North Seymour Island

“I’m not pessimistic yet," Jack says quietly. “There’s a tremendous amount of international attention on the Galápagos now, and that’s a good thing. But there are plenty of problems to deal with, too."

Later, I pose the same questions to André Degell, another of our naturalist guides, and he simply shrugs.

“The problems of the Galápagos are the problems of the world," he says. “It’s just that in this place, the problems are easier to see."

REGARDLESS OF THE SITUATION, the Galápagos still hypnotize. They are no longer untouched, but 600 miles of ocean and the resilience of nature remain something of a buffer to man’s hand.

It’s my last evening, and I’m strolling along the shore of North Seymour Island. Again, there are iguanas and sea lions scattered about, and kite-size frigate birds ­hovering languidly in the sky. This time, the setting sun, nearly below the horizon, turns the tide pools silver.

I watch several marine iguanas give mighty chuffs, expelling a stream of white liquid from their nostrils.

Alex materializes by my side.

“They are a-spitting," he observes. “They drink the seawater. When they get an excess of seawater, they’re able to spit it out through the nostrils. Another amazing adaptation."

Alex regards the iguanas appreciatively.

“They live a very simple life, without wars, without material possessions," he says. “The Galápagos are in a very privileged place. It’s good to be a long way from the mainland. We are away from all the chaos in the world."

An iguana rises on its haunches and swings heavily toward the ocean, making a sound like a sack dragged across sand.

Alex and I watch it slide into the water. Head raised, for a moment it snakes across the surface, swimming gracefully as evolution decreed, and then sinks into the ocean.

After a time, Alex speaks softly: “I think you have seen enough to understand."