Amuri

Floating face-down in Aitutaki Lagoon, breathing through a plastic tube and watching manta rays glide beneath you feels like stumbling into an alien ballet choreographed by Jacques Cousteau after three rum cocktails. These gentle behemoths, eerily graceful with wing spans wide enough to blanket your spare bedroom, twist and turn effortlessly, oblivious to your awestruck flailing above. Mantas-once revered by Polynesian navigators as mystical guides-still seem to carry an unbothered wisdom, as if they know tourists have crossed oceans just for this moment. Practical tips, my soggy friend: your best bet is to head out early morning when visibility is crystal-clear and the rays are enjoying breakfast-plan at least a few days ahead to grab a local operator who knows where they congregate. Budget around $100-$150, pack plenty of biodegradable sunscreen, an underwater camera (to prove you're more adventurous than your Instagram-following cousins), and nerves steady enough not to panic when a manta the size of your rental car swims inches past your goggles. Why bother paddling around with these placid giants at all? Because when you're home again, trapped in conversation with Ted from accounting, you're armed forever with the tale of that magical morning you hung out with 800 pounds of undulating underwater charisma.

If you're going to set sail in paradise, you might as well make it to a place called One Foot Island-because honestly, doesn't every trip sound better with a dash of pirate map whimsy? This tiny speck off Aitutaki's shore-officially called Tapuaetai-is postcard-perfect, absurdly photogenic, and home to what has to be the world's most charmingly pointless post office. (Yes, you can get your passport stamped here for bragging rights, even if it'll leave immigration officials back home scratching their heads.) Aim to catch the morning cruise to beat afternoon crowds and witness the lagoon water at peak turquoise-so blindingly bright you'll swear Instagram invented its filter after a visit here. Book at least a couple of days in advance, budget around $100 for the day trip, and pack sunscreen, shades, and perhaps a bottle of your favorite rum; channel your inner island buccaneer, minus the scurvy. Sure, your friends might roll their eyes at yet another tropical selfie, but between the sand between your toes and the quirky passport stamp, you'll have a story quirky enough to justify every envy-laden glare.

Spending a solitary night on the deserted sands of Tekopua Island is the kind of brilliant recklessness best reserved for travelers who fantasize about swapping civilization for coconuts, constellations, and questionable life choices. Just a whisper away from Aitutaki, Tekopua feels like a Robinson Crusoe fever-dream, minus the talking volleyball. Historically, Polynesian navigators braved significantly more perilous conditions than you will to find islands like this, armed only with starlight, ocean currents, and frankly irresponsible levels of optimism. Bring ample sunscreen, water, a hammock, and enough snacks to last a week-just in case your boat captain conveniently forgets to pick you up. Arrive late afternoon to claim your patch of paradise, and by dusk your only companions will be hermit crabs, a gentle tropical breeze, and a nighttime sky so brightly bedazzled it mocks every astronomy app you've ever downloaded. Book at least two weeks ahead through a local outfitter, budget approximately $150-$250 per person for the transport and camping permit, and consider it a small price to pay for one-upping every smug backpacker at your hostel's communal dinner. Even if your morning accommodations involve sand in unmentionable places and a mild existential awakening-it's worth the gritty inconvenience, if only to casually slip into conversations forevermore, "that reminds me of the night I survived Tekopua-did I ever tell you about that?"