Then the wind brought us the smell of the ocean. There was a supernatural calm when we landed on a huge beach, in front of the Golfo de Penas. Big waves touched the dark beach with a slow and quiet rhythm. Time remained suspended between one wave and another while the entire region seemed to be what remained of a sacred prehistory, devoid of human complication.
We were alone, euphoric for the inexpressible beauty in which we felt immersed.
We sat on a dune with the Pacific Ocean in front of us and suddenly we found ourselves tired, tired of wandering for days and hours, tired of eating freeze-dried food and always being wet. That evening, in the curtain, observing our path on satellite images, we decided that it is time to turn the bow to the north.
Going up the Rio without the help of the tide proved to be a nightmare, also thanks to a sudden hail storm: it fell over us like a slap of water and ice that forced us to cling to the shore. It was so violent that we couldn’t even talk to each other, we just hanged there closed in our tight suits, alone with our thoughts, huddled in the kayak.
Going back was psychologically more difficult, because of the lack of motivation that usually pushes you towards the goal. We proceeded too slowly and we were forced to spend a night in the swamp. With the tent mounted on a floating island between the quagmire and the nocturnal mists, we fell into a deep sleep.
The sky became pale going into the day as I stood outside the tent distracted by a dream I had already forgotten. A hummingbird flew fast by me as I watched the grebes slip into the water that looked like molten metal. We had to go back on our liquid road. While we were sailing into the fog, Silvano sang mountain songs, perhaps to make us feel less isolated from the world.