Mystery Island

If your idea of adventure involves squatting in ankle-deep water at dawn, probing the sands of Shell Beach like an amateur marine archaeologist, then a South Pacific Shell Collecting Tour will scratch that oddly specific itch you never knew you had. Sure, centuries ago, locals here prized these shells as currency and ceremonial bling-a vibrant blend of practicality and showy tribal swagger-but today, they mostly adorn tourist mantels and become slowly forgotten souvenirs. Still, there's a certain shameless pleasure in scouring the shoreline at sunrise, before the sun creams and selfie sticks descend, feeling oddly triumphant each time the sea relinquishes a gleaming spiral conch or a delicate cowrie to your eager palm. Plan a few days in advance, budget about $30-$50 (unless you're booking the VIP "expert-guided experience," which honestly might mean a grizzled islander half-heartedly glaring at you from a distance), and pack sunscreen, sturdy sandals, and a mesh bag for your haul. Truthfully, nothing screams "I've reached peak beachcomber eccentricity" quite like telling your friends back home you woke up before daylight to rifle through wet sand hunting nature's discarded treasures. And for that alone-plus the inexplicable joy of owning a seashell guaranteed not to have "Made in China" stamped inside-this quirky pursuit is gloriously worth it.

Forget the sanitized snorkeling tours tedious enough to lull a jellyfish to sleep; traditional spearfishing in the Reef Zone drags you straight into Hemingway territory-part primal hunt, part maritime meditation, all guided by locals whose ancestors skewered dinner long before supermarkets diluted our hunter-gatherer bravado. Don your swimwear at dawn (that quiet magic hour just before the sun turns sadistic), wielding a spear that's seen more action than your Instagram ever will. Book at least two days ahead, because spontaneity might be charming, but not when you're bargaining for expert tips on holding your breath and channeling fish-whisperer vibes. Budget about $50 per person; you'll definitely want sunscreen, bottled water, and humility-trust me, the fish are unimpressed by your snorkel selfies. And sure, maybe you'll surface empty-handed, seaweed tangled conspiratorially around your ankles-but there's raw poetry in the attempt and an immeasurable swagger from casually dropping "spearfishing" into your next dinner party anecdote.

If you've ever flirted with the idea of marooning yourself-sans shipwreck trauma and cannibalistic risk, of course-then staking out an overnight island campfire at Campground Beach is your ticket to tastefully mild adventure. Nestled beneath a staggering canopy of South Pacific constellations that would make an ancient Polynesian navigator tear up in appreciation, you'll roast marshmallows and char sausages while wondering which of those faintly pulsing points of light are distant planets-or just airborne critters intent on dive-bombing your snacks. Plan to arrive in the late afternoon so you can snag prime beachfront real estate and catch the slow-motion drama of sunset. Book at least a week ahead, pack ample bug spray and a flask of something stronger than coconut water, and expect your budget to stay pleasingly minimalist-around $30 should cover provisions and permits (unless you insist on artisanal, fair-trade marshmallows from some tattooed hipster down the road). It's worth it, not just for the primal satisfaction of watching logs crackle under the cosmic spectacle above, but for the priceless privilege of returning home to brag shamelessly at dinner parties about your gritty, Robinson Crusoe-esque escapades-minus the scurvy, naturally.