Paradise not found

It was advertised as nature’s ultimate escape: a tiny coral cay on the southern tip of the Great Barrier Reef. An eco resort with no TV, no luxuries, just a dozen or so simple beach cabins scattered along a shallow lagoon containing a colourful cross-section of fascinating marine life. My partner Andy and I had already done some wonderful things in our summer in Queensland. We’d bobbed off surfing beaches backed by rainforest; motored outback roads as straight and steely as knitting needles; cruised around crocodiles lurking in mangrove swamps. Could this be the perfect way to spend our last 24 hours before we headed to Brisbane Airport for our flight back to the UK? Andy thought so, and booked it as his treat.

But with all things in life – even eco-paradises – first impressions are vital. And ours, flying into a violent storm almost from the minute we left the coastal city of Rockhampton, were not favourable. Our 18-seat twin otter propeller plane was tossed around like an Airfix model and other people’s children screamed directly into our ears using every millimetre of their lungs. John the pilot, a calm, grey-haired man in a navy tank-top, sat just three feet in front of us – within clutching distance. Watching him at the controls brought some comfort until it became obvious that the one he was paying the most attention to was a handle he was gripping to stop himself being flung across the cabin.

The resort’s advertising blurb had shown a sapphire sea surrounding a ring of aquamarine fading into sandy beach. I pressed my nose against the window in anticipation. Below the dark clouds and pelting rain appeared, instead, an oval blob of deepest green dissected by a narrow brown airstrip – 42 hectares of vulnerable land in an angry ocean [I snapped the photograph above]. We circled the island, the plane’s wings dipped to the left, we were thrown 100 yards to the right. Then in one heartstopping move, like a cat leaping on its prey, we sprang to the ground. We had arrived in paradise.

The smiling resort staff who met our plane acted as if the weather carried the inconvenience factor of a minor rain shower. Information about the island was bellowed cheerfully above the howling wind. To the right was a lighthouse, to the left the snorkelling lagoon and cabins. In between were one education centre, one swimming pool and one dining room with bar. Beyond, thousands of miles of Pacific Ocean.

We hurried to the education centre, pausing only as a tall coconut palm tree crashed down on to the path in front of us. Here, a blackboard informed us of the day’s activities. Snorkelling: cancelled. Fish-feeding: cancelled. Glass-bottomed boat tour: cancelled. Indoor entertainment, however, was in full flow. A Japanese family were staring intently at a small tank of blue starfish. A group of wide-eyed youngsters were watching a – unadvisedly selected – video of the movie Twister. And two cheery staff members were constructing a large papier mache shark. We decided to brave a walk around the island with our waterproofs zipped firmly up.

Staggering through relentless, driving rain we found the slate-coloured lagoon lined with overturned sun loungers. Under kinder conditions, it would have been wonderful to have lazed here, Bounty hunter-style, listening to the lapping of the waves and the chink of a drinks trolley. But there seemed little chance of that. The strewn spoils of the storm lay everywhere: banks of shells and driftwood, a large, dead crab, dried rust-coloured fish and a knobbly lump of purple, orange and cream coral. Seabirds nesting in casuarina trees divebombed us furiously before being torn away by the wind. Beyond the lagoon, waves 12ft high twisted and crashed. They had us surrounded.

At the dinner buffet that night, we were keen to hear the weather forecast. But it turned out there would be none because the island itself was the local weather station. It was our job to inform the mainland what was coming their way. We heard a rumour of an impending cyclone at the tropical fruit ’n’ ice-cream counter, but the staff wouldn’t be drawn. ‘The weather’s very changeable. It might be lovely tomorrow,’ they repeated like a mantra, and urged us to hurry along to the evening’s big draw: a slideshow on the island’s seabirds.

Instead, we retired to the bar and downed stiff doubles. Every few minutes another rain-sodden casualty from the slideshow would appear with a bang of the door and a roar of the storm. The barman regaled us with tales of touring his triumphant Roy Orbison tribute show around the rainforest resorts of Northern Queensland. ‘It comes in useful on nights like this,’ he told us, nodding meaningfully at a guitar propped up against the optics. We retreated to the pool table, slinking around the baize like sulky teenagers. Through the window a wriggling string of fairy lights twinkled gamely and plastic tables and chairs waltzed across the verandah to the opening chords of Only The Lonely. It was then we realised: the thing with ultimate escapes is, they can turn out to be, in themselves, inescapable.

How romantic the notion of a night under canvas on our own desert island had seemed from the balmy mainland. How appalling a prospect it appeared now as, flapping furiously, the cabin threatened to fly us Wizard of Oz-style off over the Pacific. We spent much of the next eight hours staring sleeplessly at a notice pinned to the door that read: “In the event of a cyclone staff will advise you what to do.”

“Oh, we forgot about you down there,” laughed one of the staff next morning at breakfast. “We moved all the guests into the main building for safety.” Perfect! It was time for a chat with the resort manager. The storm had subsided only a little. Would we even be able toget back to Brisbane for our plane home? The manager was sorrowful about our experience. This was one of the top ten dive spots in the world, he told us. He was passionate about the island’s beauty and longed to share it with us. With a recklessness that probably came from lack of sleep, we decided to leave the other guests in front of a video of Zulu (again, interesting choice),  and waded shivering into the lagoon to take part in a sport of our own invention: storm snorkelling.

Underwater, it was like Oxford Circus on a blustery weekday morning. A city of sea creatures scurried briskly and efficiently about their business. We, however, struggled with the wild currents, and caught just the briefest, most tantalising glimpses of angel fish, manta ray, a shiny black squid and a bright-eyed turtle before being swept over razor-sharp coral back on to the beach.

Running up the sand, exhilarated by our own stupidity, we were met by a member of staff. There was a break in the storm and our plane was waiting, he said. They were going to try to get us back to the mainland in time for our flight home. Shaking off the word ‘try’ along with myriad droplets of sea water, we quickly dressed, grabbed our bags from our cabin and clambered into the plane. As the propellers began to turn, we gazed down at a straggling line of holidaymakers who’d turned out to see us off, their faces grim as if they didn’t rate our chances of making it back to Blighty.

But they underestimated John, again wearing his confidence-inspiring navy tank-top. He flew us safely and smoothly under the storm clouds, just a few hundred feet above the water. We scanned the horizon for Hervey Bay’s famous humpback whales. ‘Let me know if you see one,’ he said, ‘and I’ll go in close for a photograph.’ It felt as if we were flying in our own private jet, which was the best piece of escapism of the entire trip.