Step back to two years ago, at the sandy tip of Christmas islands, still in the Pacific, Shadé our 3-year-old daughter finally accepts the idea of a nap under the tent, provided that she falls asleep with a freshly caught fish by her side (imagine the smell).
For the first time during our stay, a little sail boat casts anchor behind the coral reef. A few minutes later a tiny dinghy with two people aboard heads toward us.
Alex, from Brazil, a full-time gipsy surfer and Marie his French girlfriend, get off. They are not exactly as fresh as daises after a challenging journey from Tahiti. We share the camp, as well as fruit, which is so rare here, since it comes from Polynesia. Alex is aiming for the Line Islands up north, specifically for a perfect peeling wave in front of a so-called Bruno’s guest house, perched on an atoll off the grid. “That rings a bell…there can’t be twenty islands of this type in the region” I thought.
Before leaving, Alex specifies “There is the Kwai, a sail cargo that provides the islands from Honolulu; sometimes it takes passengers, so long as you’re not a stickler for comfort and punctuality…”
