From the very first zodiac ride to the marine iguanas sunning on black volcanic rock, it was clear: this was going to be one of those trips where nature wasn’t something you looked at—it was something that looked right back at you.
The marine iguanas were a revelation—ancient little creatures, the only ones on Earth that swim, heads bobbing in the surf, claws clutching lava as they grazed on underwater algae. One morning I saw sea lions teasing them, tugging on their tails in playful swirls beneath the surface. Later, while snorkeling, I floated among sea turtles and these same iguanas—close enough that accidental bumps became part of the experience. It was wild, raw, and surreal.
There’s no “Big Five” here like on safari. The Galápagos doesn’t do checklists. It surrounds you. On a zodiac ride through Caleta Bucanero, wildlife was everywhere: frigate birds overhead, rays below, sea lions lounging in the shallows, noddies circling, pelicans dive-bombing. When we returned to that same cave later to snorkel, it was pitch dark—but there they were: dozens of white-tip and Galápagos sharks resting in the stillness, their silhouettes drifting in and out of shafts of light. One of the greatest underwater scenes I’ve ever witnessed.
And always—always—there was the rhythm of life on board. No matter how lovely your home, it’s not a 160-foot Italian-made yacht staffed 1:1. You’d return from snorkeling to Edison handing you a chilled juice, Glenda helping you out of your wetsuit, Steven rinsing and hanging it—all while lunch was being served on the back deck and the captain was already repositioning the ship. Frigate birds glided alongside us, catching thermals off our movement. At night, we’d settle into the soft couches around the ship as wine and cocktails appeared like clockwork. “Sir, would you care for the Argentinian white you liked with dinner?” “Your usual gin and tonic?” Every detail remembered.
And then came Mosquera Beach.
I’d seen it from the ship—a sweeping double crescent of white sand. But nothing prepared me for the moment we landed. Sea lions everywhere. Nursing pups. Splashing juveniles. A lazy snarl of fur and flippers sunning in the dunes. But it wasn’t until one swam up and brushed my knee with its whiskers that I felt something truly magical. Jaime, our guide, explained that sea lions use those whiskers to sense vibration and texture—it was their way of saying hello.
Then, an unforgettable moment: Jaime handed out snorkels to Sam’s family. We lay in the surf, toes on the beach, faces in the waves. Sea lions swirled around us, playing in the breakers, nibbling curiously on camera housings. Jaime told us the tides had to be just right for this. And they were. A top-three wildlife moment in my life.
Every day offered something unexpected. One morning I stumbled into what became the best photo I’ve ever taken: a sea lion framed in shadow, lit only by the reflective glow of the cliffside water. I hadn’t even set foot on land yet. Another day it was flamingos in a red lagoon. Another, a pelican dive-bombing a fish while a brown noddy bird rode its head like a pro.
And always—always—I was thinking about Carter.
About how he’d marvel at the boobies diving like missiles. About how he’d love the marine iguanas, like little Godzillas basking on lava. About how he’d finally see that nature, up close, is better than any screen.
That’s why I booked the Owner’s Suite—the largest and most opulent room on Aqua Mare. Not for the square footage. For the stage it would set when he arrived.
And then… he did.
He burst through the terminal with Sarah and ran straight into my arms. When he stepped aboard, took one look at the suite, he said exactly what I had hoped he would: “What did you do, Daddy? This place is amazing!”
From that moment on, the trip wasn’t just mine—it was ours.
He snorkeled with sharks. Swam with sea lions. Built sandcastles while oyster catchers marched nearby. He lounged on the top deck with a cucumber-mint drink in hand (courtesy of Edison), and danced that night at the rooftop disco—Macarena, floss, Cotton-Eyed Joe and all. We laughed until we cried.
Sarah floated with sea turtles in turquoise water. I saw her smile that smile—the one you get when you’re fully present, fully amazed.
And I stopped being just the planner or the photographer or the dad. I became the witness. The guy who’d made it happen.
At one point during the trip, I started thinking: if you’re looking for a perfect follow-up to a luxury African safari—those wide plains, elegant lodges, and big game—then this is it. Same caliber of travelers. Same sense of awe. Different wildlife. Different world. But the same soul-stirring magic.
Sarah put it best: On safari, you’re an observer. In the Galápagos, you’re a participant.
We ended with sharks circling the boat at night, sea lions sleeping on the gangway, and a final walk on a beach where a young sea lion pup approached us in the surf, looked straight at us, and lingered—as if to say goodbye.
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If the Galápagos taught me anything, it’s that wonder compounds. That the best travel isn’t just about going far. It’s about going deep—with the people who matter most.
And now when Carter asks, “What did you do, Daddy?”—I can smile and say, “I brought you here.”
