I first encountered Isla Podestá half a year earlier, by chance, on the fifth day of a Southern Ocean storm. My wife, Kicki, and I had been stuck at 40 degrees south, 1,000 nautical miles from Chile’s coast, for days. We were beset by headwinds instead of the usual westerlies that are normally so dominant around the East Pacific High. We lay powerless in our sea berths, drifting backward under bare poles, pitching heavily into seas that broke over us. It was our 62nd day at sea. We still had fresh water, but not a lot. With consistently low barometric pressure, I was looking for alternatives. To fall off for Easter Island to the northwest meant retreat, defeat and still promised no safe harbor. I measured 800 nautical miles on my chart — a well-used specimen with coffee stains, old position marks and taped-on bits of paper to enlarge the ocean. That’s when it caught my eye, not as an alternative, but as a dot: Isla Podestá. That was my first awareness of it.