The Trek to Down Rope
We set our alarms early again, determined to squeeze every last drop out of our time on Pitcairn. This time, no one was waiting at the dock, so we set off on foot toward the center. Walking gave us a much better appreciation of the details we’d missed while zooming past on ATVs the day before. Aside from a few heavy construction machines and a single vehicle that looked like it hadn’t run in years, quad bikes are the only way to get around.
We hiked back up toward Fletcher Christian’s Cave for one last look over the South Pacific. While standing at the lookout, we noticed dark, heavy rain squalls building on the horizon. The wind was slowly driving them right toward the island.
On our way down, we paused beside two massive, weathered aluminum longboats resting near the shore. Back in 1971, Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, visited Pitcairn. Impressed by the islanders’ legendary seamanship in navigating the treacherous surf of Bounty Bay—but noticing how heavy and difficult their old wooden boats were to maintain—he gifted them two modern aluminum longboats. Today, these vessels stand as monuments to island history at the landing site.
As isolated as this rock is—1,100 nautical miles west of Easter Island and 1,250 nautical miles east of Tahiti—it remains a crucial link for the British Crown. With 14 Overseas Territories scattered across the globe, it’s often said that “the sun never sets on the British Empire.” If Britain were to lose Pitcairn, the sun would technically set on the empire for about an hour every day, making this tiny dot of land an important symbolic anchor in their maritime heritage.
At the village, Damjan and I split up. He headed back to check on Daedalus Adventure, while I set off across the island to visit St. Paul’s Pool and search for ancient petroglyphs carved into the cliffs. These rock carvings predate the Bountymutineers, left behind by early Polynesian voyagers who landed here centuries ago but never settled permanently due to the lack of reliable freshwater streams.
Along the trail, a couple of locals warned me to be careful: “Squalls are coming in a couple of hours, mate.”
When I reached the drop-off point, I realized why the location is named Down Rope—even though there was no rope in sight! Apparently, you were expected to bring your own. The path was a steep dirt cliff covered in loose vegetation, scrub, and slippery vines. I started making my way down, but almost immediately lost my footing, sliding several feet before desperately grabbing hold of a thick root. This is going to be a lot sketchier than I thought, I realized.
To make matters worse, the wind suddenly whipped up, and heavy raindrops began to fall. I was only three meters down, but I knew that if a full downpour soaked that clay cliff, it would turn into a slick mudslide, making it impossible to climb back up. I scrambled back onto solid ground just as the sky opened up.
I sprinted back toward the main harbor as the rain turned into a blinding torrent. From the top of the cliff overlooking the bay, I could see Daedalus Adventure tossing violently on the growing swell. I tried calling Damjan on the VHF radio, but the heavy rain and thick cliffs blocked the signal. Seeking shelter under a covered picnic table, I waited out the worst of the deluge before making a run for the dock.
Dragging Anchor in Bounty Bay
I met Damjan at the landing, and getting our dinghy back to the catamaran turned into an absolute battle against the waves. The anchorage had transformed into a washing machine. Daedalus Adventure was yanking against her anchor chain like a bucking bronco trying to break free. The swell was surging directly into the bay, threatening to tear our ground tackle apart.
We had no choice: we needed to haul the anchor and find a safer spot immediately.
That was easier said than done. We had 110 meters of heavy chain out in deep water, and fighting the boat’s surging momentum meant our windlass was working under extreme load. It took an agonizing hour of careful maneuvering, engine surges, and heavy lifting to finally free the anchor from the seabed.
We motored around to the other side of the island near St. Paul’s Pool, hoping the high cliffs would block the wind. A Swiss monohull was already tucked tightly into a small cove, enjoying relatively calm water. But for a 45-foot catamaran like ours, there simply wasn’t enough swing room. If the wind shifted even slightly, we risked getting driven straight into the jagged rocks.
We were out of options.
This exact lack of shelter is the reason early cartographers ignored Pitcairn for so long—no natural harbors, no safe anchorage, and no protection when the weather turns nasty.
We brought the engines up, pointed our bows west toward Tahiti, and bade farewell to Pitcairn. The rugged, dark rock slowly shrank into the misty horizon behind us until there was nothing left but open ocean.
