 Fights to the death have been performed to the masses throughout history, for the pleasure, the revenge of traitors to the rich and powerful, having long been perceived as a display of ultimate strength, being in complete control of one's fate, or rather more accurately their psychopathy, a lack of remorse, a sense of unpredictability, instilling fear within those around them, a method of manipulation that has been used for eons often proving successful. Upon Easter Island, however, an event would take place not for the enjoyment of a bloodthirsty leader, but a blood sport in the pursuit of enjoyment for the lucky victor of the game itself. The rules were simple, the first to swim out to the sole neighboring island and steal the first egg of the season and bring it back undamaged would win. The prize for their success to become king, the complete ruler of the island for the entire year they're on. Yet, because there was only one winner, the stakes for success were high and failure or slow swimming would nearly always result in the contestant's deaths, coinciding with the breeding and laying roughly half a kilometer away. The competition would be watched from a vantage point way above the action perched upon the mouth of an ancient volcano with swimmer and man-eating shark silhouettes clear for all to see in the crystal clear shark-infested waters below. A tradition so old, predators perceived the event as a migration of prey, a feeding opportunity, which would have undoubtedly filled the competitors peering at these fins from the shore prior to the event with great fear. A blood sport matched by none we have ever found in the pursuit of royal status. Upon a speck of land, the tip on an ancient volcano plummeting deep into the abyss was a sanctuary for many a lucky and clearly intelligent soul. Easter Island was a place isolated by a barrier of unimaginable size. Its discovery at many times within history can only be attributed to sheer unimaginable luck by those lost at sea, protected for an unimaginable stretch of time and as such possesses some astonishing relics. For untold generations utterly secluded from outsiders, this being their entire world with the introduction of sweet potatoes by one lucky shipment making their lives considerably easier, yet I digress. To be king of the island would be akin to the world and would have been any child's dream. Thus as they reach maturity and competing age would have been all important to them to win. Undisturbed amid an unimaginably enormous span of oceanic nothingness lay this most mysteriously perplexing and we feel once mixed of salvaged souls, many we feel lost members of now lost civilizations, some of which we are aware of and indeed pursue better understanding of with Rongo Rongo a prime example, a language of glyphs not only still undecipherable but clearly incredibly rare, authentic remnants of a lost civilization's language, yet I digress. The birdman competition would often become a feeding frenzy for sharks which lurked the shores islands, something documented by the natives themselves and with the turquoise backdrop and the near bird's eye view from above the loved ones would have had. The event would have been a heart pounding and indeed often heartbreaking experience as these men attempted to swim out to this island to this colony of seabirds to not only gather the first egg of the season but to then return with it without breaking an incredible legacy where bravery, worldly perception and lunacy seemingly warped found upon an island with such an astonishingly geographical location and indeed many other features. Thus we find Easter Island incredibly compelling.