Reef and rain forest

Dunk Island

To reach Dunk, I took a small prop plane, the first of many on this journey. Forty-five minutes from Cairns, I saw a tiny airstrip on the edge of a green island with no sign of inhabitants. A bubbly young woman greeted us with orange-mango juice, confirming the presence of civilization, and escorted us to the resort on a humid path thick with plants and unfamiliar chirps. I passed a pool but couldn't tell it had three cascading tiers until I pushed through the foliage to the deck. Someone pointed out a blue Ulysses butterfly, fluttering among fat red flowers sealing their petals for the night. Dunk is the kind of place that reveals itself slowly from behind nature's lush tangle.

At dinner that night, a squadron of kids enjoyed the outdoor grill, where chefs shook large woks over enormous flames. I sat at a table lit with torches between the beach and the pool in front of an open-air pavilion, its long orange Japanese lanterns glowing from within. Stars twinkled above, and I realized it was the first time I'd seen them from this side of the world.

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On an early-morning walk, I discovered the grave of David Banfield, who lived here at the turn of the 20th century with his wife; they were the island's first white settlers. Given six months to live by his doctor, Banfield came to Dunk Island, cleared several acres, lodged in a rustic cedar hut, and ate a largely seafood and vegetarian diet. He lived 26 more years on Dunk, and his Confessions of a Beachcomber, published in 1907, helped establish the romantic notion of escaping to a tropical isle.

The Spa of Peace and Plenty (the name is a translation of the island's Aboriginal name, Coonanglebah) opened in 1998 and is one of Queensland's oldest spas. An outdoor relaxation area, where chaises sit over a bubbling man-made brook, connects wet and dry treatment rooms. For my first treatment, a Kahuna massage, my therapist, Adam, matched the massage to the rise and fall of the music, lifting my arms and legs off the table, then sending one of his arms down my back while knuckling the knots out of my neck with the other. Toward the end, he floated a long piece of fabric over my body and pulled it gently over my head. When I opened my eyes and sat up, I noticed he had put on a sweatband and his tank top was soaked with sweat.

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I couldn't resist a treatment called the Ancient Arts Awakener, which like many in Australia, begins with the washing of the feet. "I like beginning this way, honoring the client," said Angela, who dipped my feet in a bowl of water and scrubbed them with salts. Next I got on the table for my first experience of energy-focused reiki and shirodhara. Having started at my feet and finished with sesame oil poured over my "third eye," the treatment left me feeling remarkably grounded and ready for sleep. In my room, I opened the glass door and listened to the tide come in.

CONTINUED : Lizard Island

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