Volcanic island. How the cap sank the dinghy, and what the potential “suitcase full of money” buried in the sand turned out to be. Lunch eaten with seashells and the adhesive(!) properties of certain pieces of lava. Pearl Journal, Part 3.
Brrr... it’s absolutely freezing here, in the Pacific, below sea level. I’m swimming in a beautiful Chinese silk robe intended to protect me from the sun ashore. The sleeves, à la Vasilisa the Wise from The Frog Princess, keep tangling around my arms. By halfway there, after battling to stay afloat, I’m not even cold anymore.
The cameras and a huge “lunch box” are following behind us with the men in the sailing dinghy. As soon as we’ve pulled off our fins, we set out to explore the remains of extinct volcanoes.
At every step, the island reminds us of its origins. I keep bending down to pick up pieces of coloured lava and amazing, smooth, chalk-white stones which, as Nastya later discovered, stick to your tongue just as well as a piece of metal at minus 20. They really do stick fast—what sort of property is that? Any geologists out there who know?
Flat, even, layered slabs overhang the water; from under our feet, a grey bird—either a heron or a close relative—takes off with an indignant grumble. On the opposite shore, white herons are resting alongside pelicans and some birds that look like black cormorants, only more graceful.
The men went to investigate a blue, cube-shaped something sticking out of the sand—“what if it’s a suitcase full of money?” (the suitcase turned out to be a huge crushed jerrycan). Laduska and I, meanwhile, set off in search of adventure on a rocky headland that temporarily became our own private desert island. Lada has the explorer’s itch too, and that’s something we have in common (I only hope she doesn’t grow out of it).
Coming up behind the flock of birds, we find a convenient observation post atop a huge lump of melted rock, where a hole-riddled cactus and some mysterious plants are growing. Like a silent reproach to the merciless heat, unlucky crabs—roasted red by the sun after failing to retreat into the ocean with the ebb tide—lie sprawled about.
Our own fate will hardly be more enviable if we stay here another half-hour... So Laduska and I find a secluded nook in the shadow of the cliff, where we tirelessly collect strange stones and shells. Along the way, we film a short segment of our little video programme about the Pearl Islands, sticky stones and volcanic activity. Someday we’ll actually get around to editing it!
After cooling down a little in the shade, we hurry back to the others for lunch.
The Law of Lunch
The lunch provisions fill a large grocery bag. On a rock as flat as a table, in the shade of coconut palms, we lay out the fruit and mix Lada some cornflakes with powdered milk and water (live at sea long enough and you’ll learn to make any food out of freeze-dried ingredients), but we’ve left most of the crockery on the yacht. We have to eat with a large seashell. Nastya uses similar ones, only bigger, as a cup, while I use one as a plate.
Of the three tins of food, two prove possible to open. The cap deals with the third the way cavemen would have: he rubs it against the surface of the “table,” bashes it with stones, and eventually a hole appears in the long-suffering tin, big enough to stick a fork through.
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Security Check
While we’re eating, a local appears—either a ranger or a security guard, with an Indigenous look about him. He asks what vessel this is, where it came from, and who the captain is. He graciously allows us to walk beyond the fence (a chain-link fence runs along the back of the beach, with an open gap in it).
After lunch we set off for another walk; somehow, swimming doesn’t appeal :). Hermit crabs hide beneath the canopy of vines and trees hanging down from the cliffs. At the first rustle, the molluscs play dead, then, after a pause, open their shells a millimetre at a time like spies, clutching their heads in chitinous pincers.
We had sensibly left in the dinghy the shoes we brought from the yacht in case of walking excursions. Andryukha, meanwhile, sailed off in that very same dinghy to explore a rocky islet with a stairway to heaven.
He had barely set foot on the rock when a gust of wind capsized the empty dinghy, and for the next two hours the cap dived into the murky water in search of his mask, fins and beloved stocking cap. He found everything except the cap. By some miracle, our stockpile of flip-flops survived too, but we set off for the island’s highest point without them.
“The Kuznetsov Applicator”
That was the name of the operation. The gravel digs painfully into our pampered soles, and we can barely drag ourselves uphill. ES, despite having her husband’s flip-flops, walks barefoot too, in solidarity with us. At some point, she and Nastya decide to stop torturing their soles and return to camp, leaving us Alexander Pavlovich’s flip-flops—one pair between the two of us.
The young sailor and I, with persistence worthy of a better cause, continue climbing the gravel path in pursuit of a beautiful view over the bay and the surrounding area. We hobble along in various configurations: sometimes I wear both flip-flops and carry Lada on my hip; sometimes we split them fairly and limp along with one each. Along the way, we discuss how a breathtaking view and an adventure are worth a few hardships :).
At the top, some kind of marker poles stick up among the tropical trees. Rumour has it that a hotel is going to be built here. Neat squares of turf have been removed for some reason, as though for a miniature vegetable garden. Under a tree, we discover a perfectly usable pair of flip-flops (oh gods, did you see how we were suffering?!). At that moment, the gods marvelled at the irrationality of our thinking, because, after giving it some thought, we decide to continue Operation “Kuznetsov Applicator” and leave the flip-flops untouched.
Now we can watch the pelicans from above, almost from inside the flock. Some fly right past our noses, spreading wings a good metre and a half wide. The sun sinks beautifully towards the water, and our feet rest, each pair sharing one flip-flop. A quarter of an hour later, we hobble back to the others at the same pace.
It’s time to return aboard.
Homeward
The sailing dinghy takes us in batches—first the young sailor and me, then the girls, Nastya and ES, and then it goes back for Alexander Pavlovich. The wind is blowing directly onshore, and each time the little sailboat, loaded with passengers, makes an incredible number of zigzags.
We’ll set off for the other islands on the morning ebb tide. Ahead of us lies an island straight out of a film about pirates and castaways, a foray through the jungle, a little climbing, successful fishing, and a barbecue on a desert island.
A termite mound–anthill at the top of a tree
The leader of the hermit crabs climbed onto the dining table )
To be continued!