted from Alex ahead of us. "Sea horse!....hav.....een....it...
Ellen:
This snorkeling is really very different to the first dip we took - for a start the water is far more still and for another it has no sea lions. It does have sharks though.
Luckily white tipped sharks are harmless. Though they grow to be two meters or more in length, they are fairly timid and feed only on small fish. Doesn't make it any less nerve wracking to hear Alex call "There is a shark! Over here!" When you have been quietly looking at parrot fish and gently swaying seaweed. I wheel around and spot everyone floating around the unmoving, yet incredibly recognisable shape of a shark resting on the sea bed. Cautiously I swim around it, reminding myself that it won't eat me. My heart still skips a beat though when, with a pulse, pause and flick of the tail, it goes from motionless solidity to lightning fast streamlined predator and darts away.
"More over here!" I hear Alex call and follow the bobbing heads and splashing feet of the group as they float around a corner of rock and under a low bridge. It really is a maze here. I arrive to find that half the group has ducked under a strip of lava in search of the sharks and are now returning as I arrive. One by one they bob back up on our side. "There were sharks but they went away" says Alex as he resurfaces. I tread water and patiently wait for George to re-appear and share in my shark based adrenaline. But the flow of be-masked faced seems to have dried up.
"Was George with you?" I ask.
"Uh... Ye..." Alex looks around the group briefly, then ducks back under to the other side. He re-appears moments later and looks around the group once more. I do the same. Everyone looks around the group. None of us are George. Everyone looks at me. Oh sigh. And I set off at a fair old kick, trying to mask my genuine concern with a sort of resigned, dogged attitude. But I can tell everyone is actually just as worried as I am, or perhaps more so, as they may not be as used to actively having to Not Worry about George as I am.
We turn a corner en-masse (almost) and back into the wider space. "George? George!" We all call. It is not that there is much danger here - the water is very calm indeed and there are no animals that could hurt him (other than a sting perhaps) and I know George is unlikely to have tried to swim under anything. But water is water and the sea is the sea and it would be foolish to underestimate either.
Finally, in a pause for breath between our plaintive calls, we hear a slightly worried "...Hello?" Coming from behind an outcrop of rock.
"George?"
"Yes?"
"Where are you?"
"Where are YOU?"
It turned out that George had mistakenly followed another group (used to being at the back), only to discover, when they started swimming back to a boat that wasn't ours, that he was wrong. At this point he started trying to find us and soon heard his name being called. He tried to swim in a straight line towards the voices but soon got confronted with lots of lava and got lost.
George:
This is like being in a hedge maze except instead of hedges there is lava. And instead of a small tower in the middle there is a group of 8 slightly panicked snorkelers somewhere that I have to try and get to. I swim left and around a rock, under a bridge and out to sea a bit to get around another headland. Really I would like to climb up on the lava to try and see where the others are but we were warned not to go too near the rocks because of the black sea urchins which could send a spine straight through your hand. And quite apart from that there are cacti everywhere. The lava is spiky, the cacti are spiky, the sea urchins are spiky - I'll stay in the water for now and try to avoid being spiked by a ray.
"George?" I hear the cry. "Swim towards our voices."
"It is impossible to swim towards your voices." I shout back over a 3 meter cactus. "Hold on a minute." I start to navigate back the way I'd come from, out to sea around a headland, under a bridge, but before I get all the way back I spot a different opening and there is Ellen looking relieved.
"Where did you go?" She says. "We saw sharks!"
"I went left" I reply. "I saw cacti mostly."
Ellen:
Once we have re-united with him and got back on track with our shark hunting, Alex turns to me and breathlessly says "please tell George to stay with the group". I will try, I tell him. But I guess George is just too much of a free spirit.
Our next stop is an underwater cave (it's not exactly a cave, as it is open in the middle - more a circle of rock that you have to duck under the water to get in to, or to peer at it's contents). We are told this is where "Sharks! lots of sharks!" live. We take turns to look, with either our guide pushing our heads down, or by going under off your own steam. Everyone who comes back up has the same expression on their face and report to make - "Sharks! Lots of sharks!". Having never worn a wet-suit before, I find it a new and challenging experience trying to get far enough under the water to see anything. Those suits are buoyant. But finally, after much fruitless ducking and splashing and refusal of the offer of being held under, I discover a way to pull myself down the rock and hold myself there.
Under the shelf, the water is murky with our kicked-up sand. At first all I can make out is a rough oval of shadowed light coming in from the opening above and faintly illuminating the water and seabed underneath it. I see nothing of shark-like description. Then, out of the gloom something clarifies its shape with a slight flick of the tail and drift into the light. In that exact moment my perspective shifts and clears and the dark grey-blue shadows and silhouettes of sharks (lots) come into relief against the variated background. I can't help it, I know they are not dangerous to me, but there is something primal about that sight and I let out an involuntary underwater squeal and pull myself back to the surface. I am pulling the expression. "Sharks! Lots of sharks!" I tell George, who, having not had an encounter with a shark yet (due to getting himself lost) is looking fairly apprehensive.
George:
Sharks. Awesome. I dip my head underwater and see absolutely nothing at all. Even with Alex holding me down I can't make anything out but on my third attempt I realise my error. I was looking down. And the sharks are not down but up at eye level, silhouetted against the light from the other side of the lava tunnel. They move with a lazy ease, all power and muscle. I give an involuntary little shiver. Sharks are awesome.
We surface and move gently around through a few small gaps and occasionally under bridges that are completely submerged so that you have to swim under while blowing out through your snorkel to keep it clear of water. Each new area has a different fish to catch our eye, or a different type of seaweed or coral, or as in the final case, sea turtles. And this time they are huge.
There are at least 5 or 6 sea turtles grazing beneath us at one point or another over the next half hour. Some are beautifully colourful, others the dullest grey of greens. Some hug the sea floor chomping on seaweed while others glide along the surface, weaving easily around the lava. For such massive creatures they are incredibly graceful in the water and they glide more than swim. Ellen and I float over a turtle almost as big as we are and swap the camera between us. In some cases I feel it is important to take pictures otherwise I might not believe later on that it actually happened.
I said earlier that you can he used to things while travelling. Swimming with sea turtles is not one of those things. It is, was, and always will be a privilege.
Ellen:
Gently gliding over the surface of the sea as a giant sea turtle swims along happily beneath me, the bright sun dappling psychedelically on it's mosaic shell is an image and a memory I will keep for the rest of my life. I'm going to bring it to mind any time I am stressed or worried.
Fabulous stuff guys! I'm loving the shots of the wildlife! Must be everywhere you look. Can't wait to see you guys when you get back! An afternoon at the pub (at least) will be needed for you to tell me all you've experienced!
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