Do I call our stop at Suwarrow a disappointment? Was it the long passage itself - our 700 mile, 6 day, tedious, lumpy, uncomfortable and out-of-the-way trek - that set up an unrealistic expectation for commensurate, quid pro quo enjoyment "after all I endured"? Are we humans as a lot just wired as dissatisfaction machines? Or maybe it was all of my reading up on this legendary island (Tom Neale's own magical autobiography, sailor's age-old lore, today's group-sourced internet compendium "reviews") that predisposed me to let down and ultimately undermined my experience? Taken together and perhaps inevitably, it was just too hard to hold up to the hype. The overblown image of a modern day Eden went up in circles of island smoke as soon as Harry, the current park ranger, stepped on board to clear us in.

As Harry completed our paperwork in the cockpit and detailed the rules and regulations of this Cook Island's Natural Park, we quickly learned that nothing stays the same; the idyllic "island to oneself" of Tom Neale's day is long gone. Based on historical accounts, we had pictured ourselves exploring the extensive waters and motus of the lagoon, eating our fresh caught/speared fish, grabbing gobs of lobsters off the reef, and cooking up coconut crab cakes for dinner. But in the end, the unstoppable forces of entropy always prevail - or in this case, it appears to be the rats and sharks. It seems that aside from the typical, commonsense edicts about trash, the island's new rules - introduced "just this season", as if to further accentuate our impeccably bad timing - are predominantly focused on rat eradication on shore and shark management in the sea.

Because of the wide-spread use of rat poison, instead of our envisioned dinghying out to the many motus that encircle this 11 mile long lagoon in search of coconut crabs, not only were we restricted to the main Anchorage Island but also forbidden from eating the possibly tainted crabs. As for water activities, the prodigious black tip reef shark population is problematic enough, but the lagoon is now luring much more dangerous greys and tiger sharks, the result being that fishing is limited to trolling, casting or hand-lines with absolutely no spear fishing. Eric and Rob were particularly dejected as, with harsh irony and contrary to the vast majority of the Pacific, these waters are alleged to be untouched by ciguatera poising. Snorkeling is permitted at your own risk and we did squeeze in a short, uneasy swim on constant lookout for sharks. Even with a pole spear in hand for protection, we aborted our drift snorkel after minutes when four greys circled us swimming curiously ever closer. So much for leisurely enjoying some of the most exceptionally clear waters we have yet encountered. David, who has been single-mindedly fixated on capturing buckets of the reportedly abundant lobsters ("crayfish") off the exposed reef, was especially crestfallen when Harry said, that throughout his three seasons here, he has only caught one. While lobstering is one of the few activities not restricted, their sudden absence is a mystery. A fragile ecosystem gone awry?

With nothing much left to do, David and I ventured ashore to see the remains of Tom Neale's household. Walking up the shady path from the battered jetty he so painstakingly tried to restore we spotted the crude statue, almost a caricature of him, with the marker that reads: " Tom Neale 1952-1977; Lived His Dream On This Island". The grand tour of these dilapidated shacks took about 10 minutes, the most interesting remnants being that of his former office which today houses the book exchange. We passed a lone anemic, non fruit- producing breadfruit tree and the chaotic patch that must have been his former garden. Entropy wins, for sure. While dense and copious throughout the island, we knew that termites long ago had rendered the coconut palms unsuitable for copra production. We did not see a single pawpaw (papaya) tree, a staple back in Neale's time. ...and now no lobsters! Sadly, I think Tom would find it quite hard to subsist on Suwarrow today. Indeed, apart from catching fish, today's caretakers come with six month's government supplies and are supplemented by the generosity of visitors.

Our stay here on Suwarrow was just three days - partly due to our restricted activities, but mostly dictated by our next weather window to Tonga. So perhaps it is a bit unfair to ask if I would call Suwarow a disappointment. If not that, I surely found Suwarrow different than expected. But in an important and meaningful way, Suwarrow remains authentic and true to the lore of bygone sailors: the hospitality of the caretakers and camaraderie of the cruisers passing through.


The Saturday night potluck dinner ashore with just we four boats that simultaneously found our way to this remote outpost made for a warm, intimate and memorable encounter.{Harry tells us only 60 boats stopped in Suwarrow this season}. As the evening's main course, Harry had helped the Belgian couple on Kozmic Blues catch a nice rainbow runner and, more importantly, BOAT IT before the opportunistic sharks intervened. Then for the evening's pre-dinner entertainment and video/photo-op, we all gathered around while the carcass of the now filleted fish was ceremoniously cast into the shallow waters on the ocean side of the island. Instantly, no less than 30 sharks swarmed in the ankle-deep water in a feeding melee, mere inches from us safely standing barefoot on the shore. Later, the catch-of-the-day was grilled on the beach over the bonfire of coconut fronds and was accompanied by cruiser-contributed salads and coconut pancakes whipped up by Harry's wife, Vahine (which means "woman"). The meal was finished off with a proper double-layer, devil's food chocolate birthday cake with chocolate frosting baked by your truly in celebration of Robert's 25th birthday.


For the final entertainment of the evening, Harry and Vahine disappeared briefly to go hunt down some of the island's nocturnal coconut crabs (those now likely poisoned ones we are no longer permitted to eat). When they reappeared out of the woods, we laughed out loud to see these enormous, orange-blue elongated crabs, so feisty that Harry and Vahine had each of them on a line serving as a leash. When finally freed and placed back-to- back at the base of the coconut tree, their rapid ascent reminded me of the tree climbing competition back in Tahiti during the annual Heiva. They must have made for good eating - and trapping - back in the day.

As night descended, I stepped away from the small group briefly to catch a glimpse of the star-studded sky; in our remoteness, a spectacular, dazzling light show completely free of even a ray of competing ambient light. As I sipped the last of my beer leaning against the skeleton of the beachside shack where Tom Neale long ago had his evening tea, I was permeated by the serene, peaceful welcoming essence of this isolated place hundreds of miles from anywhere. Time marches on and entropy wins; nothing can stay the same forever. But alas my earlier disappointment was at least partially eased by a recognition of and an appreciation for the rare, authentic experience we were briefly granted here on this "uninhabited" island, a mere dot in the middle of the immense Pacific Ocean, the Ocean itself a mere dot in the inexplicably vast universe above.