At last Chico stopped and pointed across the valley to the ridge of the next hill, seemingly miles away.
“La casita de la Señora Cobos!” he announced proudly.
They saw a lonely, bleak shoebox sitting foursquare against the skyline, and between them and it a sea of water in which cattle splashed up to their bellies. Obviously, to get to the “casita” they were going to have to swim.
At last they reached the house, wrung out their pants, peeled off their sodden shoes and socks, and were ushered in. Karin turned out to be a dark-haired and dark-eyed Norwegian woman, who looked a handsome thirty-five, but must have been in her fifties—Robinson, for instance, visited here and was smitten by her in 1926. She didn’t seem at all surprised to see them, but accepted her letter graciously and read it at once, while her guests cleaned themselves up, using a pitcher of water and a wash basin. Then they sat down to a plentiful lunch of rice, fried eggs, plantain, and more of that strong, good Galápagos coffee.
Karin spoke surprisingly good English and was happy to talk about former yachtsmen she had met, but not about her life on the island. Barbara gathered that she had divorced her Ecuadorian plantation-owning husband and moved high into the hills, where hers was the only house for miles in any direction. Apparently she liked it that way, and certainly it lessened her former loss of cattle by theft. She made her living by exporting beef to the mainland (Ecuador), where her oldest daughter was at present at college.
This was our first encounter with the rugged and independent breed which is the Galápagos pioneer—but we were to meet quite a few more when we got to Santa Cruz.
The trip down the mountain was considerably faster, though no less sticky, but with the advantage that conditions got progressively better. In Progreso, they dropped off their guide with a gift of some cheese and a couple of cans of V-8 (all they had left), and staggered into Puerto Chico just at dark. Mission accomplished.
When I checked out with the San Cristobal authorities, I was handed a bill for $10 U.S.A. (American money specifically demanded—they did not want Ecuadorian.) The special assessment was for “entering at an extraordinary hour”—namely, 6:00 P.M. local time. When I protested, the port captain shrugged and said, “It’s the law.” I had a strong hunch that had we entered at 10:00 A.M., another law—fresh from the port captain’s desk—would have charged us $10—American—for entering “in the forenoon.” I got part of my money’s worth by delivering an oration of a few well-chosen words. Part of my behavior was normal irritation, but part of it was an act: I hoped that by a vigorous protest and a threat to report the matter to Officials in High Places I could at least keep the shakedown market stable, so that the next yachtsman wouldn’t be faced with a bill for $20—U.S.A.
We left Wreck Bay by the light of a brilliant full moon at 0200, hoping to cover the 50 miles to Santa María (also known as Charles and as Floreana) before dark. By suppertime we were anchored in 4½ fathoms in Post Office Bay, renowned, obviously, for its post office—but one that is a bit different from most and with a special history. Since the days of the whaling ships, a barrel has been maintained here on the beach, where ships outbound for two or three years could deposit letters to be picked up by other ships on their way home.
In recent years this tradition had been carried on by passing yachts, with the help of the sole white family on the island, the Witmers. Mrs. Witmer collects the letters that have been deposited, cancels them with an official rubber stamp marked “Post Office Bay,” and leaves them to be picked up by the next yacht. We had heard that mainland postal services all over the world honor this cancellation.