Nearby lies an ancient rata forest. It's difficult to imagine a more entrancing place. Rata trees belong to the myrtle family. Here, in the cool and windy maritime forest, the trees grow slowly and often horizontally, twisting like strands of rope and getting gnarly, before forming a tight overhead canopy. Only a few shafts of sunshine break through the dense cover. Green lichens grow on the tree trunks, adding spots of intense color. The clear call of bell birds occasionally pierces the still air. The forest floor is cushiony, carpeted by eons of fallen leaves and flowers, muffling any noise we make. Our steps sound hollow, like knocking a knuckle on a loaf of bread that's ready to be taken out of the oven. Forget about the rotten rescue hut. Shipwrecked, I'd move into the rata forest. Build a shelter, weave a hammock from the flax plants ringing the bay, and stay there, a happy Robinson Crusoe.