A Million Years of Memory

Travel Stories: In the Galapagos, Bill Belleville immerses himself in an environment that's part dream, part cradle of evolution

The inland volcano cradles a small, sullen lake at the bottom of its bowl.  It is a steep walk-crawl down the sides, and I have no reason to go there. But Darwin was here in the heat of the midday sun and, without a canteen, hoped the lake might quench his thirst. He scrambled down to the bottom of the caldera with no hesitation. But when he cupped his hands to drink, he was startled to find the water was saltier than the ocean itself. All was not lost: Mapmakers named the crater “Volcan Darwin” in his honor.

Seaward, I look down on the broken and submerged crater of Tagus through my binoculars and see a half dozen green turtles mounting the shells of each other, frothing the turquoise sea in their passion.  As I watch, each raises its ancient, armored head up out of the water, gulping air in sheer turtle bliss.  I have seen other sea turtles underwater during my month here in this isolated archipelago.  And each time I have been struck by their primitive grace, the way they glide like huge stout hawks through the water, the glint of another millennium shining in their eyes.

I start to hike back down to the craggy shore of Tagus just as the sun dips below the volcanic peak of nearby Isla Fernandina. The air out here, free from mainland dust, is remarkably clear, unencumbered with the residue of human conceits. On the horizon, the curvature of the earth falls away on both sides, and guilelessly, I catch myself wondering why the ocean itself doesn’t simply drain away.  In the cusp of the bright scarlet light between late afternoon and evening, I see Jupiter and Venus burning atop each other next to a crescent moon, watch the brightest meteor I have ever seen streak a long white trail past them all. It seems to be checking off one more day of life, Darwin’s creationist God still at work, busy with time-keeping, dutiful and sure.

After dark, back on the ship that brought me here, I put on scuba gear and with ichthyologist John McCosker, slip under the black water at the edge of the cove. Here, with our dive lights turned off, we settle slowly to the bottom at 80 feet, flashes of bioluminescence sparkling in front of my mask like the fireflies I used to see as a kid in country fields. We are here in these islands to capture new specimens of fish, and with nearly 40 percent of marine life found no where else on earth, our chances are always good.  Fish sleep too, and they hide very well, so it helps to look deep and at night.

I look for McCosker, but he seems to have been swallowed up by the ebony sea. Finally, he exhales, and the upwelling of his air exhaust tears through the plankton over his head, outlining each tiny bubble in a rim of blue-green. It is cold down here, and even in a thick wetsuit, subtle waves of chill move through my body and my teeth chatter inside my regulator. Briefly, we turn on our lights and shine them under the rocky ledges, down into places where the molten lava flow from the craters ran so long ago.  The sea has done a magnificent job of colonizing itself over the eons, upholstering the old lava with a thick fabric of coral and worms, sponges and tiny invertebrates, all united here in their isolation from the mainland.  From under the ledge, a Port Jackson shark swims excitedly out, a slender and spotted dwarf-like creature no bigger than my arm.  As it does, it swiftly pinballs off a rock, and my light and my attention ricochets with it. I hesitate, look down and see a nudibranch the size of my little finger in a crevice just below.  Striped and iridescent, this marine slug is speciated, custom-designed for tasks we humans can barely imagine. Local Ecuadorian fisherman, in awe of its vivid strips, call it El Tigre.

We flick our lights off again, plunging us back into primal darkness. I watch as a large discus-shaped form moves easily away from us in the water, its shell and flippers clearly outlined by the broken bioluminescence, a sizzle of muted cobalt. It is a sea turtle, perhaps one of those I saw earlier on the surface. It disappears and the field in front of me is filled again with flashes of bio-energy, random synapses firing in the salty wet pulp of unconsciousness.

They tell me reptiles don’t dream, having evolved long before the rest of us earned the genetic right to that sweet luxury.  But I wonder: Do they even need to, out here in an enchanted place that is still part dream itself?

Isn’t it enough to fly underwater like colossal thick-bodied birds, tiny wings of scales moving them as fast as they ever need to go? Isn’t it enough to thread their blue-green trail through the eye of the cosmos until it is hemmed shut, and the world becomes still again, volcanoes and tortoises, finches and humans, all waiting patiently to be finally born from the liquid wakefulness of the earth, of its God, of memory itself?

I blink, shaking my head, heavy now with nitrogen and visions too powerful to fully absorb. My intellect stirs, and I find it astounding that my regulator is still in my mouth, and that I have remembered to breath. Time has shifted somehow, and I inhale slowly, ever slowly, not wanting to disturb the water with my exhalations. Around me, fish I can not see softly moan, and shrimp click their tails, sounding like the muffled hum of cicadas.

I am waiting for the whale now. I think I hear her sweet night voice, calling from somewhere deep inside the black sea.


Tags: Charles Darwin, Outdoors, South America, Ecuador, Galápagos Islands

Bill Belleville is a Florida-based writer, author and documentary filmmaker specializing in nature. His book, Losing It All To Sprawl, was named one of the Best Books of 2006 by Library Journal.


No comments for A Million Years of Memory.

Commenting is not available in this weblog entry.