He had crossed half the world to get here.
There had been no issues at Heathrow, no delays at Santiago, no trouble catching the connection to Hanga Roa, Easter Island. Each leg had gone as scheduled. People were polite, planes were clean, and Brian passed through them like fog through wire mesh. Nothing touched him.
He had made the arrangements weeks in advance. The vessel was booked. A fishing charter, modest size, long range. The captain’s name was Ernesto, and the emails had been brief but professional.
“Yes. We can make the trip. It is rare. Expensive. But possible.”
When Brian arrived at the dock, the boat wasn’t there.
He stood for fifteen minutes, then thirty. Locals moved back and forth — unloading crates, coiling ropes, arguing about fuel. A younger man finally approached him, wiping his hands on a rag. Brian showed him the name: Ernesto Muñoz. The man made a face, nodded once, and walked away.
Ten minutes later, a different man emerged from behind a storage shed — stockier, in his late forties, with a face like a carved knot of wood. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and stained with salt. He squinted at Brian.
“You’re the Englishman,” the man said. Not a question.
Brian nodded. “I was expecting Captain Muñoz.”
The man gave a sharp, mirthless smile. “Muñoz changed his mind.”
Brian blinked. “What?”
“He doesn’t want to take you. Said it’s too far. Waste of time. He’s not going.”
“I’ve paid.”
“He’s refunding you.”
“I don’t want a refund. I want to go.”
The man shrugged. “Then you wait for another captain.”
“I don’t have time to wait,” Brian said. His voice was quiet but hard. “I’ve come too far. This isn’t optional. I need to get there.”
“To Point Nemo?”
“Yes.”
The man folded his arms. His eyes weren’t mocking — just skeptical.
“That’s not a normal place to go.”
“I’m aware.”
There was a long silence. Other crewmen nearby were listening. Someone muttered in Spanish, too low to catch.
Brian took a slow breath. His voice lowered further.
“I’m not doing this to be eccentric. I’m not trying to go off-grid. This isn’t indulgent. I need to get there.”
The man looked at him for a moment longer. Then said, “Wait here.”
He came back twenty minutes later with another man — lean, older, sunburned in a way that looked permanent. He wore a cap that said Tamarindo Surf Club, and his knuckles were scraped raw.
“This is Javier,” the stocky man said. “He’ll take you. If you pay triple.”
Brian didn’t hesitate. “Fine.”
Javier looked at him, unreadable. Then said:
“Just know this — we don’t want to go. We’ll go. But we don’t want to. So don’t expect us to be your tour guides.”
Brian met his eyes.
“That’s exactly how I want it.”