a deserted island paradise

Did you know French Polynesia is made up of 5 archipelagos and 118 islands? That’s a lot of choices when you’re deciding where to run away from it all.

So when Rowdy suggested we venture beyond Tahiti, I was all in—especially when he said the words “deserted island.”

Except… it wasn’t exactly an island. It was more of a coral sandbank plonked in the middle of the South Pacific. No people, no shops, no shoes required. Just a tiny house, crystal-clear water, and a strong possibility of becoming shark snacks if anything went wrong.

We were ready for our castaway fantasy.

Until two days before departure, when Rowdy picked up a tropical virus.

Fever. Chills. Zero appetite. (Which for Rowdy is a red flag the size of Bora Bora.) I gently suggested maybe this wasn’t the best time to go off-grid.

But if you know this man, you know we were still going.

Supplies packed: check. We had to bring all food and drinks for the full four-day stay. That’s a lot of cheese, crackers, pasta, painkillers—and champagne. My main concern was less about food spoilage and more about my bubbly exploding mid-flight.

Luckily, clothing was optional (kidding… sort of), so we kept the packing light.

We boarded a one-hour Air Tahiti flight to Tikehau, a remote atoll in the Tuamotus that looks like it was photoshopped by Mother Nature on a good day.

Picture a ring of tiny coral islands surrounding a lagoon so turquoise it hurts your eyes. The sand? Pink. The airport? Adorably tiny. The excitement? High.

We were greeted by Hani, our local host, who welcomed us with a fragrant tiare flower lei and led us to what might have been the first-ever Land Rover. Doors optional. Paintwork and internal upholstery questionable.

But hey—only five minutes to the boat!

Which… didn’t start.

Turo, our boat driver/mechanic/survivor of many “solutions,” calmly removed the Land Rover battery and installed it in the boat. Nothing says confidence like watching your boat get resuscitated by jumper cables from a collapsing SUV.

The boat ride? Utter chaos.

I still have a broken arm, and between Rowdy’s fever and the Pacific playing “let’s launch them airborne,” I ended up in tears. Champagne and codeine for dinner it was. (Doctor approved? Absolutely not. Effective? Absolutely yes.)

But then—we arrived.

Motu Mihi Miti. Just a whisper of land in the middle of the ocean. About half the size of a football field. 500 kilometers from anywhere. Two sun loungers. One jetty. No neighbours. No noise. Just sea, sand, and survival mode: luxe edition.

Our house was just a few barefoot steps from the water. Hani and Turo gave us the rundown—generator power, rainwater tanks, don’t feed the sharks (oops)—then waved goodbye.

And just like that, we were alone.

Honestly? It was breathtaking.

…And also a tiny bit terrifying. The word tsunami hovered silently in both our minds, but neither of us dared speak it out loud. Instead, we marinated in beauty and tried not to think about natural disasters.

We swam. We snorkelled. We fed the reef sharks—accidentally at first, then deliberately, once I realized Rowdy couldn’t eat any of the food we brought. Sharks: thrilled. Me: efficient. Champagne: gone (no way I was flying back with that risk).

Camping-style living came with its quirks:

• Saltwater dishwashing (exfoliating and resourceful!)
• Cold outdoor showers (refreshing if you squint)
• Generator power only (your hairdryer isn’t welcome here)
• Comfy beds, but no blankets, which is a bit rough when your man’s got chills and is muttering feverish nonsense about golf.

Despite all this—it was magical and my kind of roughing it.

If you want to recover from a virus and or a broken arm, park yourself on a coral atoll in the South Pacific where there is nothing to do but sunbake, swim, and drink champagne, and you’ll be better in no time.

On our last night in paradise, the deserted island gods turned on a sunset that was simply breathtaking and by far the most magical I have ever seen. For over an hour, the sky shifted colours like a TV test pattern on steroids. Just when you thought it couldn’t get any better, it did. Deep dark reds, pale yellow, crimson, and golds an endless natural slideshow of magic.

Eventually, it was time to leave. I was dreading the return boat trip, but we caught the tide and it was much smoother. (No codeine required.) We flew back via Rangiroa, another ridiculously gorgeous atoll, and finally made it home to Tahiti.

Rowdy is still recovering but looking brighter—and cheekier—by the day. Which is honestly the best souvenir I could ask for.

10 Countries 10 Years – Paradise Island Chapter: One broken arm, one sick love bug, one boat that needed CPR, and one perfect little island we’ll never forget.