7 June. Easter Island. Getting Away Before the Storm

7 June Easter Island. Getting Away Before the Storm Today we’re leaving Easter Island for the no less peculiar little island of Pitcairn. Why the port is closed. How a wave broke over us. Why the harbourmaster’s office was astonished when they saw the captain of Lady Mary. The Port Is Closed Ahead of the Storm For the past three days, the surf has been decidedly unglamorous. And today we requested clearance, only to be told: Oops, the port’s closed! And heaven knows how much longer it will stay closed—the swell has picked up, and a storm is bearing down from the west. On the weather chart, it’s swirling very prettily in orange and red. It’s not a hurricane, but there’ll be 55 knots out in the ocean. We were hoping to slip north before the storm and then sneak around the cyclone by the back roads, so to speak, on our way to Pitcairn. But the Swiss yacht that left a few days ago seems to have sailed straight into the meat grinder. While the harbourmaster decides what to tell us, we’ll explain how we teleport ourselves from the Easter Island shore to the yacht in our dinghy :). Launching into the Surf After driving all the way around Easter Island, we found ourselves at a fiesta which, as it turned out, is called Curanto—a feast of gluttony laid on by the hospitable Rapa Nui people. We’ve only written about it in our Facebook and VKontakte groups; when we get the chance, we’ll put it on the website. But when will we get the chance now? )) But that’s all prelude. Stuffed and worn out from all the walking, the crew arrived at the jetty after dark. The swell is still rolling in, surfing waves are foaming to the right and left of the fairway, we load ourselves into the dinghy, strap a headlamp to our forehead and, thank God, stuff the camera bag into a rucksack. — Wait! the captain orders, and we bob about for several minutes, letting the biggest waves pass. Honestly, the weather isn’t raging at all, and the sea looks perfectly normal for Easter Island. From shore, in clear weather, you’d never guess that going out in a dinghy could be dangerous. But it’s dead low tide now, and we can’t wait several hours. — Hold on! Here we go! The captain stands in the stern of the dinghy, gripping the tiller firmly. Little Lada huddles down on the floor in the bow, while Nastya and I clutch the thwart. Forward! The headlamp picks out the rising darkness of the water. On either side, as usual, foam sizzles over the reefs. Up and down, up and down... Whoa! Dear God—the foam rears up five metres dead ahead, right in the fairway. — Lada, get down! This isn’t the landlubber’s command “Get down,” where you’re meant to drop and play dead. At sea, “get down” means turning into a little spider, lying flat on the bottom of the dinghy and digging your claws into something solid. How a Wave Broke Over Us The foam swims out of the darkness, the dinghy bravely lifts its bow, rocks—and splashes down! The breakers snort irritably, work themselves into a frenzy, aaaand... Up! Good thing we’d put our hoods up. And held on. And partly lain down on the floor... The wave breaks over everyone. Gulping air, I wipe my eyes. Where’s Lada?! Phew. The junior crew member’s little white spider is obediently pressed beneath the forward thwart and is already lifting her little head. Everyone else is still there... The second wave hits less hard. But the dinghy looks rather dejected, full of water—above the skipper’s ankles. The tripod, shoes and rucksack of provisions are floating, fortunately still inside the boat. — Marina, at least save the tripod. I fish the big three-legged thing out of the darkness and the watery depths, then reach towards the bow for the bailer. — The camera! Nastya says. Water is streaming down the rucksack behind her. Our only hope is that the camera bag and sturdy rucksack have somehow protected our well-travelled device. There is tense silence in the dinghy. The captain steers the heavily laden little craft over the heaving breast of the ocean. — Right. Everyone’s here, and that’s good. — Mum, I’m shaking. — Mum, I’m trembling all over too! the junior crew member says through chattering teeth. Honestly, I’m shaking too. I can’t tell whether it’s because I’m soaked through or frightened out of my wits. I pour water out of my sleeves and pockets. — It’s all right. We’ll get there, then wash and warm up at home. Stay calm. The dinghy, full of seawater, slews unsteadily across the swell and digs in even deeper. I try to bail, and with one scoop nearly topple overboard. It’s only when you try to climb out of a dinghy onto the side of a yacht towering above your head that you realise the full amplitude of the swell. Nastya scrambles aboard with the line, followed by Lada and me. The junior crew member is whimpering, so I ask the captain’s permission to go below and shower her, then wrap her up warm. Andrey spends about half an hour bailing and handing the dinghy’s contents up to Nastya, and an hour later we’re reunited over mugs of hot tea. We’re Leaving When the captain turned up at the port today to complete our outward clearance, the marine officers stared at him in bewilderment: — You came over by yourself? — Yep. — Bloody hell. Okay, we’ll clear you out. But call us on the radio before you leave, in case we don’t let you out into the ocean. — All right. This morning we spoke to our friend, Officer Mauricio, and he told us that yesterday two boats sank off Easter Island while trying to reach shore. Strangely, the yacht is rolling even less than on some other days. Yet the surf is twisting into a spiral along the entire length of the fairway. I still haven’t worked out what law of physics is at play here. We’re preparing to weigh anchor. We have 1,120 miles ahead of us and reckon it will take 10–11 days. Although the skipper optimistically announced that no favourable winds are expected. Just storms and rain. Delighted by this announcement, we watch as the dinghy belonging to the enormous yacht that arrived yesterday is teleported over from shore inside a fishing boat. Only then does Andrey understand why they stared at him in such bewilderment at the harbourmaster’s office. — So that means I’m a real badass, then? 🙂 — To be continued. Wishing everyone a wonderful summer!