Two weeks ago we arrived in Aitutaki with a carefully thought-out plan: stay four or five days, maybe a week.

Then sailing happened.

First there was Joe’s 11th birthday, which was an excellent reason to stay. Then Mark developed a fever, which was a considerably less excellent reason to stay. Thankfully he bounced back quickly and is now fully recovered.

Not that we were going anywhere anyway.

The weather had apparently looked at our plans, laughed, and sent one low-pressure system after another marching across the Pacific. The route to Tonga turned into a washing machine, and none of us felt the need to conduct scientific research into exactly how much vomiting the human body can produce.

Fortunately, being trapped in Aitutaki is a bit like being trapped in paradise.

By now we have explored every road on the island. First on scooters, then by car, and then probably again by accident. For a couple of days we rented a scooter and clocked up around 100 kilometres, always with one child riding along at a time.

I suspect not many 11-, 9-, and 7-year-olds can say they learned scooter skills in the Cook Islands. Admittedly, no helmets were involved because there simply aren’t any on the island. Safety regulations here appear to consist largely of “don’t fall off.”

The island itself is stunning. The gardens are immaculate, the people incredibly friendly, and because everyone speaks English we can finally exchange jokes instead of just smiling and nodding politely.

The one thing locals cannot understand is why we walk.

One day a lady stopped us on the road.

“Is everything okay?” she asked with genuine concern.

“Of course,” we replied. “We just walked to the supermarket.”

Her face suggested we had just announced we were walking to Antarctica.

“But why?” she asked. “There is nothing to see here. And walking is so hard!”

This led to a discussion about our boat. She couldn’t imagine living on one because she disliked the ocean. We couldn’t imagine living on an island and disliking the ocean, but everyone has their limits.

Evidence that walking has long been viewed with suspicion can be found in a local monument honouring the poor people of Tauta, who once had to walk 2.3 kilometres to church every Sunday. The inscription compares their suffering to that of the Israelites. Which, by island standards, seems fair.

Personally, I have been enjoying slow jogs around the island. Mostly because it gives me an excuse to admire the scenery and pretend I’m exercising.

The mornings are accompanied by a magnificent rooster chorus. Dogs are banned after a chief’s daughter was bitten about fifty years ago, so the only wildlife hazards are pigs and goats. Fortunately they are generally too busy eating to bother anyone.

Life has settled into a pleasant rhythm. We’ve done schoolwork, repaired the Code 0, spent time with fellow sailors, and generally embraced the art of doing very little.

But it is probably time to leave.

If we stay much longer, I may start browsing real estate. The property might come with someone’s grandmother buried in the front yard, but after a while even that starts to feel entirely normal. Polynesian family plots have a remarkable ability to shift one’s perspective.

At last, Tuesday looks like it may offer a weather window to Neiafu, Tonga. Hopefully the ocean has finished trying to kill our enthusiasm for sailing.

We’ll have less time in Tonga than planned, but we’ve gained something else: an unexpected extra chapter in Aitutaki.

And as detours go, this one has been pretty spectacular.