This morning, our ship was the only thing disturbing the perfect mirroring of the sky onto the surface of the sea. The bow divided the water, rolling slow waves on each side in a calm rhythm of smooth undulations. As the sea reflected the sky, everything was in a hue of unmaterialistic grey, and nothing really seemed to be palpable around us. Except maybe for that small dark mass of solid land, whose peak faded into the morning mist. Not a bird crossed the sky.
This hill attached to an uncertain horizon is Punta Pitt. It is an old giant whose shoulders are bowed under the burden of time and erosion. Punta Pitt is scarred with deep wrinkles that natural forces have drained into its flanks. He’s an old man walking into the sea, leading the caravan of islands that follows him.
Short and dry vegetation covers its copper-tanned rocks with no soil in between. Fine birds grip frail branches with their red-webbed feet. Their wings cut clear in the sky and their bills spear sharp into the sea. Their presence in great numbers reflects the abundance of food under the waves. Life on land wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for the generosity of the sea.
This old giant doesn’t stand alone. In this older part of the archipelago, where the volcanic youth has long gone extinct, a magnificent crowd of respectable formation walks at its side. They too are marked by the age of time.
Kicker Rock is undoubtedly the most splendid of them all. Majestic ruins defy the ocean of its arrogant beauty. Kicker Rock offers a large face for the sun to shine on him. The gold and the dust married to give birth to a natural cathedral for a last whisper.
The Galápagos is a strange and absolutely wonderful place.
