Trespassing in Paradise with Fijian Fishermen

Scanning the carpet of sand, my eyes fixate on a rather stern face. Or is that a look of confusion? Maybe curiosity? No. That’s an unmistakably stern glare – and now he’s walking towards me. Shit. Just smile back sheepishly. Maybe if I make a quick prayer, these unrealistically silky, paper-white sands will swallow me whole.

Eyes locked, I ponder what trespassing laws look like on a speck of land in the Pacific Ocean. I wiggle my toes and push downwards, begging the beach for divine intervention as my mind unhelpfully conjures up images of lost-at-sea floating cells. Surveying the absolutely-not-swaying palms and bath-like waters lapping the coral reefs, I look for backup. Nothing.

My fellow island invaders are nowhere to be seen.

“Are you lost?” he asks, extending his hand for a firm handshake. How do you answer a question like that when you’ve arrived at – what you’re quickly realising might well be – a private island? Oh yeah, mate, sorry, I just took a wrong turn at that turtle back there; my bad.

The irony wasn’t lost on me that it was another firm handshake and a cheeky grin that had got me into this situation. A situation very much of my own making.

You see, a few hours earlier, my friends and I had paddled through the gentle ripples around Nadi’s expensive resorts towards our two new friends: a pair of local fishermen with broad grins and a penchant, it appeared, for helping out cost-cutting backpackers. We settled onto the canary yellow slats on their weathered boat, the engine rumbling, and soon snaked away from the manicured palm trees of the luxury resorts.

Where were we going? No idea. I’d heard fisherman one – the younger chap, with a wicked grin and bucket hat – mention Qalito Island yesterday, and a quick Google had shown me a proper atoll utopia.

But the where wasn’t important. I was certain we were off to some incredible islands, and I hadn’t spent a fortune. Happy days.

Our fishermen’s rendezvous had been planned out the night before. Under a crimson sky and a dreamy sunset – you know, the kind that tropical islands seem to have a monopoly on – when we’d covertly met on the shoreline. Our secret mission had been fuelled by the reception desk of my hotel on Denarau Island, a man-made, on-the-beaten-path luxury resort, where upon asking the beaming concierge about day and boat trips, I’d soon realised that my understanding of the exchange rate wasn’t the problem – my bank balance was. 

Later, over a cracking meal of freshly grilled fish that the beaming Fijian waitress had upsold me – her laughter was so contagious I’d have likely said yes to a tin of tuna – I hatched a plan to find whoever had caught my lunch and ask if we could join them the next day. So there we were, under that sunset, agreeing on a price, a time and which palm tree to meet by. Our island hopping-come-fishing-support trip was set.

Fast forward to now, and our first port of call was starting to look like it might be our last. Apparently, the where was important. 

As I open my shamefaced mouth to utter an uncomfortable yes, he follows with an equally firm, “I’ll be right back,” gesturing me towards a bar stool. His tone is very much sit-down and don’t move, rather than here, have a Pina colada. 

Mr Suit turns and bounds across the beach, the sands seemingly a tropical trampoline. In the distance, an incoming craft – obviously much more luxurious than our commandeered vessel – is fast approaching. It looks awfully similar to the day trip tour I’d glossed over in the brochure the day before. 

Scanning the waters for signs of my getaway fishing boat, I think I spot our fishermen friends in the far distance, rods cast, hunting their haul. Where my actual friends are, I have no idea. Perhaps they are being held prisoner in an overwater bungalow.

As a singular guitar starts to serenade the new arrivals and meke dancers bounce onto the trampoline beach, I think how perfect this setting is. What an incredible private island resort getaway.

I squint my eyes, letting the almost missable breeze and musical notes wash over me. In another world – where my wallet wasn’t as thin as these grains of sand – it could be me arriving on that boat. Me stepping out to a heartwarming Bula. Me enjoying a welcome cocktail on the restaurant’s veranda, which spills down to the ocean’s million cerulean shades. 

Opening my eyes, I glance up and see a framed paddle above the bar. I think the small plaque says something about Tom Hanks, and it starts to dawn on me where I am. (I would later learn that Qalito Island is also known as Castaway Island – and yes, it’s as luxurious, secluded and, perhaps most importantly, as private as it sounds).

As Mr Suit springs back, I realise I need to get myself out of here with a little white lie. 

“I’m a travel writer here to visit the resort,” I blurt, surprising even myself. I glance down at my bright blue palm tree-covered swim shorts as he scans my left hand, clutching a snorkel and towel. Just for a beat, I think he will arrest me there and then.

Somehow, Mr Suit seems to fight back the urge to ask all the sensible questions. But how did you get here? Why do you have fins rather than a pen? Or even, why are you lying to me?

Instead, he gives a genuine grin, a firm nod and every ounce of that famed Fijian hospitality. “Well, I better give you the grand tour then.”

And that’s how I accidentally ended up on a one-man media visit to Castaway Island Resort, one of the most luxurious islands I’ve ever seen. (Subsequently, and not so accidentally, I did end up publishing an article about it in an Australian magazine – so I guess it’s not really a lie when you follow through.)

We flit between manicured flower beds, dazzling private villas, sunset-facing cabanas and swimming pools soundtracked by trickling water features before turning our attention to the sea view restaurants, breezy bars, indulgent spa and the giant bures by the beach where I could happily spend the rest of my days. 

I gawp, I gasp, and I ogle. When we finally find my two friends – or rather ‘colleagues’ – I assume Mr Suit has accepted I’d likely never seen a private island resort before, let alone was I going to write about one.

Now seemingly trusted enough, we share goodbyes like life-long friends and seek out the pre-arranged meeting point hidden from the resort’s reception. The instructions, “Wade in a bit away from the shore”, now make far more sense. Our fishermen friends haul us back aboard, and we start giggling among tubs of the morning’s catch.

“That island,” says fisherman two, pointing to a tiny speck in the distance, “that’s the one where they filmed the Cast Away film.”

Perhaps it would have made far more sense for our fishermen friends to take us to that uninhabited, resort-free isle officially known as Modrik on our Fiji day trip. But how could I be mad? 

As far as failed (and unplanned, I must stress again) trespassing attempts go, I assume this one is about as gorgeous and welcoming as they get.

Want to visit Castaway Island with an invitation? Book this day tour. Even better, stay in this beautiful resort for a few days.