The liveaboard boat rocked gently. We were anchored near Florea island in the Galapagos Islands of Ecuador. The evening had finally descended, enveloping me in a velvet softness that only the darkness can provide. It felt like a blanket, providing the solitude of anonymity by hiding what my face would reveal. The distant sound of the other passengers eating in the dining room below echoed of murmurs, glasses tinkling. My chair at the table with them empty. Tipping the champagne flute to my lips, only a drop remained. Disappointed, I leaned over the rail as far as I could. Thoughts of jumping permeated me. Angrily, I threw the glass into the night and listened as it splashed below in the blackness. Slipping quietly away in the morning, I followed eight passengers to a small dingy to go to Florea. A short five-minute ride to the island, barefoot, stepping into the warm crystal blue water, tiny fish tickled me as I walked ashore following the others. Golden bronze sand dunes rippled in undulating patterns before us. Beyond the dunes, the island was relatively flat with rocky smoke hued outcrops of boulders strewn about breaking the bareness of the stark landscape. Following the guide in line formation, as he chatted about Darwin’s “Survival of the Fittest” theory, we were led to a narrow gravel path that opened up around the largest boulder ahead of us. The sounds of high pitched screeches intensified as we approached. Turning the corner, swarms of blue-footed boobies with webbed feet like turquoise lined the crevices of every rock. Some with nests tucked in the cracks, feeding scrawny necked baby boobies. Many only inches from us yet indifferent to our presence. “Because of their isolated habitat, they don't fear humans,” the guide chirped. The azure ocean, behind the boulders, offered soft waves that lapped at the silky beach, boobies diving in and out catching their meals. The air smelled surprisingly clean despite the abundance of excrement staining the rocks white. Large chocolate leather-skinned iguanas sunned themselves on the rocks all around us. Grassy knolls of wispy seagrass forested the sand dunes to our left, to which an intimidatingly large iguana peeked his head out from the grass. His flat shiny forked tongue snapping in and out of its scaley snout, he seemed to be surveying us. We slowed and gawked as the fearless reptile suddenly slithered out and sashayed past me, stopping, then turned to cross our path. Proving his right to cross where he may, he proudly walked right toward the legs of a portly silver-haired gentleman in front of me. The man froze, looking wide-eyed and stricken. A gasp of air escaping his lips as the long narrow tail glided over his sandaled bare feet as the reptile sauntered by. As we meandered through the dunes, the sun was at low noon, the sky as blue as the boobies feet. A rickety cracked wood barrel on a post stuck out of a dune in the distance ahead of us. As we approached it, the words “Post office” in faded letters were written on it above the loose little mail door. It faced the ocean like a makeshift lighthouse, waiting to give and receive mail from strangers traversing this isolated island. Legend was, pirates would leave letters for loved ones and pirates on the way home took them and delivered them. Like an exchange, now kindly visitors could do the same. The guide offered each of us pens and paper to leave our own message. Sighing, I felt something touch my right leg. A booby stood only a hairś breadth from me, the wind gently lifting his soft feathers. I wanted to stroke him, but knew better. Suddenly my husband appeared next to me, his presence stiffening my spine and increasing my unease. Meeting his eyes stoically I moved away and walked closer to the box. Reaching in, I took the first item my fingers touched. A worn faded red envelope. Addressed to E. Luis 320 Don Bosco, Buenos Aires, Argentina, with 1990 scribbled on the back. Over ten years old, I quickly tucked it away and placed my own letter in the box…..