We find rock pools, protected by a water gate, in which to dangle our feet and briefly submerge them. There are no sand beaches, and the seawater is cold, black, and deep, smashing against the lava outcroppings. Some of the black lava buildings are whitewashed with lime, and all the private houses have gardens in lava enclosures. We spy patches of sweet potatoes, corn, kale, and cabbages, and imagine them served with fresh tiny fish. After six days, we will realize that such food is only for those who grow it or catch it.
Restaurants serve leathery meat, boiled potatoes, and nasty, wet sections of big, tough fish.
The local company's fleet consists of four orange inflatable rafts. With Nelson, the captain, Maggie and I pile into one of the small vessels. Our gear consists only of life jackets, and our job is to hang on to the rubber handles and wheel console for dear life. An hour or two later, slapped silly by the waves, we sight a school of dolphins. They are inches from our fingers.