The journey to Doi Island takes three days from Suva—first a twin-prop to Lakeba, then a fishing boat that departs when the cargo hold fills. You sleep on deck under rigging that smells of diesel and copra. When you finally wade ashore, the village chief's children cluster around your legs, shy and curious, because strangers arrive perhaps twice a month.
“This is one of the last beaches in the Pacific where your arrival is still a notable event in the village calendar.”
Tropical beach hammock between palms
The beach curves along Doi's western flank, a quarter-mile of sand bleached bone-white by equatorial sun. At low tide, the reef exposes gardens of staghorn coral where striped rabbitfish nibble at algae and octopuses pulse between crevices. You snorkel in bathwater warmth, the only sound your breath through the tube and the click of parrotfish beaks scraping limestone.
Evenings, you sit with villagers beneath a pandanus shelter, eating cassava and reef fish baked in banana leaves. They speak Lauan and broken English, asking about your country, offering guava from backyard trees. Above, frigatebirds ride thermals in a sky uncut by contrails. The supply boat won't return for eleven days. You realize you've stopped checking the time.
