Our departure from the Galapagos started off smoothly enough. For the first day and a half, we enjoyed a nice, steady breeze pushing us along, but then the ocean fell dead calm. The wind sputtered out, barely exceeding 5 knots in gusts. With no point in keeping the sails up, we dropped them and decided to use the forced pause to tackle our ongoing issue: a completely dead watermaker.
The current out here was surprisingly fierce—nearly 3 knots. In open ocean conditions like these, safety isn’t something to take lightly; if anyone falls overboard in a strong current, they’ll be swept away in seconds, no matter how strong a swimmer they are.
To prepare for the underwater inspection, I grabbed our thickest shore line—about 20 meters of heavy 20mm rope—and secured it firmly to the boat so it wouldn’t dig into my waist if something went sideways. I threw on my fins and mask (deciding scuba tanks would be overkill for a quick hull check), verified the depth beneath us—a modest 4,600 meters, a absolute drop in the bucket—and lowered the swim ladder. I took a deep breath and plunged in, mostly checking first if there was anything with sharp teeth waiting to eat me.
The moment my face hit the water, I almost forgot why I jumped in. Below me was the most breathtaking gradient of blue I had ever laid eyes on. It started as a radiant, crystalline azure near the surface and deepened into an infinite, velvety navy as light dissolved into the abyss. Damjan gave the safety rope a quick tug to check on me. I popped my head above water, gasped for air, and shouted that the water was freezing, the current was dragging, but the color of the ocean was utterly mind-blowing.
Then came the actual work. I scraped away at the intake valve—first with one knife, then another, followed by a sponge and a soft scouring pad. Visually, the intake looked clear, but when Damjan fired up the watermaker inside, nothing happened. I repeatedly submerged myself, holding onto the hull against the slapping waves, trying to feel if the pump was sucking in any water at all. Nothing. The intake screen was covered by a protective plastic cover that I couldn’t detach while swimming alongside a bobbing boat. It became frustratingly obvious: the watermaker was officially dead, and fixing it would have to wait until we reached Tahiti—the next real sign of civilization.
Later that evening, a fresh breeze picked up, and we were back under sail. From that moment on, fresh water conservation became our top priority. We weren’t in immediate danger since we had plenty of bottled drinking water, but hygiene required some serious adaptation. We switched entirely to saltwater for washing dishes and brushing teeth. Fortunately, the catamaran had a raw-water deck wash hose on the bow that pumped seawater directly when switched on. The only downside? Any seawater left sitting in the hose throughout the day under the scorching equatorial sun ended up smelling like rotten eggs, so a thorough flush was mandatory before every use. Shaving was officially canceled until further notice—a single attempt with saltwater would ruin a razor blade instantly.
A few days later, the wind kicked up significantly, whipping up heavy, uncomfortable side waves. Life on board mirrored our Atlantic crossing days: cooking was scaled down to the bare minimum to save water, mostly revolving around canned food and instant noodles that we had bought for pennies back in Panama. Fishing and reading became our main daily routines. Day after day bled together into a rhythmic routine until finally, on the 14th day at sea, the shadowy outline of Rapa Nui appeared on the horizon. Just a few more miles, and we’d be stepping foot on Easter Island.
