“Isla Más a Tierra.” He shouted. Closer to Land. We broke through the cloud cover to an island divided precisely in half, a green Amazon out the leeward windows, and a barren golden rusted rugged rocky Atacama moonscape off our port side. I asked the pilot where the airstrip was.
“Justo debajo de nosotros.” He said. Right below us. And he banked high and around for his only shot at the shallow bowl between the two extinct volcanoes. Sheer cliff faces soared a hundred feet straight up off the surf on either side of his attempt. He had a split second after the wheels touched the lunar surface to swing his wings in a tight semicircle, so we wouldn’t go off the grim precipice. He’d done it before. We taxied past the wreck of a Piper Navajo that hadn’t been quite as proficient, lying flat on its belly with its windows and doors blown out. The Spaniards crossed themselves in tandem with the pilot’s own invocation. Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near. The silence that returned was deafening.
Robyn and I emerged to a red and white striped windsock, waving at us, horizontal against heaven.
“Estamos aquí.” Said the pilot.
“He says we’re here.” Said one of the Spaniards. There was no debate. We had landed on the largest and only inhabited island of the Archipiélago Juan Fernández, but the airstrip was still almost two hours away from Cumberland Bay and the only village of San Juan Bautista, John the Baptist. He was supposed to have pointed the way to Jesus. We looked around for a finger to point us in the direction of Juan Bautista. The pilot indicated the route we were to take to join them.
“Sigue el sonido de las focas.” He said, waving goodbye. Follow the sound of the seals. We all hoisted our packs and began a long hot dusty walk down a track. We could hear it barking at the bottom.
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