At 3 degrees 51 minutes south, Fernando is tropical, with white-sand beaches, black basaltic boulders, and lush vegetation. Michael, a fit former British Army officer, and I, a compulsive runner, agreed we were both up for a savage walk ashore. Sir James, catching a whiff of our intent, again declined to join us. Michael appeared to be a natural leader, so I happily followed him. We set off along the coast, past a few beaches, and then Michael headed inland for the other side of the island, where, we’d heard, one could snorkel in a bay full of protected sea turtles. In commando fashion, he wantonly eschewed any kind of path or natural, walkable contour and headed, as if guided by some interior compass azimuth, straight up cliffs, over boulders, through all but impenetrable thickets of jungle, and across Fernando as direct as a booby flies. Hours later, following the sounds of aircraft, we stumbled out of the bush near the airport, mission fully accomplished but desperately thirsty. We drank bottles of icy Coke and Fanta at the small airport terminal.