Inlet on the Galapagos archipelago

The Galapagos By Small Ship

Ecuador. The equator. The Galapagos Islands.

There is unusual magic in these words. You can read and read about the blue-footed boobie, about Darwin’s
five-week visit there, and about the seals that yawn when you go near them that will not scare.

Blue feet. Animals that are not afraid. Darwin or not, it does not sound like our world. So though you’ve paged through the books, you decide you’ve got to inspect it for yourself to see if it is real.

If you are like me you lean toward an Ecuadorian ship to sail there — a small one — so you can be close to pebbly shorelines and low to the sea. I lean toward this. I lean farther, and fall for The Parranda, a 16-passenger 1950s-era motor yacht run by Ecuador’s Quasar Nautica Line.

From the Web site photo, it has a wood-with-brass-trim-island-steamer air, but a less than deluxe price, starting at about $2,300 for an eight-day cruise. I fish out my Hercule Poirot-style tropical hat, and initial the forms.

A national wildlife sanctuary since 1934 and considered one of the world’s most active volcanic areas, the Galapagos archipelago in the Pacific Ocean encompasses 13 major islands, not including islets and protruding rocks, that sit just under the equator at about 600 miles west of the Ecuadorian coast.

Impressed during his five-week-long visit on The Beagle, Charles Darwin made his famous notes and study here in 1835.

Today, about 95 percent of island territory is protected as part of Ecuador’s national park system. Four communities outside the park have a total population of about 20,000 and are growing fast. The Galapagos have been declared a World Heritage Site by UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization).

San Cristobal Island, where I fly to meet the ship, looks like an army blanket from the air. It’s wrinkled inland but tucked in tightly along the coasts.

The Parranda has its tightness, too. Cabins are ship-neat, not big on decor, but everything fits and there is a canopied top deck where we can spread out after snorkeling in the heat of the day.

Most of us put on our suits as soon as we’re unpacked and rummage through a box of masks and flippers. "You will be snorkeling with sea lions," warns Gabriel Ribadeneira, our naturalist and guide. "Sometimes they swim up and blow some bubbles in your face. This is okay. They are playing."

It’s certainly okay with me. And although I don’t see bubbles in the choppy water, there are black marine iguanas and aluminum-bright backs of darting fish.

Suddenly one of the snorkelers slaps my flipper with his hand to get my attention. His underwater parts are being circled by a strange gray shape.

"Hammerhead shark," he sputters, pulling off his mask. It isn’t a big one but we yell to Ribadeneira who is floating in the raft nearby.

"Good sighting," he shouts back. "If you enjoy sharks, there is about a four-foot white-tipped over near those rocks."

I’m about to kick away from where Ribadeneira is pointing when I hear someone laughing behind me. Someone points to a black and white underwater blur. It’s a swimming Galapagos penguin. A penguin on an important errand.

As Ribadeneira informs us over dinner, "The Galapagos is the only place in the world where you will see penguins next to a cactus."

Nearly every day there is a new island to explore. Genovesa, where we wobble on lava rock that’s laced with swiss-cheese holes. Isabela, where there are blue-footed boobies balanced in trees.

Ribadeneira shows us sea turtles and a tail-flicking animal authorities are eager to catch: an orange tabby cat. We feel like we are in a book for children. Cows can appear in any chapter, but so can unicorns. Naturalists know as much as wizards and you wonder if your Galapagos species checklist is, in the least, complete.

When we land on Santiago, Ribadeneira is justifiably proud. "This," he announces when we break for a drink, "it is the largest pig-free island in the world."

I’m proud of Santiago, too, of its Guinness Book success. But my favorite is Floreana where there’s a fanfare of Frigate birds with bright-red bubble necks for mating display.

Here, the marine iguanas hawk and spit like subway riders ("it’s to get rid of salt," says Ribadeneira) and we spot sea lions that are bobbing up in waves like rounded rubber rafts. Some ride breakers all the way in and then swim out for more.

Next time we snorkel, three of the sea lion surfers torpedo toward us, spinning upside down and peeling away before our hands can touch their tails. Their bubbles trail behind like capes of superheroes or like skywriting in the sea.

One night we are scheduled to cross the equator twice. I check our timing with the captain since there’s an experiment I want to try. "This is The Parranda, not The Beagle," laughs Ribadeneira at dinner. "You have some theories, like Chuckie’s, about the birds or fishes?" Ribadeneira calls Darwin "Chuckie D."

I have zero theories. But an hour later, when it is dark, I’m thinking about running water into the galley sink. North of the equator, according to physics books, you get counter-clockwise whirls in drains. And if you’re south, taking a shower in Peru, you’ll see the opposite spin. In a place so magic as this, it must be true
— Peter Mandel