Isla Pinta off the bow this afternoon. Uninhabited, volcanic, alive in the geological sense of the word, with a green ridge along its back and a long shoulder dropping into water that has gone the color of swimming-pool deeps.

We are not stopping here, the Galápagos Park rules are firm about that, but seeing land after the long stretch of nothing has its own quiet effect. The chart said this island was here, and the chart was telling the truth, which is always nice to confirm in person.

We will keep moving south toward Santa Cruz, where the customs people and a properly anchored night are both waiting. For the moment, just looking at it feels like enough.