The outboard cuts, and you wade ashore onto sand so pale it stings your eyes in midday sun. Savasi Island wraps around you—a small, forested comma in the middle of Savusavu Bay. Behind the beach, native hardwoods lean over the tide line; ahead, the bay stretches flat and turquoise, hemmed by the dark silhouette of Vanua Levu's southern slopes.
“The island's limestone coves create natural snorkeling corridors where you swim through rock archways minutes from your accommodation.”
Person walking on a sand spit
You drop fins and a mask at the waterline and kick out fifty feet. The limestone that juts above the surface continues below it, riddled with overhangs and swim-throughs where sergeantfish dart in formation. Staghorn coral colonizes the shallower shelves, and if you time your visit with the incoming tide, visibility opens past sixty feet. The water here is protected—no swell, little current—so even tentative snorkelers hover comfortably above the bottom.
Back on shore, the resort keeps its footprint small: a handful of thatched bures, a central pavilion for meals, hammocks strung between coconut palms. There's no village, no through-traffic, no day-trippers. At dusk, the bay goes glassy, and fruit bats lift off from the interior canopy, headed for the mainland. You hear them before you see them—a leathery rustle that fills the gap between daylight and dark.
