A Day in Bartolomé

by Naomi Jane Hunt (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find Ecuador

The sun had scorched my face relentlessly that day in the Galápagos. It had been March 31st, 2017, around two in the afternoon. I was sat on a zodiac with six other tourists, on a day tour to Bartolomé Island. Famed for its stunning natural beauty and dusty, moon-like surface, Bartolomé had been on everyone’s to-do list. At that moment in time, we were traveling from our catamaran to Bartolomé’s dock. I could just about see the dock in the distance and had felt eager to explore such a barren, unforgiving terrain. As I turned my head back to face my fellow tourists, a Scandinavian-looking girl of about eight or nine-years-old had screamed excitedly. A baby seal, accompanied by its mother, had swum right next to the zodiac. Back then, I was twenty-five-years-old and on a solo vacation, taking a break from my teaching job in mainland Ecuador. Young and adventurous, I was in need of change. I had worked five jobs to be there. Full of heart and soul, I was on a mission to see and breathe as much of the world as possible. Nothing on earth could have stopped me from achieving my goal. Yet, as I had sat on the zodiac, drifting through those soft, dream-like waves, closer and closer to Bartolomé, I had felt so, so uncomfortable. Despite being smothered in factor 50 sunscreen, my face had been slowly roasting. Sweat had dripped profusely down my reddened forehead and, to prevent my legs from suffering the same fate as my face, I had desperately pulled my oversized t-shirt over my knees as far as it could go. The t-shirt, wet-through within seconds and only stretching to just below my knees, had clung rebelliously to my skin and, being shy and in close proximity to other people, I had felt self-conscious. I had then taken the desperate measure of asking the tour guide if he had a blanket to cover my legs. The answer, of course, had been a resounding no, and I had immediately felt embarrassed about having asked the question. The Scandinavian-looking girl had picked up on this and had tried – and failed - to stifle a giggle. Her mother had noticed, and the girl had received a warning tap on the shoulder. I, on the other hand, had received an apologetic look of sympathy. The pity party had been far from over: an elderly Spanish lady, sitting with her husband to my right, had nudged him and nodded in my direction, whispering “la pobrecita” (the poor one). In addition to my burning face, my eyes were red, sore, and stinging because of exposure to the salty Pacific water and breeze. It looked like I had been crying. Argh, I had thought, exasperated. I can’t let this ruin my day. I’ve come too far. Just at that moment, in the depths of my despair, the tour guide had let out a shriek, which was immediately preceded by another shriek from the Scandinavian-looking girl. “Pinguino” the tour guide had yelled. “Pinguino” the Scandinavian-looking girl had parroted. Everyone, at once, had stood up, frantically grabbing their cameras. I had been both shocked and amused. Pinguino? I had thought. Doesn’t that mean penguin in Spanish? Ha. What jokers! They must all be having a laugh to make me feel better. As if there are penguins in the Galápagos – this isn’t Antarctica! Yet, when I had turned my head to face the commotion, I had seen it. One surprisingly small penguin, swimming gracefully about five feet away from the zodiac. I was so shocked that I could not utter a word. I had stood up, my eyes trailing its path. My face had no longer burnt and I had no longer felt self-conscious. I had found myself in one of those defining moments in life where time just stops and all is calm. “Wow”, I had finally muttered to myself, “how could I have not known about this?”. The Scandinavian-looking girl, hearing my comment, had responded snarkily, “everyone knows there are penguins in the Galápagos. It’s common knowledge”. Too dazzled to care, I had just smiled.