This encounter taught me that the rather stern look of the locals masks some of the friendliest, most charming people on earth. Yet it was also exceptionally clear that the Fijians did not take lightly their traditions or their age-old tribal rituals. Thanks to Wesleyan missionaries and British administrators, cannibalism died out in the last century, but the indigenous people still cling proudly to their heritage. The fact that they still seriously evaluate outsiders who wish to make use of their land and waters (especially in this world of rapidly disintegrating native cultures and ecological sell-outs) earned my respect.

The atmosphere inside the house relaxed considerably as a huge wooden bowl appeared for mixing kava with water. A drinking ritual between our leader and the village leader sealed the welcome pact. Then each of us was allowed to participate in the drinking of the kava. The coconut bowls full of murky liquid tasted a bit like dirt with the kick of Novocain, but it is a grave insult not to drink down the entire bowl in one gulp, and each of us did.

Outside, after the ceremony was completed and our "safety" was assured, we made our way to the beach, where our kayaks were waiting. The villagers were much bolder now, coming up to us, introducing themselves, asking us questions, even handing us gifts of a hand-woven fan and shells. A big-hipped, huge-breasted woman who identified herself as the chief's sister shook each of our hands so vigorously that one man in our group almost toppled to the ground, and the woman giggled endlessly as we introduced ourselves. Such heart-felt hospitality and generosity among a people whose tongue-twisting names we had a hard time pronouncing, let alone recalling, momentarily stunned me.

Someone in our group unearthed a cigar and handed it to an old village man who was following us to the shore. As if on cue, the wrinkled man pulled a wooden match from behind his ear, lit the cigar, then puffed and grinned from ear to ear. After three puffs, he passed the stogie to some of his fellow villagers, eager to share his largesse. To this day, I have visions of the tattered, minuscule cigar stump being passed around the village.

By noon the tide was at its lowest point, about seven feet. We bid farewell to the villagers and carried our kayaks to the water, slogging our way through soft dark sand. As we walked, I was hypnotized by the thunderous sound and sight of the relentless waves crashing against the edge of the massive barrier reef a half-mile off shore. With each tidal surge, white, frothy billows of sea spray flew into the air for as far as the eye could see.

Launching on our sit-on-top kayaks, the crystal clear water was stunning, tinted like a patchwork quilt in every conceivable shade of blue, from turquoise to royal blue. Each time my paddle blade dipped into the shimmering water, my kayak eased forward as if floating on a cloud. We were surrounded by the salty smells of the ocean and the balmy sea breezes. Schools of flying fish took flight in front of us, skimming the surface of the water as they raced away from us.

Paddling to the edge of the lagoon's reef, I looked over the side of the kayak. I had the uncanny feeling that I was scuba diving. Acres of staghorn coral reached for the surface like millions of deer antlers; countless tiny, florescent blue and green fish darted among the antlers. Scores of purple-blue starfish lay like a handful of jewels strewn across the sandy bottom. A large school of flying fish whisked past. We lazily passed a few tiny, deserted islands ringed with powdery white sand beaches and coconut-laden palms. I would given anything to set up house on one of them.

Moments later, as I was meandering slowly, watching the underwater scenery, I felt a sudden jolt of impact and felt a rush of adrenalin. My kayak had been rammed at full speed by something that was very large. Terrified, I imagined a shark circling back around, opening its giant jaws. In a matter of seconds, I saw my attacker: a five-foot wahoo (a kind of mackerel) in pursuit of small-fry. I started breathing again.

The lagoon was as flat as glass, and for three hours we took our time paddling the four miles to a brilliant little island with a long stretch of sand Yanuyanulevu, our destination for the day. Our escort boat was waiting for us there. We landed our kayaks and immediately went exploring. We soon found a deserted thatched bure (hut) not too far away, with a garden surrounding it. Apparently, this little bungalow was used by the locals when they came this way to fish. My fantasy revived: I could live here forever, just like the Fijians, living on fish, papaya, mango, coconut and wild citrus.

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