Get stoned in Easter Island
When a 2,000 miles long crossing turns out without a hitch, the prudent captain knows that trouble must soon be expected on land. Respecting my ‘crew-hunt’ decalogue, the bible for offshore sailors, when we let go the anchor just off Hanga Roa at 1900 of Christmas Eve, 1999, the boat was shipshape and clean, the crew and Captain shaved, the Port Captain duly radioed and everyone was ready to desembark. Happiness is hard to achieve on an empty stomach, therefore we first concentrated our attention on the menu of a restaurant with a perfect terrace with boat view and lots of beer in the cellars. My own feelings were greatly enhanced by the succesful crossing and its pleasing effect on my ego could hardly be spoilt by any troubles the crew could raise in the land of Moais. I had already learnt that when unleashed, crew who have been forced to bahave for weeks in a boat can attain enviable levels ashore. But, I foolishly said to myself, problems ashore are someone else’s trouble. It was thus with a light state of mind, greatly enhanced by Chilean lager, that I waved the eager gang off to the local disco and went back aboard in the rolly anchorage. When, the following morning, my private band of hangover hooligans emerged from the bunks with no hands missing, I knew that all was well, for nothing is as dangerous as the first night out. Anyway, when I sensed that mostly everyone was willing and able, I radioed the Port Captain for instructions about where to go. I knew that the small haven of Hanga Piko had been closed after a gale some years before had nearly washed all the boats away, so we were all more or less ready to a series of watches and rolly nights out in the roads.
‘Good morning Sir, yo usaid you wanted to speak to me this morning’
‘Yes Captain, I was worried for the problems you have aboard’
The crossing, as I said before, had been perfect so I could not understand what problems the Port Captain was talking about, and I said so,
‘Captain, you haven’t understood well. You have to tell me what problems you have with the boat’
‘But I have none…’ I was nonplussed.
‘Yes you do. You must have a problem’
‘But we don’t’
‘Listen to me Captain, you must have a problem, you see?’
‘No, I cannot understand’ I felt an idiot.
‘Ok, let’s put it this way. You know that we have a very sheltered harbour called Hanga Piko, right?’
‘Yes, and you closed it some years ago, right?’
‘Corecto, you are well informed. What you might not know is that we cannot deny its use to vessels in distress’
I saw the light. Even my hangover fog was not thick enough to hide that precious clue.
‘Well, sir, you are very kind to ask, in effect we have a problem with the radio’. Why of all things I said the problems were in the instrument I was using is a matter of conjecture… advanced senility, alcoholic numbness or sheer stupidity?
‘Yes I can hear it does not work very well. Anyway, if you want, in this case of emergency, you can enter Hanga Piko. We’ll send a pilot out, whose cost is 100 US dollars’
A pilot! I mean, I was to use a pilot! Like a real ship… I was liking this chap more ad more… We didn’t see much of the Island apart from a line of very large and apparently extremely heavy statues staring stupidly inland, but I was already loving it… I imagined a wise old salt with a pipe and a cool air asking us about our crossings to his beloved island, where we were welcome, was it not for the fact that we were the only vessel around, probably for more than a 1,000 miles, being Easter Island the most geographically isolated place on the planet. The emotion was even able to distract me from the question I should have asked: why a pilot?
After an hour an easy going chap came out from behind the point: curiosity, words and comradeship were utterly absent from his Polynesian face. He moved the left arm in what could be suspected to be a ‘follow me’ gesture and turned around, as soon as our iron was up. Well, I said, as long as he knows where to go… So we started to follow him. It was soon after we turned the point that we could see clearly two things: first the reason why we needed a pilot; second: horror. The launch was pointing straight to a rocky shore where surf was battering heavily, raising vast breakers along an apparently unbroken line. Soon afterwards we saw that there was a small section of the shore where breakers were lighter and towards this point the launch was headed. My first inkling that while closing in the passage would have looked bigger was greatly affected by optimism. Same for the height of the rollers, that continued happily to hide the launch completely at our view.
Time is tricky at times. We eagerly waited for a harbour for 12 days, and now we were closing in too fast. In a matter of seconds the launch dissappeared again behind a roller and after few seconds she was flat inside the harbour and turning left. Before I could realize it, a wave began to raise Cadeau and surf her right in the middle of two dilapidated walls, the depth gauge falling and my knees rocking. In a matter of instants I was in a pond-like surface and turning left into a small basin with just a small bunch of local launches lazily moored. A light surge could be felt and all was calm and slow, apart from the swiftness a 100-buck note changed hands. We were moored at Easter Island, and now could leisurely explore it and enjoy a Christmas lunch. We were moored at Easter Island. All was well. Apart from the radio of course…
Apart from the fact that you are in the most isolated place on earth and forgetting the presence of hundreds of massive stone statues looking towards a fine green island with the most perfect blue sea behind, Easter Island is not much to speak about. I mean, let’s not forget the impressive volcanic crater and the green meadows overlooking the ocean. What is really remarkable is that it’s a perfect place to provision for a blue-water crossing. I know, there’s nothing there, but somehow all you need can be found. It’s a perfect introduction to south America. But let’s move with order. Once into the harbour we went to pay our hommage to the Port Captain, Fabian Aravena. A young and very pleasant chap, who soon invited us for dinner, a dinner that proved interesting and very agreeable. We returned the invitation and he dined on Cadeau, and a nice friendship was soon born. So it was with a certain degree of surprise that I received an official invitation to show up at the Port Offices for official matters.
‘Marco, mi amigo, sorry to disturb you, but there is a small matter I have to discuss with you’
‘Be my guest, Fabian, fire off…’
‘Well, we received an official report that you arrived here a crew of six and you might leave in seven’
‘What?’
‘It looks that one of your lads got… let’s see… acquaitened with a subject who is considered persona non grata. We got a file from the Interpol’…
‘Chaaarleeeeeeeeeeeeesssssssss!!!!!!!!!!!!!’
‘Yessir’
‘Don’t you have something to tell me?’
‘It’s a long story’
‘We’ve been here 4 days, shouldn’t take more, and we risk to stay here forever…’
‘Well, you know the first night out, some of the locals got a little excited’
‘I was wondering how come nothing happened’
‘Well, it was nothing much, really. They wanted to get my cap, and you know I am attached to my cap, the dates of my friends who died and all that… Could not possibly let it go’
‘I see that, but when does the girl come in?’
‘She was very effective in calming the place down, man, things were a step away from mayhem, these polynesians are tough nuts’
‘Yeah, don’t tell the rugby players… the girl, chaz…’
‘But man, she is not involved, you know?’
‘Involved in what?’
‘In the interpol business, it’s a case of mistaken person. It’s not her’
‘You mean that there are two loose, 7-months pregnant american women in Easter Island?’
‘Must be so, sir, I also called Interpol to check’
‘You did WHAT?’
‘She saved my cap dude…’
‘So who is she?’
‘She is a widow, man, the father of the creature just died falling with his Porscha from the Key West causeway, taking most of his dough with him, so she’s left alone and penniless’
‘Chaz?’ Andrea said
‘Yes mate?’
‘Did you really spend six years in the Navy?’
‘You know I did’
‘What did you learn then?’
‘Chaz, I mean, it looks a trifle strange, you must admit that’
‘I know, man, but she’s so sweet and gentle’
‘Anyway, you must know that we are not taking her with us’
‘But no one planned to’
‘She did, apparently, and the voice went around, man… Tell her to shut up, or even better tell her to buzz off’
‘Yes mate’
So that’s why when we left Easter Island everyone, included all the seven carabineros and every single uniform around the island was there to see us out. Not before Fabian could make some nice jokes about the Us navy, of course.
If Fabian was the highest political authority of the Island, his practical counterpart was a large dude whose name is Juan Edmunds Paoa, proud owner of the only easter island service station. Now, what you can have, even in modern service stations, is rather well renowned. But not here. In Juan Edmund’s Easter Island Service Station you could get… everything.
‘What do you mean with everything? Ther’s nothing here’
‘I mean everything, Marco. Write a list’
‘A list of what I need? But I need tons of things’
‘No problem’
‘And I need to rent a car’ said Nick
‘Can I have a horse? Added Paola
‘To rent, eat or ride?
‘What about girls?’ Nick again…
‘No problem’ that was the standard answer. Anything could be had, and he was the man to find it. Juan ‘Nick Holden’ Edmunds. So we did challenge him:
The list: 5 frozen chickens, 60 litres of red wine, 30 kgs of potatoes, 30 kgs of flour, 10 litres of tomato sauce, salt and pepper, 6 sausages, 2 big boxes of Mars, chocolate, tea and coffee, 15 kgs of pasta, 10 kgs of rice (1 of Basmati), batteries (normal and for Nikon cameras), a portable floppy disk reader, 180 eggs, 5 kgs of sugar, 10 jugs of water, 400 litres of fresh water, 60 bottles of beer, baking powder, maple syrup, 2 kgs of butter, olive and suflower seed oil, a car to rent, a horse to ride, and a lost lens for Andrea’s camera (that was not found). Girls Nick found by himself, as usual.
On December 31st, one of the planes flying from Santiago bound to Papeete unloaded a bunch of tourists AND all our provisions, except the frozen chickens…
‘You know, Marco, I knew you were leaving the 2nd, they would be unfrozen by then, so I arranged for a separate delivery’
The chickens were promptly delivered directly to the boat in the morning of the 2nd.
Also present at our departure a bunch of local fishermen very happy we were leaving the harbour, the chick Nick finds in every port and deeply falls in love with for 34 hours, two Italians who were having their holidays at the beach by Andrea’s, various tourists, cats and dogs.
Not far away the Moais were disdainfully giving their shoulders to us, watching silently the land they were carved from.
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