After 36 hours of vomiting in my cabin, my legs are shaky, my eyes are swollen and all I can think is, ‘Holy shit, I just made it to one of the most remote places on Earth.’ Luckily, the ocean crossing is over, but getting to land still requires hovering on the rail of the 39-meter steel ship Braveheart and leaping half a meter over open-ocean to Moss, Pitcairn Island's sea-worn longboat.
‘Jump!’ says a barefoot, suntanned woman who introduces herself as Brenda. The swell is small but I'm nervous as I belly-flop into the arms of a pirate-looking man and stumble on board. A few of the dozen people in the boat shyly nod hello. We're bobbing in the early morning sun and behind us is a shadowy, barren rock face hiding the rest of the island. Once all the people and supplies are loaded in the longboat, we speed around the corner towards the boat landing at Bounty Bay. Now we can see the island rising vertically out of the ocean much like Australia's Ayers Rock bursts from the desert.
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