My good master clapped my shoulder and then squeezed it hard, his hand warm through my damp clothes.

I saw his own eyes were wet and shining.

The memory came to me, and I am sure it came to him, of the pitching waves. Of a boy and a man lost at sea, and a rope held tight by two pairs of hands.

A man’s friendships are one of the best measures of his worth.

—CHARLES DARWIN

Twenty-five years later

The dark mound of Narborough Island eased closer, silhouetted against the hot blue sky. Eleven-year-old Emmeline Covington’s heart danced in her chest as she gripped the rails of the rowboat. She was really here. The Enchanted Isles, the setting of all her pa’s most fantastical stories. When Pa promised he’d bring her here one day, she’d thought that was one of his stories too.

It had been only ten days since they left Lima in Peru, but the voyage from Australia had been six weeks, so it was strange that this short trip by rowboat to the island seemed to be taking longest. Pa’s stories of his adventures on this Galapagos island had been the backdrop of Emmie’s imagination for her whole life, as familiar as the red Australian dust that usually clung to her boots. Until now. Now her boots were salt-stained and bleached by the sun, and she was going to find out how much of Pa’s stories were built of truth and how much make-believe filled the gaps.

“At least the sea is a little calmer than the first time I visited,” said Pa, taking a swig from the water flask and passing it to her. “A perfect Greenish Blue.”

Pa was right. There was barely a wave, and the boat rocked gently with the rowing of the men.

“What color was the sea during the shipwreck storm with Mr. Darwin?” asked Emmie.

“Well, I could barely tell the color … since so much of it was in my eyes”—a smile was in his voice—“but I suppose it was an angry Greenish Gray, with a foam of Skimmed-milk White.”

Pa had taught Emmie the special color descriptions that Mr. Darwin used from Werner’s book for as long as she could remember. She liked the animal descriptions that went with each color the best.

“Ahh … like the White of the Human Eye,” she said, smiling, her own eyes clinging to the peak of the island.

“Sounds about right!” said Pa with a low laugh. “Certainly saw the whites of my eyes that day.”

“And Mr. Darwin’s!” she said.

“Definitely Mr. Darwin’s. He was never a good sailor at the best of times.”

At last they hit the shore of Narborough Island. One of the burly sailors swung Emmie down, out of the rowboat onto the jagged rocks, and she wobbled with the strangeness of being on dry land. Her mind wobbled too, with the oddity of the place. Pa had said the Galapagos would be completely different to anything she had seen, but Emmie still hadn’t been prepared. It was so … dark and bare. The gray rocks, the black lava plains, the peak of the volcano, no longer smoking. There were no “imps of darkness” lizards that Pa had told her about, but she did catch sight of a few Sally Lightfoot crabs scuttling between rocks. She’d have to take a closer look later. There were no sea lions either, which was a shame, as Farthing’s leap onto the fighting sea lion’s head was one of her favorite stories. But at least there were the white birds with the bright blue feet. Blue-footed boobies. She had always laughed at the name and wondered if Pa had made it up, but now saw how it suited them.