A swath of blood red sky bathes the morning horizon as the brooding hulk of Pitcairn Island emerges from the Pacific.

As the M/Y Turmoil pushes into a heavy swell, the somber red sunrise is a fitting backdrop to a bloody and tumultuous history for this small wind-battered rock that lies at 25 degrees south.

As we round up into the anchorage, the wind stiffens some more and sends plumes of white spray over Bounty Bay. The poetically named "Hill of Difficulty" rises vertiginous behind the landing and is scarred by the winding track that is the lifeline between Bounty Bay and the island settlement at Adamstown. I’m sure the difficulty of getting here, landing ashore and getting to the high ground were all valid points in the choice of the Bounty mutineers to seek out this lonely refuge from the long fingers of British law and the hangman’s noose.

The weather can be sketchy in these parts and the constant trade winds and long Southern Ocean swells are pushed up across thousands of miles of nothing to wrap a vice grip around the soaring bulk of the island.

The landing at Bounty Bay is not much more than a cleft in the cliff face with a small but robust rock jetty bearing the brunt of the ocean’s power. With great difficulty we managed to launch a tender as the 1,400 tons of the Turmoil were bounced around on the swells reflecting off the rock shoreline. One hundred-eighty meters of anchor chain in 24 meters of water still had the chain led out of the hawser pipe like a tight dog leash.

Getting people into the tender in these conditions from the aft swim platform proved to be impossible so we resorted to a more creative solution that entailed donning PFDs, jumping into the sea and being manhandled into the tender.

As our sodden group surveyed the scene between the pitching Turmoil and wave-lashed Bounty Bay, our insignificance on this vast ocean was amplified as getting to either was going to be a bigger chore. As we closed on the small pass into Bounty Bay we could see some local Pitcairners stoutly planted on the rocks and giving us hand-gestured advice on making it in without getting swamped in the surf.

It’s fairly straightforward really: Get in the trough between two waves and gun the power to stay there without over riding the wave ahead or letting the wave astern poop the tender. As you surf past the end of the pier with rocks and cliff dead ahead, make a hard port turn, power out of the white water into the lee, dump the power and swing 180 degrees onto the dock face.

Hesitation has no place in this equation.

Everyone was fairly amped after our sleigh ride in and smiling faces greeted us as the locals made us fast. We had brought down a bunch of groceries, vegetables and petrol from Tahiti after corresponding with the Christian family about any needs they may have after a particularly dry summer and the next supply ship a distant two months away.

Brawny, tattooed arms heaved our cargo ashore in minutes under the banter of the local pigeon dialect. We were processed in country right there next to two large alloy longboats, the mules for lightering cargo ashore from the supply ships.

As we dripped onto our immigration forms, the current local doctor (on a two-year contract from New Zealand) took our temperature to check for any fever during the swine flu scare.

Formalities done with, we jumped on the back of quad bikes to be hauled up the Hill of Difficulty into Adamstown where nine mutineers and their Polynesian wives and men folk staked their claim in 1789 after stripping Her Majesty’s ship, The Bounty, and burning the remains at the foot of the bay.

Our hosts for the day were the Christian family of Steve, Olive and sons. After we unloaded our delivery items at the town co-op, we took a muddy ride on the back of the quad bikes around the island. Red earthen tracks crisscross the hills and snake their way up to the highest points, giving dramatic and powerful vistas.

Highlights of the island include the views from many of the precipitous bluffs while leaning into the wind as it screams up a thousand vertical feet of rock face.

l Fletcher Christian’s Cave: where the namesake would retire to scan the horizon and ponder on his past deeds.

l John Adams’ grave: The last remaining mutineer to die on the island (by natural causes, most of the rest were murdered by disgruntled members of the community).

l An anchor and cannon from The Bounty.

l The Pitcairn square, which includes the post office, courthouse and church. The bells that were rung when a ship was sighted are still arranged at the square.

l Bounty Bay and its hard-working longboats.

The people were incredibly friendly and generous and gave a demeanor of hard working, honesty and a little weather beaten. Bare feet are the norm and huge splayed examples squelched through oxide colored mud.

Most of the men are built like the proverbial brick outhouse and must pose daunting figures while manning the longboats through crashing surf. The ladies also have a stoutness about them from a life of toil and the elements.

We lunched with the Christians and took in the unparalleled view of the Pacific unrolled before us from their dining room. They talked about vessels that had visited Pitcairn over the years and could recite dates of arrival and departure, cargo and descriptions of each as if it were yesterday.

The current census was of 54 persons residing on the island and most are employed by the UK government doing various community tasks.

Pitcairn is a UK territory and is looked after by its foreign office in New Zealand. There is talk of building up the Bounty Bay break wall to make access easier from the sea and a budget and equipment have already been allotted for the task.

A local magistrate is elected by the community and there are a teacher and doctor on contracts from New Zealand. Occasionally, other outside contractors are brought in for more specific tasks such as installing telecommunications equipment, etc.

The French nuclear testing ground of Mururou Atoll lies to the west and certain countries would send in monitoring personnel whenever the testing season was under way. These locals of one of the most remote communities in the world must shake their head in wonder at nukes being detonated literally in their backyard.

The day finished with the arduous task of getting back aboard the Turmoil. The wind and sea had been relentless and still persisted as the tender was guided through the surf into Bounty Bay. PFDs donned, we powered through the whitewater as the Pitcairners lined the rocks and waved us on in a surreal haze of surf spray and wind-driven foam.

Getting off the Turmoil had been the easy part, getting back aboard required a little more gung-ho and adrenalin. The tender was maneuvered toward the bow whilst bucking waves tormented control. One crew person at a time would then jump overboard and swim with gusto for the pilot ladder rigged amidships. With the ladder clutched in a vice grip the crew would then scramble aloft whilst being skull dragged up the side as the ship rolled and heaved. With the majority of sodden rats back onboard, the tender was taken around the opposite side of the island to be loaded as the conditions at the anchorage prohibited crane ops.

As the anchor broke the surface, the ship’s horn was sounded and its deep resonance bounced off the cliffs in salute. The Pitcairners lining Bounty Bay waved a final hooray as they have done many times before and their figures diminished into the spray and rock as we left their resolute solitude.

Whenever the world comes to Pitcairn, it always leaves again.

Capt. Grant Maughan is skipper of the 210-foot Royal Denship M/Y Turmoil. She and her crew traveled 23,000 miles since December and are en route to the Med this month for 20,000nm more before the end of 2009. Comments on this story are welcome at editorial@the-triton.com .