We approached the island from the northeast, but the main anchorage and the island’s only town sit on the south-southwest side, giving us a scenic cruise around half the island right from the water. Structurally, Rapa Nui is formed by three major extinct volcanoes located at its corners, giving the island its distinct triangular shape.
The anchorage is notoriously rough, but by some stroke of luck, we spotted a mooring buoy bobbing in the water. Very few people make it out here, especially on their own boats, so finding a buoy was a huge surprise. Hooking onto it, however, turned out to be a real head-scratcher: our boat hook was way too small, and the line on the buoy was stretched so taut that there was nowhere to loop our ropes.
Just as we were struggling, a young guy swimming nearby—likely doing some open-water training—paddled over and offered to tie us off since he was already in the water. We got ourselves secured, only to find out from him that the buoy was strictly intended for small dive boats heading to a nearby dive site. Not wanting to cause a scene or block local divers, we unhooked, moved slightly further off, and dropped our anchor. Meanwhile, we radioed local authorities to report our arrival, and they instructed us to wait on board for customs and immigration clearance. The entry process here wasn’t quite as intense as the Galapagos, but thorough checks and vessel searches were still very much standard procedure.
Our new friend took a dive down to check our anchor placement, resurfaced with a thumbs-up, and assured us we were hooked solid and safe. Though exposed to swell and wind, this side of the island offered decent shelter from the prevailing gusts. We invited him aboard to wait for immigration with us, and we struck up a casual conversation. Born and raised on Rapa Nui, his family traces their roots back generations. He made it clear that locals view themselves primarily as Polynesians rather than Chileans—despite Chile annexing the island back in the late 1950s. Sitting roughly 3,700 kilometers off the South American mainland (a six-hour flight from Santiago, or a very long haul by boat), the people here share much deeper physical, cultural, and historical ties with Polynesia.
When immigration and customs officials finally pulled up, they were remarkably pleasant. They inspected our paperwork, checked the boat, and warmly welcomed us to Rapa Nui. They collected our passports to stamp and process at the main office ashore, telling us to swing by the next day to pick them up. But they also dropped a bit of a bombshell: local maritime law mandates that at least one crew member must remain on board at all times. Since there were only two of us on the catamaran, that meant we’d have to take turns visiting the island. A bizarre rule for sure, but we knew we’d have to figure out a workaround.
The officials offered to give our swimmer friend a lift back to the dock with them. To show our appreciation for his help at the mooring buoy, we gifted him a bottle of Montenegrin rosé—giving him something unique to compare against Chilean wines!
A sailboat without sails was anchored nearby—likely a local craft, since no long-distance cruiser would leave their boat stripped down like that. After clearing away the clutter built up over two weeks at sea, I decided to head ashore for a quick leg-stretch. Being stuck on a boat for fourteen straight days with minimal movement really takes a toll on you. During our Atlantic crossing, I read Žarko Laušević’s book A Year Passes, a Day Never Does, recounting his prison sentence. I often joke that while sailing around the world isn’t prison, there are undeniable parallels. You have all the freedom in the world, yet your universe shrinks down to the perimeter of your deck. The bigger the boat, the lesser the suffering—long ocean passages are just easier when you have room to move.
I hopped into the dinghy for a quick five-minute ride to the small fishing harbor where tenders can be tied up. As I pulled in, I instantly spotted giant stone statues off to the left. Damjan dropped me off and headed back to watch the catamaran, agreeing to pick me up in an hour while I did a quick reconnaissance run.
Walking up a narrow, dusty street, I quickly reached an open grassy field dotted with several Moai. Standing in front of them for the first time felt absolutely surreal. I was finally here! I spent every second taking photos, admiring the craftsmanship, and soaking in the magic of the landscape. I wandered over to a cluster of larger statues before slowly heading back as my hour ticked away. Right by the harbor itself, another solitary Moai stood guard.
Some statues wore red stone topknots (pukao) while others didn’t, but all of them were elevated on stone platforms known as ahu, with each platform bearing its own unique name. I glanced down a few side streets, but the town itself held little allure compared to the ancient sentinels standing watch over the coastline.
Damjan arrived on schedule, strolled around the harbor area for a bit, and then we sped back toward the catamaran. As we climbed aboard, he asked, “Did you find a grocery store?” I admitted I hadn’t even looked—I was too distracted by the Moai! Besides, the few open cafes I passed looked considerably more expensive than what we were used to back in the Galapagos. Unsurprising, given that we were standing on an isolated rock in the middle of the world’s largest ocean.
We decided to tackle grocery shopping tomorrow—we had plenty of time ahead of us, and night was already falling over Rapa Nui.