The last paradise

He then stuffed the little down-ball back into the hole. And yanked a weed out of the ground, pocketing it.

“We’ve almost rid the island of weeds,” he’d said. “Get heaps of people here in summer to help pluck the weeds.”

A few steps later he was clapping.

I’d already figured out that if Ian stops and does something unannounced and somewhat out of the ordinary, there’s probably a good reason. But that said, suddenly clapping in the dark shade of the forest still seemed like a mildly crazy thing to do. Then I heard it.

“You’ll see it now. The woodhen. It’s unique to Lord Howe. Almost disappeared, but we’ve got the population up to 220 now from just six about 30 years ago.”

With that, a red-eyed woodhen step-ped out to the middle of the path to protect its territory. Apparently the clapping (as opposed to our loud talking, branches snapping or the occasional lightning strike) sounded like a rival woodhen, and we needed to be dealt with. Ian beamed. “We’re quite lucky to see one.”

Having given us her dagger-eyed, this - is - my - part - of - the - forest stare, the woodhen scuttled back to the underbrush, confident in its bravado, and we continued on a path that began to rise  up into the clouds. I’d arrived during winter, when most of the seabirds are away, so we stopped about halfway up the cliff.

“Of course,” said Ian, “if you come during the right season you’ll see millions of seabirds — sooty terns, flesh-footed shearwaters, black-winged petrels — nesting along the cliffs and at the summits. During nesting season the sky darkens when the birds leave their nests for the open ocean.”

We jump on our bikes the next morning and ride over to Ned’s Beach. No one on the island knows why it’s called Ned’s Beach — or if they do, they’re not telling the story. But it doesn’t matter. When we arrive, this perfect crescent of silky, golden sand is empty except for one kid, his mom and a bunch of ducks that strut around like a motorcycle gang. The kid stands at the edge of the surf, works up his courage and tosses in some bread. The surface of the water explodes with kingfish, chub and a whirlwind of ducks.

Several years ago, a local man started coming to Ned’s to throw his kitchen leftovers into the water. Fish and fowl caught on, and now several dozen four- to five-foot-long king-fish patrol the shallows 24 hours a day, their dorsal fins slicing figure-eights in the flat surface of the water. Things like this are why the locals don’t watch television. It’s become an evening ritual for many families to come to Ned’s at sunset. Me, I want to join the fray.

I don a wetsuit, mask and snorkel and pad down the beach accompanied by a phalanx of ducks. I look back up the beach and see my footprints flanked by web-footed impressions and chuckle to myself. I wade into the water through a cloud of giggles just as the kid throws a massive handful of bread into the water. For a moment I’m engulfed in Armageddon, bumped and ignored from below and surrounded by a cartoon halo of brawling ducks above. But as soon as I dip my head underwater it’s as if I’ve slipped into a daydream. The frenzy has calmed, the kingfish polarize and circle me in a hush of nonchalant movement. The water is so clear it’s like heavy air, and the colors of the world’s southernmost reef stretch out on the undersea horizon. Jolts of life are everywhere. A green sea turtle comes in for a look, then banks over the reef revealing a kingdom of pink, gray and electric-orange corals.

When I finally pull myself from the water at low tide, Ian and I stand on the shore talking, sipping hot tea as the tide rolls in. We don’t really need to do anything else. The great sidereal movements of time and tide meander around us without the slightest sense of urgency. As the shadows lengthen and the breeze slips crisply off the water, I feel like I could go 10 years without television. I don’t need to know anything more than what I know right now. The dawn will come and, with it, another unexpected moment will reveal itself, trembling and full of life. And like it has done every day since it was first discovered, the island will rise from the deep ocean at first light, and everyone who makes it to this idyllic place will awake and, like me, Ian, the man on the bike and the first sailor who felt the brush of Lord Howe’s sand on his feet, fall through the hedge again.

And again.

Each issue of ISLANDS Magazine explores the most beautiful island destinations in the world, from tropical island outposts to the sophisticated gems of the Mediterranean. Our top-rate photographers and writers discover the quiet beaches, boutique hotels, and unique cultural experiences that make island travel unique.

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