Paradise Lost and Found

The word 'honeymoon' is a funny one and I wonder where it originates, so I hunt around. Apparently, a long time ago in a land far, far away (called Scandinavia), when it was still okay to kidnap a wife of your liking, newlyweds would drink a daily cup of honey flavored wine called mead. 'Moon' referred to the cyclic nature of our skies and therefore, the first full month of marriage when this wine consumption would occur. Some have since said that the term, 'honeymoon' implies that the first 30 days of marriage will potentially be sweeter than the times that lie ahead.

That remains to be seen, of course. What I can vouch for is that 'honeymoon' is a word defined as; "brief yet meaningful sabbatical in order to celebrate extraordinary relationship milestone and add to already exorbitant wedding spend". It also provides the breathing space that two people need to get used to calling each other "husband and wife" when they have well embedded the colloquial references "boyfriend and girlfriend".

On ones honeymoon, there are many things to opt in and opt out of. Lounging is high on the list of priorities, preferably by a pool and with spouse. Cocktails certainly made the top five on our hitlist, as did sleep-ins and sunsets. Most couples are on the lookout for that golden opportunity to make their honeymoon that little bit more something. Every destination has an array of bells and whistles to bolt-on and enjoy. Upon our arrival at Tokoriki, Fiji, we went straight for that list of exclusions, pointing to the most suitable extra to further enhance an already exceptional set of circumstances.

We select the delectable "honeymoon picnic", booking it for Friday, precisely one week post the best day of our lives. Advertised as a romantic day of seclusion on a private beach, the lucky couple is dropped off at a deserted island with naught but a radio for emergency contact, a picnic lunch and all the towels and snorkeling gear that four hands can carry.

When Friday morning rolls around we are enthused. Another couple are on the boat when we arrive and we watch our driver load a red and a blue eski on to the motorised tinnie. After the initial surprise of seeing another pair of honeymooners on board, we manage to extract enough information from the reserved Fijian sailor to understand that there will be two drop off points that day - one island for each couple.

We set out, salted sea spray in our faces and upon arriving at the first island, it is left up to us to decide amongst ourselves whose picnic destination this will be. I can tell that Chris is not as impressed as he could be by this beachfront and we graciously insist that the other pair should disembark at stop one.

The driver proceeds to the next island, which appears to be the back half of the beach we just visited. Calling it Liku, he helps us dump our eski and beach mats, a bag of supplies and then motors away. We are left, as advertised, completely alone.

We reach prompt agreement that our first adventure will be to enjoy the snorkeling. Our agreement is followed in quick succession by the discovery that the rip is too strong for anyone to snorkel. Sand from the ocean floor is churning so violently that I almost swim face first into a seaweed bush because it is so well camouflaged by gusts of sand. Trying to pull on flippers in the current is also challenging. It is hard enough to stand on two feet, let alone perched on one in a rubber shoe when the swell is plotting to drag you 50 metres off the beach. A romantic walk is also out of the question. The sand is so clean and loose we sink deeper with every step, and are soon marooned up to our knees as if wading through thick mud.

So, with walking, swimming and snorkeling all now listed as life endangering activities, we choose to read.

We spread our towels under the shade shanty (pictured) and proceed to lie like brocoli on the lumpy sand. Half an hour later, we are fed up with the unique combination of sand flies, aching joints and sweltering heat. We're becoming agitated, not at each other, but much like bees become agitated, in unity. We check the time via our only source of real world information - Chris's mobile phone. It is a mere 11.30am. Chris turns off his phone to save battery power and we continue reading a little while longer.

Hot and restless, Chris goes in search of other life forms. He finds two crabs and makes a circle in the sand using a large stick. We hold a crab race. Spiky shell and Shiny shell fight it out under a brazen sun. Spiky shell is ultimately victorious and makes his way across the line of the outer circle with somewhat measured glee, for a winning crustacean.

Chris and I look up at the sun and make an uneducated judgment that it must be lunchtime, eagerly breaking open the picnic eski to a putrid smell. We're relieved when we realise that it's not the food, but the container itself that's in need of a good airing. Regardless of the odour, we investigate each foil covered plate. Leftover chicken. Okay. Soggy bread - also leftover? Possibly. We put that aside. Fruit, half mandarins, fresh pineapple and watermelon. Some cut oranges. Good for scurvy. Another plate with some melted looking cheese, maybe Camembert, more watermelon, more bread. Bread and watermelon are not good on the same plate (in case you are wondering) but we rescue a couple of pieces. The saving grace of lunch is a container of Just Juice pineapple and two beaten plastic wine glasses. We munch the chicken, some bread and cheese, some of the fruit. Then we carefully place the food with the least nutritional value on the bottom of the eski where ice has become a swimming pool for food, in case we are stranded like Tom Hanks on Castaway.

Half an hour later we are even more hot, more sunburned, more bored and annoyed than before lunch and we begin to develop a mild understanding of how Tom became such good friends with a netball. We exchange verbal extremities about how it is [f&%k$n&] crazy that we paid good money for this experience. I accidentally rub insect repellant in my eyes and have to pour drinking water all over my face. It takes awhile for the stinging to stop and for my blurred vision to return to normal.

We make up songs. "We're all stuck in the middle of Fiji", works quite well to the basic tune of the epic Beatles classic, "Yellow Submarine" and helps to sustain an amicable mood. We try to check the time again and find the phone battery flat. We try to tell the time by looking at the sun but we're guessing at best. I am distressed because Chris thinks the man who dropped us off in his boat said he was coming at "four o'clock" rather than "in four hours". We agree optimistically that Chris must be mistaken. I am forced to finally concede a point that my husband has maintained for a good part of nine years; that I would not last long if I was ever on Survivor. The evidence for the prosecution is simply too overwhelming.

At what we estimate to be about two pm, I reach and exceed my tolerance threshold for general discomfort. The sun has moved around the beach to a point where the shade in our so-called hut is about a metre square and we are standing atop of one another trying to occupy it. I bark in a tantrum like fashion that Chris is the husband and that he should radio home base to find out how much longer we are going to be stuck on this god forsaken beach. He tells me to be patient. I tell him I am completely out of patience and that there is nowhere to buy any around here. He says I am being a princess (a little bit true). I instruct him to man up and radio in and to look after me, his wife (which of course he is already doing for the most part). He gives in to my whining, picks up the radio, tunes it in and phones home like E.T.

There is no answer. Nobody responds to our distress call. He tries again. Good thing it isn't a real emergency, he says. Isn't it? I prepare to stamp my feet but remember we are on an island of quick sand. Surely being covered from head to toe in bites with a full body suit of sunburn, and sand particles located dangerously close to one of my more intimate orifices must be classified as some kind of emergency.

And then the boat comes, like an mirage crystallising in a desert.

Crisis averted. Relief pours over us (or at least me). We high five and cheer. We do a little dance with our hands on our hips and pack up our stuff like the island is on fire. I could have kissed that little boat man on his brown, freckled nose.

Standing under a cold shower, back in the 5-star luxury of our beach bure, I had a quiet chuckle to myself. I have to admit that the cumulative panic I experienced over a whole four hours of what was (on reflection) relatively mild discomfort, was a bit of a shameful display. How accustomed we become to our creature comforts and how lucky we are to have them. I openly apologise to the people of the world who live through ordeals with much worse implications everyday, and I promise to check myself and my over-reactions in any future potentially uncomfortable situations. It's a good thing that my relationship is almost decade old and our trip did not serve as a personality expose.

I concede that I like my life just the way it is. But life, like honeymoons, and like marriage, can't always be a picnic.