The Galapagos Islands.

The Galapagos Islands had no known Indigenous population before Europeans arrived. There is no solid evidence that pre-Columbian people ever settled here. The first recorded European to reach the islands was Tomas de Berlanga, the Bishop of Panama, who drifted there by accident in 1535 when his ship was blown off course. He described it as hell on earth - a harsh, rocky landscape with little water. For centuries afterward, the islands were used mainly by pirates and whalers as a provisioning stop. Permanent settlement did not begin until the 19th century, after the islands were annexed by Ecuador in 1832, or as our naturalist put it: "after Ecuador did a Trump on it". Even then, life was difficult - the scarcity of fresh water, poor soil, isolation from the mainland and the sheer effort of transport discouraged large populations. In a way, the very conditions that kept humans away are what preserved the Galápagos as a living laboratory of evolution — a place that remained, for most of history, beyond the steady footprint of civilization.

Los Lobos

As the day progresses, the panga (the local name for a dinghy) slows before we reach the shore of Los Lobos. Dozens of Galapagos sea lions make barking sounds, which echo across the rocks. The ground is rough, hardened lava and sand dotted with some shrubs. Looking up above us, Frigate birds circle overhead, their silhouettes sharp against the light. The males perch on bushes and trees, inflating their bright red throat pouches like balloons to attract females and signal their strength. A small colony of blue footed boobies, nest right on the trail. Males strut, lift their bright blue feet to show fitness - I marvel at their famous courtship dance- what a spectacle! But most surprising to me is that the wild life do not flee from us - we simply move through their world.

Isla Espanola.

We wake up at the wee hour, to hop on the panga before the world wakes up. Sixteen strangers, standing politely apart on deck, each of us carrying different lives in our luggage, waiting for our two naturalists to orchestrate our departure. Isla de Espanola, our destination, is the southernmost of the Galapagos Islands and is also one of the oldest. Geologists estimate it is about four million years old. Somehow, in between the first light and the sight of the volcanic coastline appearing in front of our eyes, excitement is beginning to build and our edges are starting to melt. Small exchanges ripple through the panga, a whisper "look here" a. shared wonder that binds us together and first easy laughter slips into the salty air. As we do our wet landing (getting our feet wet), lazy sea lions come out to play. The Galapagos sea lions are everywhere - on sand, across the path and on the lava rocks. They hop over to us, strike impossibly photogenic poses in front of our cameras, and one of them decides to chase me and offers me his friendship. Later on, a lone marine iguana lounges on black lava as we approach. It carries the dark volcanic base but with unexpected colors- rusty red along its head and mossy green and ochres down its flanks. It looks majestic, ancient and prehistoric - I've never seen anything like it before. As we advance, more and more marine iguanas are napping and sucking up the warm sun. These colored iguanas are endemic to this island. Right above stands nonchalantly the Espanola lava lizard, A funny looking creature that does what look like push ups - apparently, its way of saying "this territory is mine"

Finally in my element, we snorkel into the water in Espanola and what treasures we find. A swarm of sea lions and one lone turtle. The sea lions circle me, gliding beneath me, their eyes full of mischief. They dart back up, sleek and effortless, coming so close - belly up, blowing bubbles, inviting me to play. And just as I try to join in their game, they flip and dive down again. 

Floreana & Post office bay

Wakeup at 5.15am, followed by breakfast, then at 6.30 we are ready for the day's excursions - this is our new daily routine. We step out of the panga into the shallow water, shoes in hand and walk by a narrow trail that leads inland. There, a lagoon appears, flat, perfectly still. Then without a warning, five flamingos come into view, heads bent, sweeping the water in slow arcs. These are American flamingos, one of the few populations that breed in the Galapagos. One lifts its neck, fully upright in a very elegant way scanning the horizon. The others pump the water for their food, filtering nutrients from the mud. The lagoon holds their reflection, doubling the pink against the water. I stand there, slightly breathless admiring the show.

The afternoon is hot and humid without escape. Sweat is dripping off of me from pores I didn’t know existed. Sunscreen mixed with sweat and snot are trickling into my mouth, carrying a faint chemical taste of zinc mixed with something bitter - yucks. So when we reach Post Office Bay, I am tempted to let go of the old tradition that has been carried on since the late 1700s. This was the time when sailors and whalers left letters (without stamps), trusting passing strangers to carry them by hand and deliver them personally when someone eventually passed through the right city. Jokingly, I have a change of mind and sweaty or not, I find myself sifting through hundreds of postcards to see if I can hand deliver any - completing a chain of human trust stretching through oceans and time.

No warning could have prepared me for the bizarre tale our guide recounts while we are still messing with the mail. It all began with the eccentric German Doctor, Friedrich Ritter and his companion Dora Strauch who came here to Floreana, in 1929 to seek a quiet utopian life away from civilization - experimenting with self sufficiency in the harsh Galapagos environment. Their fragile peace was shattered when a flamboyant self proclaimed Baroness arrived with her two lovers and schemes to transform this tiny island into a resort for the ultra rich. Lack of water and a shortage of food, intensified the hostilities and rivalries among the small group of settlers. Soon after, the baroness and one of her lovers mysteriously vanished - leaving behind rumors of jealousy, intrigue and a disappearance never explained. it still remains one of the Galapagos' enduring mysteries.

Isla Santa Cruz

Unlike the raw, isolated beauty of the previous islands, here, I find a pulse of human life mingling with nature. A town tucked into the curve of the bay, where boats are bobbing lazily, sea lions lounge on every corner of the pier, iguanas sun themselves on the edges of sidewalks and pelicans circle overhead. All of that while us tourists, (humans...) indulge in a shopping spree at the many stores that line Avenida Charles Darwin and are filled with all kinds of absolutely must-have souvenirs - as if I never shopped before in my life. Just outside the town, the road climbs into the misty highlands. The air cools, the vegetation thickens, and suddenly I see the first wild giant tortoise appears in the grass - simply wandering through a pasture like a living dark boulder. I stand there watching, as it chews methodically on the grass, a massive dome carried on thick, wrinkled legs. Slowly, more tortoises appear, some more than a century old. One of them pauses beside a muddy pond then stretches its long neck, considers the world for a moment, and continues its ancient, unhurried journey to nowhere in particular. All of a sudden, i hear a strange, deep hollow grunt, followed by another...and another. At first I can't place it, then I see them...two enormous Galapagos tortoises locked in a slow awkward choreography of mating. Watching the scene, I immediately notice that something is clearly off. The male has positioned himself completely wrong — leaning awkwardly along the front side of the female instead of behind her. The female stands there with the patient stillness only a tortoise can manage, grazing slowly as if none of this concerns her in the slightest. Meanwhile the male continues his determined but rather confused effort, groaning loudly and rocking with prehistoric enthusiasm, entirely unaware that his aim is… somewhat misguided. Right then, another male tortoise approaches, pushes the illinformed tortoise aside and has his own turn. Hopefully the right way this time.

Perhaps the most famous visitor to the Galápagos was the English naturalist, geologist, and biologist Charles Darwin. Darwin visited the islands for about a month in 1835 during his five-year journey aboard the HMS Beagle. Darwin was only 22 years old when he came aboard, just out of the University of Cambridge. He applied to an ad for a position as a gentleman companion to FitzRoy. FitzRoy, the commander of the Beagle was on a mission to survey the map of the coast of South America. As he suffered from what then called "black dog disease" or what today is diagnosed as depression, he recognized that he needed an educated companion to converse and exchange ideas with during this long voyage. Darwin's job was to observe, collect and study the natural world wherever they landed. During their stop in the Galapagos, Darwin began noticing subtle differences between animals on different islands—especially among the famous Darwin finches, tortoises, and mockingbirds. His observations of different species and their adaptations to their environments played a crucial role in the development of his evolutionary theory.  And While FitzRoy was a brilliant scientist and a complex figure in his own right, it was Darwin who would go on to achieve lasting fame.

Genovesa

After a night of navigation, engine roaring and us sleeplessly tossing back and forth in our lower deck cabin, dawn breaks and Genovesa island emerges from the water. Genovesa is actually the rim of a large, ancient volcanic crater that collapsed and filled with seawater, creating a dramatic horseshoe-shaped caldera known as Darwin Bay. As we set foot on this remote island, the stillness suddenly crackles to life. Thousands of birds lift from the ground and cliffs at once and the air fills with sharp, electric snapping of wings, movements and bird cries - what a blessed cacophony! This North East Island is remote, wild and rarely visited except by small expedition boats like ours. A sudden sense of wildness rushes through me - every sound, color, and movement feels raw, untamed and primeval. We climb the Prince Philip steps, that cut sharply into the dark volcanic wall, the ascent is short yet feels dramatic. At the top, the lava plateau stretches before us, dotted with nesting Nazca boobies, their black-and-white forms stark against the gray rock. Great Frigate-birds drift lazily above, the males puffing scarlet throat pouches in the hope of catching a mate’s eye. Red Footed boobies (my favorite), Swallow tailed gulls (the only nocturnal gull), Darwin's finches, Galapagos doves and mocking birds stroll the area foraging for seeds and insects. Below and around us, thousands of storm petrels fly low over the cracks in the lava, trying to escape the rare Galápagos short-eared owl that is waiting patiently among the rocks for a snack.

As I enter the water, off the Genovesa caldera, a procession of maybe 20-30 cownose golden rays cruise gracefully right below me. Their backs shimmer bronze to honey-gold, their bodies triangle like kites with a long tail and a small spine near the base. Silent, unhurried and composed. I follow them for quite a while, through Darwin Bay’s murky water. It is such an extraordinary experience and all I do is float above them glued to their graceful movement and their silent rhythm.  

Weeks before I arrived in the Galápagos, I was hoping to see the hammerhead sharks and swim with them. It was a sight I imagined in my mind and I was so looking forward to it. So when I am here, in the water, in Genovesa Island, where they are known to hang out, I am alert and waiting. I expect that somewhere below me the silhouette of the hammerheads might appear at any moment. Our group later would speak of six circling bodies, cutting through the water with prehistoric calm. But my story unfolds differently - all I see is the tail of one hammerhead. All I get is an almost, a trigger but not a revelation. I think I need to revisit here sometime soon.  

Bartolome

As we advance in the panga, a spear of rock rises from the bay in front of our eyes. Bartolome is one of the most iconic islands in the Galapagos - small, stark and volcanic. I huff and puff, cursing quietly while climbing the 370 wooden steps, 375 feet high to the top. The heat is starting to rise from the black lava, there is no shade, no escape from the sun. Once at the top, the reward - the entire archipelago opens up in front of my eyes. I embrace the view of the famous crescent-shaped beach, divided by a Pinnacle Rock — one side calm and turquoise, the other wilder and open. I breathe the air and admire the view. The way down is much easier with a feeling of achievement and relief at the same time. I made it through.

Once I slip into the clear, glassy water of Bartolome, the visibility is good. Schools of parrotfish drift past, their color shifting in the light while Mexican hogfish approach us with a curious look. Guinea fowl pufferfish hover nearby, their bodies sparkle with delicate dotted patterns. Around me, clouds of iridescent fish flash suddenly to bright yellow as they pivot. Then in a dramatic moment, the sharks appear. First the Black tip, then the white tip and then the unmistakable Galapagos reef sharks. They cruise slowly beneath, patrolling the area with quiet authority, paying no attention to me at all before settling onto the pale sand as if it is their own private living room. I feel like an intruder wandering into a remote shark’s kingdom. Starfish cling to the rocks below, in an amazing display of colors. When I finally lift my head from the water, one thought enters my mind with absolute certainty: Today was a very good day.   

Las Bachas and Dragon hill

After the dark lava landscapes, arriving at La Bachas beach feels almost unexpectedly gentle. The sand is soft and white and the water spreads out in a shallow, translucent lagoon. While walking on the beach, I can easily spot the footprints of the green sea turtles that crawled ashore last night to lay their eggs. I make sure to look where I step, as beneath the sand, hidden just a few inches below the surface, are dozens of fragile nests. It is kind of an unseen nursery where the next generation of Galapagos green sea turtles are growing in the warmth of the sun-heated sand.

A shape moves among the low shrubs — at first it looks like a branch dragged across the sand. Then it lifts its head and I realize I am looking at a Galapagos land iguana. Its thick body is dusted with yellow and earthy brown, and its ancient face carries an expression that seems both stern and indifferent. Slowly, with a heavy confidence, it shuffles across the sand, leaving a winding trail behind it. These iguanas—sometimes called “dragons” by visitors—feel like survivors from another age. They move with prehistoric patience, pausing to nibble at cactus pads or simply bask in the sun, absorbing the heat that fuels their slow metabolism. Watching one crawl across the beach, I half expect to hear the echo of a forgotten world.

Santiago Island

In the 1600s and 1700s, Buccaneer Cove was a haven for pirates who anchored in the protected bay to stock up on tortoises, firewood and fresh spring water between attacks on Spanish galleons carrying Incan gold back to the King. For a time Santiago nearly lost its wild heart—tens of thousands of goats once devoured the island bare, stripping the vegetation that giant tortoises depended on, driving the population into a steep decline. Today, after an extraordinary conservation effort led by the Galapagos National Park, the vegetation is slowly returning, and the island feels as though it is quietly remembering what it once was. Walking along the tide pools feels like wandering through a living laboratory. Marine iguanas lie piled together on the lava like prehistoric sculptures, their salt-crusted heads angled lazily toward the sun. Now and then one slides into the surf, disappearing beneath the waves in search of algae. The air smells of salt and sun-warmed stone.

Isabela

 Isabela sits in both the Northern and Southern hemispheres at the same time. The largest island of the archipelago, it stretches along the horizon like a dark sleeping animal, its spine formed by a chain of volcanoes that are still very much alive. Lava fields run to the sea in frozen waves, and the air carries that faint mineral scent of young land still shaping itself. Life, however, thrives in this rough terrain. Flightless cormorants dry their stunted wings along the shore, blue-footed boobies plunge into the surf. Mangrove lagoons ripple quietly where sea turtles surface for air, while marine iguanas sprawl across the black rocks, absorbing the heat. In the humid highlands, giant tortoises—icons of the Island move slowly through the grass, ancient and unhurried, as though they belong to a much earlier chapter of time.

During the War of 1812, the Galapagos islands became an unlikely waypoint for British and American ships, including whalers and naval vessels that roamed the Pacific. American and British whalers ranged deep into the Pacific in search of sperm whales, prized for oil used in lamps and machinery. These voyages could last years, so ships needed reliable, long-lasting food. These crews often captured giant tortoises, which were a perfect source of fresh meat aboard ships. Turned on their head in the hold, they could survive for months without food or water - a living pantry for long ocean crossings. A story is often told about British ships that in moments of sudden threat from American vessels, crews reportedly hurled the heavy tortoises overboard to quickly clear the decks and access their artillery. Whether embellished or not in the retelling, the image is striking: ancient creatures crashing into the sea so cannons could be run out and fired. DNA from extinct Floreana tortoises were discovered on Isabela Island, where they interbred with native populations. Could these Floreana's lost tortoises be the descendants of those once cast overboard the British ship?

The water off Isabela island slips over my skin like cool glass- but the first touch is a shock, a reminder that here, the ocean runs colder than what I expect on the equator. Wrapped in a long wetsuit I ease in slowly, letting the chill settle until it becomes a part of my experience. Arches of hardened lava rise above and below the water, creating a labyrinth where life gathers in quiet abundance. Beneath me, a slow-moving shadow resolves into a green sea turtle. A sudden flicker—penguins, impossibly out of place on the equator, dart past like small torpedoes. Then I see something strange. A big, dark, and rounded fish - like a floating head with fins drifting lazily below me. It looks almost unreal - I can't figure it out until later when I learn that what I saw is the famous Mola Mola. It is quite rare to see one and I feel very special. The problem is, I don't have a photo to prove it. So now who says it is real?

There is nothing more exciting to me than being in the water with marine iguanas. Awkward and ancient on land, here they move with quiet grace, gliding past me in slow, deliberate strokes, grazing algae from the rocks as if I’m not even there. Drifting here, suspended between sky and sea, time loosens its grip. My world narrows to breath, to light, to the gentle pulse of the ocean - the ultimate joy 

Fernandina

Fernandina is the youngest and wildest of the Galápagos Islands. Only 30,000-100,000 years old, it is the best setting to witness the start of life. The entire Island is covered with hostile sterile lava fields still smelling faintly of sulfur and heat from the island’s restless interior. . Life has taken root only in a few places. At Punta Espinoza, marine iguanas cluster by the hundreds, their salt-crusted bodies pressed against the rocks. Reptiles, birds and mammals all coexist in this tiny island of life. Sea lions bark and tumble across the sharp stones, the flightless cormorants stretch their stubby wings, awkward and untamed and the Galapagos Hawk, the resident predator, is always on the hunt. Unlike Cormorants in other places in the world, here cormorants are evolution in reverse. The wings are tiny and useless for flight as they've adapted to excellent swimming to catch fish in the water. If their favorite food is next to the nest, then why fly? Or as our naturalist puts it: "You don’t use it you lose it"