What a calm and quiet gem this place is. Completely uninhabited—except, apparently, for a man named Nik who occasionally comes by to collect copra (though we never did see him). This atoll is exactly what every sailor imagines when dreaming of the South Pacific.

We spent our first night near the pass where we entered, enjoying a beautiful drift snorkel on the incoming tide through a smaller channel. Then we moved down to the sandy motus for a couple of nights, living simply and happily—harvesting fresh coconuts, building beach fires, baking stick bread, and toasting marshmallows like professionals.

And really… is there anything better than your kids going completely feral in the best possible way? Running around, yelling, hauling firewood like lumberjacks, and getting way too excited about massive hermit crabs—while you sit by a fire with the deep sense that „yep, this is it!“  Stars above, glassy water in front, moon rising behind… hard to put in words.

And really… is there anything better than your kids going completely feral in the best possible way? Running around, yelling, hauling firewood like tiny lumberjacks, and getting way too excited about massive hermit crabs—while you sit by a fire thinking, “Yep, this is it.” Stars above, glassy water in front, moon rising behind… it’s almost suspiciously perfect.

These are the moments I dreamed of when Mark and I first planned this journey. But the reality is even better. It feels like a gift.

There’s a certain stillness to these atolls that’s hard to describe. Sheltered from the relentless swell of the Pacific, they become little pockets of peace—places of pure bliss and quiet detachment. Leaving them is no easy thing.

Speaking of gifts… I seem to have picked up quite a rubbish one—most likely back in Makemo. A proper head cold that’s knocked me down to about 20% capacity. And let me tell you, being sick in paradise is still very much being sick.

With a marina booked in Papeete and plans to meet our friends from Salty Rascal, we set sail for Tahiti this morning.

I would personally prefer to be unconscious in a bed somewhere, but since there’s a decent chance Mark might catch this too—and I’d rather be near a doctor if that happens—I’m powering through.

Mum mode is fully activated: tissues in every pocket, paracetamol on standby, and sheer determination doing the rest. It’s only two nights to Tahiti… so if I could stop feeling like I’ve been hit by a bus by then, that would be great.