Deboyne Island

Lagoon snorkeling exploration in North Lagoon is the aquatic equivalent of stumbling into an exclusive, underwater speakeasy-it's colorful, dazzlingly surreal, and just a tad dangerous if you forget which end of the snorkel stays up. This marine haven boasts coral reefs seemingly designed by an over-enthusiastic interior decorator, complete with fish whose flamboyant hues would make Elton John feel severely underdressed. Historically, lagoons have sheltered pirates and smugglers; nowadays, the main contraband here might just be your overpriced, eco-friendly sunscreen. Go early in the morning-trust me, no amount of underwater beauty can fully distract from the shrieking hordes that invade after brunch. Book two or three days ahead, budget around $40 for your rental gear and boat ride, and pack a waterproof camera to prove you hung out with clownfish without looking totally foolish. Sure, by the end you'll be waterlogged, sunburned, and possibly convinced that a wily, disgruntled sea cucumber is stalking you-but it'll absolutely be worth it, if only for the story you'll embellish later at every cocktail hour for the rest of your life.

If your idea of adventure involves channeling your inner ancient mariner while sitting in a wobbly wooden boat only slightly wider than your rear-end, then paddling through the Bay of Canoes on the Kas-Kas Expedition is your brand of insanity. As you dip your paddle into routes etched through water by generations of impressively reckless seafarers, you'll feel a curious kinship with Polynesians who navigated oceans using nothing but the stars and a stubborn refusal to drown. Aim for a sunrise departure (yes, painful, but worth it), when flossy mist hovers above the waters like reluctant ghosts, and plan ahead a few days-these canoes are traditional, handcrafted beauties with limited seats and even more limited legroom. Budget about $50-$75 per person, pack sunscreen, snacks, and dry clothes, and prepare yourself mentally for a decent upper-body workout paired with inevitable paddle blisters. Ultimately though, bruised egos and soaked shoes are worthwhile sacrifices; after all, how many people can truthfully brag they've paddled the ancestral waters of legendary seafarers, and lived to tell the salty tales?

There's something deeply surreal-and shamelessly thrilling-about spending your afternoon wading knee-deep into the waters of Historic Bay, blindly fishing around for rusted hunks of WWII metal, abandoned artillery shells, and pieces of fighter plane wings that once roared overhead. You might question your sanity when your guide cheerfully hands you a snorkel, casually mentioning unexploded ordnance, but hey, adventure has never promised comfort-or sanity. Go in the early morning when the water is glassy calm, the sun still sleepy, and the ghosts of history loom large. Plan ahead-at least a couple days in advance-to avoid joining the frantic herd of flip-flopped tourists. Toss sunscreen, sturdy water shoes, and a healthy dose of curiosity into your bag, and keep about 50-75 bucks handy for the quirky local guide who peppers every muddy discovery with gritty stories of heroism and mishaps. Sure, rummaging around underwater, hoping to uncover a piece of history without detonating it, seems borderline reckless-but you'll earn priceless bragging rights at your next dinner party, armed with tales of war, rust, and that unforgettable moment you mistook an ancient anchor for something slightly explosive.

So you've decided that dining out is simply too ordinary? Ah, my friend, then swap the predictable cafe terrace for a patch of sand barely larger than your dining table-floating improbably in the middle of the sea. Welcome to your island picnic on a remote shoal, an experience so blissfully absurd that even Robinson Crusoe might arch an eyebrow. Timing here is everything: aim for low tide-usually early morning or late-afternoon-ish-to avoid being marooned any longer than intended, unless your plan includes befriending dolphins a la Tom Hanks in Cast Away. Arrange at least a day or two ahead-because even magic shoals have waitlists-and budget generously (think $100 to $200) since exclusivity and gourmet antipasti platters don't drift gently ashore for free. Pack plenty of sunscreen, a hat that won't embarrass you forever on social media, and sandals sturdy enough not to float away when your picnic spot shifts on ocean whim. Is hauling wine coolers through ankle-deep water to perch bewildered on a tiny spit of sand just a little frivolous and irrational? Absolutely. But trust me, nothing makes a better story at cocktail parties-or hostage negotiations-than casually recounting that one time you dined atop a vanishing island off the Offshore Shoals.

If you've ever harbored secret dreams of gyrating rhythmically beneath palm trees while a spirited octogenarian thoroughly outclasses you, welcome to the Deboyne Island Traditional Dance Showcase. Nestled in the lively heart of Deboyne Village-an idyllic cluster of huts, sand, and smiles seemingly untouched since Captain Owen Stanley charted these waters in the 1840s-this isn't your typical touristy luau; it's an unfiltered plunge into the island's infectious heartbeat. Arrive mid-afternoon, when golden sunlight ignites the dancers' vibrant costumes, and the villagers' energy remains strong and delightfully cheeky. Plan your attendance at least a day or two ahead, less because of limited spots and more because island time, charming as it is, isn't especially known for punctuality. Toss a few kina (around $20 USD) into your pocket-for local crafts, fresh coconut treats, or bribing someone to spare you from embarrassing solo performances. And though you'll probably show up confident and leave humbled (and a little sunburned), it's worth every awkward shimmy and misstep for the sheer joy, cultural immersion, and unforgettable story you'll recount over beers for years to come.

There comes a point when sipping overpriced cocktails at touristy beach bars loses its shine, and your brave inner adventurer (or inner idiot-there's a fine line) craves something more authentic. Cue the voyage to a neighboring uninhabited island in the Outer Archipelago, a journey blending Shackleton-level bravado with the reckless spirit of teenage mischief. Aim to leave at sunrise, partly for the wind, partly for the poetic notion of greeting your island paradise like a weather-beaten conquistador. You'll want to plan at least two or three weeks ahead-boats and trustworthy sailors don't grow on trees, after all-and set aside a respectable chunk of change, let's say a couple hundred bucks per person, to bribe the salty captain who doubles as your guide and lifeline. Essentials? A cooler of cold beverages, a hammock, sunscreen (lest you return with a lobster-red badge of idiocy), mosquito spray that borders on chemical warfare, and a notebook for your Robinson Crusoe musings. As your boat slices toward a pristine shoreline no human has ever sullied with a selfie stick, reflect briefly upon the native islanders or pirates who once navigated these waters, conveniently ignoring how spoiled you are by GPS and waterproof camping gear. Trust me, after spending a night marooned under tropical stars, chasing off hermit crabs, and imagining yourself as lord of your very own micro-nation, you'll return tired, scratched, sunburned, and sand-filled-but richer in narrative gold. And honestly, isn't that the whole point anyway?