Puddle jumping in the Cooks October 2015 | A lazy Tuesday on Rarotonga

We’ve just finished lunch on the patio. We spent the morning reading and walking the beach as far as we could in one direction, before turning and coming back.  A south sea roars persistently like the whir of the engines as we puddle jump from island to island. There’s no getting away from it, and who’d want to. It’s windy, warm and wet. There’s a line of surf about 500 metres off shore; spray from the 10-foot waves lights up the horizon.

From the fairly slim (but not so slimming) pickings at the grocery stores we managed a gourmet platter of paté, brie, cherry tomatoes, rice cakes (the thin ones), stolen packets of raspberry jam and peanut butter (no, we didn’t steal them from the store) and an apple so delicious you could suck the juice from every bite.  And the last of a Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc. That’s one thing you do have choice of here: New Zealand wine. Otherwise, you take what’s on the shelf and don’t ask about what’s not.

There’s a hen and her five chicks practicing their independence on the sand below the patio. The chicks are up and over her back, under a wing, a nose poking out here, a foot there, while she, ever mindful of her brood, is clucking away. She doesn’t stop until all five are safely under cover, although it looks like space is at a premium down there. No sooner is one in than another is peeking out, then leaping to the sand, and flitting about. Oh, there she goes again: one, two, three, four…damn, where’s your sister? She’s always late coming home. Now the mynahs (a pest here) are cleaning up our crumbs and generally making a racket outside, threatening to come right through the doorway.

Speaking of sisters, we’ve agreed on what to wear to dinner tonight. It’s a bit of an issue. I was grumbling the other day about having to change my clothes, when someone suggested I try dressing first and leaving it to Margaret to change. Otherwise we look like the 80-something couple we watched at breakfast this morning with their matching island-print shirts. We contemplated passing ourselves off as a lesbian couple who’ve been together too long. You know. The type who start to look, talk and walk like each other after so many years together.  Something to think about for our next trip? It would mean learning some new vocabulary in Spanish.

We fly to Mangaia tomorrow early, and are looking forward to meeting Babe. Babe, we are told, is a guy. But we couldn’t get a straight answer about whether or not he’s a babe. Seems Babe owns the rooms for rent, the bar, the store, and probably the car rental and gas bar too. We’ll find out tomorrow. In the meantime, I’m reading The God of Small Things for the second time, and contemplating an afternoon nap. Dinner out, at the fancy place down the road. We’ll walk down the beach, and catch the bus back, pack and be in bed by 8—just kidding. Margaret’s napping, so she’ll be good until 9 and maybe even 930.