Sailing from Chile to Polynesia: An Adventure on the Pacific

The Río Valdivia was glassy when we slipped our lines, the Chilean shores still wrapped in morning mist. For a fleeting moment, it felt as though our crossing might actually commence gently. Within hours, that illusion shattered. The calm gave way to a steep, confused sea. Gear crashed below as Tupaia wrestled with the riled waters, stirred up by a low-pressure system drifting off the Roaring Forties.

A Voyage into the Mythical
Bound for French Polynesia, the South Pacific lay ahead, our chart adorned with names that read like a sailor’s mythos: Robinson Crusoe, Rapa Nui, Pitcairn. These weren’t merely waypoints; they were the markers of legend.

My partner, Nao, and I had meticulously prepared the boat, studied the pilot charts, and waited for what we thought was our weather window. Yet once out there, planning offered little assurance. Landfall is granted not solely by determination but by the whims of wind and sea. That first night, leaving the river’s tranquility behind and entering the unsettled seas of the Chilean coast, we lay in our berths, slightly seasick, and chose to release expectations.

Myth Meets Reality

Our four-day passage from Valdivia to Robinson Crusoe was rough, fueled by the Humboldt-influenced seas that pushed against us. We made good progress and knew our landfall was secured, but uncertainty loomed: would we be welcomed?

Robinson Crusoe is not an official port of entry, and visiting yachts are allowed more by exception than right. We braced for bureaucracy but were instead met by officers from the Chilean naval authorities shortly after anchoring. With a nod, a smile, and just like that, we were ashore.

Officially renamed in 1966 after Defoe’s fictional character, the island’s true story is tied to Alexander Selkirk, who spent four years marooned in the early 18th century. While his narrative frames Robinson Crusoe as a tale of survival, we discovered it felt like a hidden oasis of vibrant flowers and exotic trees.

We wandered through the island’s village, surrounded by steep green ridges. The warmth of the air, the brightness of the light, and the richness of colors after two years in Patagonia’s stark beauty was utterly striking.

Embracing Wildness

The southern coast is raw and exposed, bearing the relentless pounding of an endless swell. There are no proper anchorages here, only precarious refuges used when conditions on the north deteriorate. During our visit, sleep was fleeting as Tupaia tugged and rolled at her anchor, yet the wild energy of the coast imbued the island with a sense of vibrancy.

Every corner revealed species found nowhere else on Earth, from endemic fur seals and Juan Fernández firecrown hummingbirds to petrels. The archipelago’s biodiversity often draws comparisons to the Galápagos, yet 98% of the fish around Robinson Crusoe are unique to this area. For two marine biologists, it felt like Christmas!

Such richness is no accident. The island’s isolation and the community’s commitment to conservation have preserved its natural wealth. Much of the land became a national park in 1935, and in 2018, Chile designated the surrounding waters as one of the world’s largest marine protected areas.

Unforeseen Destinations

San Ambrosio wasn’t originally part of our plan. Just three days before reaching Robinson Crusoe, we stumbled upon its existence.

Beating windward in mid-September, we battled uncertain weather, remnants of winter storms sending us zigzagging northward in pursuit of stubborn tradewinds lingering well above the 20th parallel. When a massive high-pressure system settled across our path, the chart revealed a tiny dot—just within reach. We opted for land over aimless drifting at sea.

740 miles from mainland Chile, San Ambrosio is rarely visited, primarily populated by lobster fishermen from Robinson Crusoe who set up temporary camps during the fishing season. With the season over, we were alone.

As a slab of barren rock, San Ambrosio measures just 3.5 km long and 1 km wide, featuring high vertical cliffs and no fresh water. It is part of the Islas Desventuradas—Unfortunate Islands—named by early explorers who saw only danger where we found wonder.

We anchored in a narrow notch—barely enough to drop the hook and enjoyed three sunny days of solitude in a bustling world of life.

The Intensifying Journey

From San Ambrosio, we followed the Nazca Ridge toward Rapa Nui over a stretch of 1,600 miles with no landfall options. This leg of the journey soon became a test of mental fortitude.

Caught in the transition zone, we faced strong frontal systems arriving every few weeks. Between fronts, weak winds met an agitated sea, creating conditions far less pleasant than anticipated. Undeterred, we never turned on the engine, adhering to our philosophy of reserving it for emergencies.

At a moment when surrender seemed tempting, a deck check revealed damage to three shrouds, likely caused by constant sail flogging and a botched adjustment. We rigged temporary running backstays from spare Dyneema and reverted to what mattered: embracing the voyage.

Eventually, we learned to accept the drifting and rolling as part of this odyssey. A sense of peace emerged as our world reduced to the boat, filled with a simple routine of cooking, reading, sleeping, and the occasional swim to remind ourselves of our place within the vast ocean.

The Mystique of Rapa Nui

Rapa Nui stands as a testament to navigational prowess, once a wall between worlds. Polynesian navigators transformed it into a highway, embarking on voyages guided by stars, swells, and the flight of birds. Their journeys allowed exchanges that still puzzle researchers today.

Surprisingly, Rapa Nui remains well-connected, with daily flights to mainland Chile. The town of Hanga Roa bustles with activity as containers and vehicles emerge in the rolly bay, reminding us of modernity’s reach amidst the loneliness of the Pacific.

We shifted anchorages regularly, watching the swell find us, the inter-season leaving us at the mercy of passing storms. Yet with iconic silhouettes greeting us each morning, discomfort was easy to bear.

Landing with a small dinghy presents challenges, and once ashore, we traversed a rugged landscape, mountains, volcanoes, and dark lava rock meeting azure waters. The famed moai statues greeted us not just in tourist spots but lining roads and coasts—forever reminders of the island’s ancient legacy.

The Battle for Conservation

Standing before these massive figures, the sheer improbability of their existence struck us. Generations spent carving and raising these symbols, driven by purpose long forgotten.

Today, rising seas and erosion threaten their legacy, yet the determination of a new generation seeks to preserve it. Conservationists restore ceremonial platforms, guides weave ancestral stories into modern tours, and artists keep traditions alive through carving and dance.

A Sanctuary Found

Night watches beneath an expansive sky became a highlight of our ocean passages. Our next course was set for the Gambier Islands, with the stars as our guides. After five days of battling the fleet winds, the trade winds finally wrapped around us, buoying our spirits even as the Pacific’s moods shifted.

Initially tempted by Pitcairn, lured by the folklore of the Bounty mutineers, we were drawn instead to Oeno, a small atoll we had never heard of. With turquoise waters echoing promises, we approached, greeted by the presence of seven humpback whales, leisurely making their way.

Oeno’s beauty mirrored paradise, with stunning white sand beaches and the playful dance of seabirds circling above. Once plagued by invasive species, conservationists worked diligently to restore it as a rodent-free sanctuary, bursting with diverse life. The atoll anchors the Pitcairn Islands marine protected area, one of the world’s largest no-take zones.

A Homecoming

After four revitalizing nights, we departed only when the wind returned, finally reaching the Gambier Islands. The approach felt unlike any other journey before it. After weeks spent on the restless ocean, the lagoon’s calming embrace felt like pure relief. For Tupaia, this was uncharted territory, never having traveled to Polynesia despite bearing the name of the great navigator.

For me, it was a return to home, with memories of my formative years surfacing. The waters and light of French Polynesia remained just as I remembered, a sanctuary of beauty that felt reassuringly constant amid life’s many changes.