Sailing from Chile to Polynesia: An Epic Adventure

Sailing from Chile to Polynesia’s legendary shores was an adventure across the less-travelled routes of the Pacific for Lauric Thiault

The Río Valdivia was glassy when we slipped our lines, the Chilean shores still wrapped in morning mist. For a moment, it felt as though our crossing might actually begin gently. Within hours, that illusion was gone. The calm gave way to a steep, confused sea, and gear crashed below as Tupaia worked her way into waters riled by a low-pressure system spun off the Roaring Forties.

Setting Sail

Bound for French Polynesia, the South Pacific unfolded ahead of us, our chart dotted with names evoking a sailor’s mythos: Robinson Crusoe, Rapa Nui, and Pitcairn. These were no mere waypoints; they were landmarks steeped in legend. My partner, Nao, and I had prepared the boat, studied the pilot charts, and awaited what passed for a weather window. Yet, once out there, planning only takes you so far. Landfall isn’t earned by determination alone; it’s granted by the whims of wind and sea. That first night, leaving the river calm behind and entering the unsettled seas off the Chilean coast, we lay in our berths, slightly seasick, letting go of expectation.

Myth Meets Reality

The four-day passage from Valdivia to Robinson Crusoe tested our grit, buffeted by the Humboldt-influenced seas along the Chilean coast. Despite the rough conditions, progress felt certain; what remained unclear was whether we’d be allowed to stay upon arrival. The island is not an official port of entry, and visiting yachts face a web of bureaucratic hurdles and the risk of outright refusal. Instead, officers from the Chilean naval authorities met us shortly after we settled at the anchorage and quickly set our minds at ease with a nod, a smile, and just like that, we were ashore.

Officially renamed in 1966 after Defoe’s fictional character, the island’s actual lore is tied to Alexander Selkirk, who spent four years marooned there in the early 18th century. His story—one of survival and solitude—shaped the narrative of the island. Upon stepping ashore from the north shore’s main anchorage, however, we found it transformed into a hidden garden of flowers and exotic trees.

A Warm Welcome

As we wandered through the only village on the island, surrounded by steep green ridges, we marveled at the transition from Patagonia’s starkness. The air felt warmer, the light brighter, and the colors richer. The south, in stark contrast, was raw and exposed, battered by an endless southerly swell that swept in from the ocean. We experienced precarious sleep aboard Tupaia as she tugged and rolled at her anchor, yet the wild energy of the coast made the island more alive.

Species found nowhere else surrounded us—endemic fur seals, the Juan Fernández firecrown hummingbirds, and two petrel species unique to this locale. Comparisons to the Galápagos instantly came to mind, but the concentration of endemic marine species here is even higher. With 98% of the fish around Robinson Crusoe being native, every underwater exploration felt like a treasure hunt.

Conservation and Community

The island’s biodiversity is no accident; conservation efforts have preserved this natural wealth. Much of the land became a national park in 1935, while in 2018, Chile designated the surrounding waters as one of the world’s largest marine protected areas. Even the community’s livelihood—lobster fishing—is tightly regulated, subject to a four-month annual closure and strict protections for egg-bearing females.

During our explorations, we stumbled upon Selkirk’s plaque along a winding island trail. His tale of four years of solitude felt vastly different from our brief week-long stay. Gazing out at the endless Pacific from this spot, the isolation felt real but entirely unlike what Selkirk experienced; we could leave at any time. The land held a commanding presence while also exuding welcome, making it difficult to take our leave as the northerlies beckoned us back into the blue.

Discovering the Unexpected

Interestingly, San Ambrosio was not part of our original plan. Just three days out from Robinson Crusoe, we discovered its existence. As we navigated windward in mid-September, tenuous weather refused to cooperate. Our track zigzagged northward while we chased stubborn trade winds clinging above the 20th parallel. The emergence of a massive high-pressure system threatened to halt our journey entirely. Spotting a small dot on the chart, we decided on a detour to ensure landfall rather than drift aimlessly at sea.

San Ambrosio, located a staggering 740 miles from mainland Chile, is a seldom-seen gem in the Pacific. Its only visitors are lobster fishermen from Robinson Crusoe who set up temporary camps during the fishing season. With the season over, we found ourselves alone on this barren rock, where soaring cliffs offered no fresh water and little refuge.

Embracing Solitude

Upon anchoring in a narrow notch on the lee side, we dropped the hook and were treated to a serene three days of solitude. The cliffs made it impossible to land, but we didn’t mind. From Tupaia’s cockpit, we watched a mesmerizing ballet unfold overhead as thousands of petrels, gannets, and terns circled our rigging day and night, their cries creating a beautiful cacophony. Below the surface, crystal-clear waters swirled with treasures—trevallies and yellowtail kingfish, with playful fur seals sometimes joining us for a swim.

Awaiting Tradewinds

After departing San Ambrosio, our route took us toward Rapa Nui, a daunting 1,600-mile stretch devoid of landfall options. In the transition zone, we faced the toughest leg of this passage. The forecast indicated strong frontal systems arriving like clockwork, swapping wind directions with a frustrating regularity. As conditions fluctuated between weak winds and an agitated sea, we found ourselves zigzagging to chase fleeting gusts.

Despite the temptation to turn on the engine, we reserved it for emergencies, sticking to our sailing philosophy. As we hit a low, contemplating abandoning Rapa Nui for the closer Galápagos, mishaps became an opportunity for adjustment. Adapting our mindset to embrace the oscillations of the journey allowed us to find a strange peace amidst the uncertainty.

Mystifying Landfall

After three days that felt like ten, the wind finally filled in, rejuvenating our spirits as Tupaia regained her lost momentum. A sense of normalcy returned, a welcome relief from the frustration of the previous weeks. The crew’s simple routine of cooking, sleeping, and the occasional swim was punctuated only by the vastness of the ocean around us.

Upon reaching Rapa Nui, one of the world’s most remote inhabited islands, we marveled at our surroundings. This once insurmountable wall of ocean had become a highway, thanks to the intrepid Polynesian navigators who crossed these daunting waters guided by stars and swells. Their extraordinary journeys enabled exchanges that still baffle researchers today.

The Treasure of Rapa Nui

Landing amid Rapa Nui’s iconic silhouettes, we were touched by its stark beauty—a landscape of extinct volcanoes and rugged vistas. Although Rapa Nui is connected to the mainland, with regular flights and supply ships, its charm lies in its ancient presence. The moai statues, which once seemed reserved for tourist sites, dotted the landscape, manifesting the island’s historical narrative.

Facing these colossal figures, one cannot help but marvel at their sheer improbability—evidence of an organizational effort unparalleled in history. Generations worked tirelessly, moving stone and raising these statues, driven by motivations now lost to time. Today, rising seas and erosion threaten these legacies. However, a new generation of Rapa Nui people fights to preserve their heritage, guided by a commitment to conservation, education, and the continuation of their unique cultural identity.

Oeno: A Hidden Paradise

With night watches under starlit skies, our course next set for the Gambier Islands, we endured the fickle Pacific climate. After five days, as conditions stabilized, we decided on a final detour to Oeno, an uncharted atoll that promised something mysterious. As we arrived, the turquoise waters glimmered beneath the clouds, and we witnessed a group of humpback whales relishing the proximity.

Within the safety of its lagoon lies a sanctuary—past conservation efforts had eradicated the rats that once threatened native wildlife. Now, Oeno is home to thriving populations of seabirds and marine life. Beyond the enchanting beach and vibrant reef, the encroachment of plastic waste lingered, serving as a subtle reminder of wider environmental challenges.

Arrival at the Gambiers

We left Oeno when the wind returned, and just two days later, we reached the Gambier Islands. The approach felt surreal after nearly two months and 4,860 miles at sea, navigating through fickle winds that had seeped into every corner of our journey. But upon entering the lagoon, we felt relief envelop Tupaia; the calming waters provided a stark contrast to the turbulent seas we had endured.

For Tupaia, this was uncharted territory. I, having grown up in French Polynesia and worked as a marine biologist, felt an overwhelming sense of nostalgia as I absorbed the familiar sights and scents of home.

Embarking on this journey, we navigated not just the Pacific but also the intricate tapestry of adventure, culture, and nature that defines the vast regions of Chile and Polynesia.