We woke at the first light of dawn with everything packed and ready, but there wasn’t a taxi in sight. With only fifteen minutes left to reach our rendezvous point, I spotted our neighbor Gabriel waving from his boat—he was waiting too, but the harbor remained empty. We tried calling a cab over the radio, but got no response. Finally, after a tense five-minute wait, a lone taxi showed up. We all piled in and sped toward the shore.
We arrived at the dive shop just in time to load our gear into a truck and head for the harbor on the opposite side of the island near the airport, where our boat was waiting. There were about ten of us in total: four of us from the anchored yachts and the rest local tourists.
When we reached the harbor after a 45-minute drive, it was organized chaos. Around twenty boats were jammed into the cove, surrounded by a crowd of people, pickup trucks loaded with air tanks, and gear scattered everywhere. People were shouting, crisscrossing the dock, getting lost, and doubling back. Our guide pointed out our boat, so we waited for the narrow gangway to clear enough for us to board.
Once everyone was settled, Jose, our skipper, eased us out of the cove before slamming the throttle wide open. The wind had whipped up a choppy sea, so we spent more time airborne than in the water—a bumpy ride that was starting to get on my nerves. Fortunately, it was a short trip out to a massive rock formation where the guide promised we’d find plenty of sharks.
En route, we received a safety briefing and went around introducing ourselves and sharing our diving experience. Everyone gave a brief overview of where and how much they had dived. When my turn came, I explained that I was living on a boat, sailing around, and that my last few “dives” were mostly spent scrubbing the catamaran’s hull. Damjan followed with the exact same story, then Andđela, and then Gabriel. The rest of the group looked at us in utter confusion until someone cracked a joke about us being a professional crew of boat scrubbers, sending everyone into laughter.
When we reached a sheltered cove, we were instructed to assemble our gear and do a test dive. I geared up, jumped into the water, and tried my primary regulator, but nothing happened. No matter how hard I inhaled, I could barely draw a breath. I switched to my octopus secondary regulator, which worked fine, proving the issue wasn’t the tank valve or the first stage. I raised my hand and reported the gear malfunction to the guide. His reassuring response? “Well, shit, just use the backup regulator. Hopefully it won’t fail too.” A bit bewildered, I asked if he really expected me to dive with only one working regulator. He shrugged: “If you don’t like it, you can stay on the boat. That’s all we’ve got.” I decided to take my chances—if the sharks didn’t eat me and my only regulator didn’t freeze up, I’d consider myself lucky.
Both of our scheduled dives were around Gordon Rock. The first dive went well; visibility wasn’t great, but the sheer density of marine life was incredible. Alongside colorful reef fish, sea lions darted past us, accompanied by blacktip reef sharks and other species reaching up to two meters in length. The speed at which these sharks glide through the water is mind-boggling—before you even realize one is near, it has already completed a smooth circle around you and vanished. This initial dive wasn’t very deep, following a submerged ridge down to about 25 meters.
For the second dive, we repositioned right next to Gordon Rock itself to descend into a dramatic gap between two towering rock formations. We hadn’t spotted any hammerheads on the first dive, but this was prime territory. The sea above was rough, making underwater visibility poor, and the area was known for powerful surge currents. The guide warned us that when we felt a sudden surge, we should grab hold of the rocks to avoid being swept away. I was carrying two GoPros—one set to time-lapse and the other recording video—while Damjan was filming as well (his footage turned out much better than mine).
Underneath, the current was strong. We didn’t get a crystal-clear look at the hammerheads this time either. Although a massive four-meter giant began heading straight toward us out of the murky blue, it abruptly turned away at about fifteen meters—seemingly spooked by our group blowing a wall of bubbles. Still, even that brief glimpse of a prehistoric behemoth making a sharp turn right in front of you—knowing it won’t attack simply because the guide told you so for $180—is enough to freeze the blood in your veins.
After the dive, we rested, grabbed some refreshments, and began a quiet cruise back. Everyone was still riding the adrenaline high, and on the ride home, there was only one topic of conversation: sharks. Gabriel mentioned that he had spent time in Costa Rica, where hammerheads gather to breed. According to him, during mating season you can sit on the seabed at ten meters while dozens of hammerheads circle above you in a synchronized dance. He swore they were calm and harmless during that period, provided you didn’t panic or present a threat.
Gabriel had started his journey from Miami, where he bought his sailboat without knowing a single thing about seamanship or navigation. He paid the previous owner to teach him the basics so he could manage solo, then set off cruising through the Caribbean, transited the Panama Canal, spent six months in Costa Rica, and finally made it here. His journey from Miami to the Galapagos had taken nearly a year. “I’m in no rush,” he chuckled. When we told him our plan was to circumnavigate the globe in four years, he looked at us like we were crazy: “You guys aren’t normal. What’s the rush?”
We spent one final day on Santa Cruz stocking up on small provisions, completing our official port check-out, and prepping for our next major destination: Isla de Pascua (Rapa Nui), globally known as Easter Island. A childhood dream was about to become reality.
Over the last few days, we had been having issues with our watermaker, which converts seawater into fresh drinking water. It simply stopped working. We suspected that floating debris in the crowded anchorage might have clogged the intake hose, so we planned to clear the lines and restart the unit once we reached the open ocean. Since the start of our journey, we had been hauling heavy jerrycans of fresh water in the forward seating area as a backup. I had always questioned whether we really needed them, but now we were using them. Everything has its purpose eventually.
More or less, everything is ready. Ahead of us lies a 1,900-nautical-mile passage to Easter Island, which translates roughly to fifteen days at sea. It’s no small trip—there is absolutely nothing nearby in this part of the Pacific. We set sail tomorrow at dawn.
Noticeably, many cruisers skip Easter Island altogether and head straight for the Marquesas to save time. But to me, Easter Island is a bucket-list destination that everyone should see at least once. Many people fly in from Tahiti, which is certainly easier, but we chose to do it the hard way—by sail.