KAYAKING THE ROCK ISLANDS
 |
| David Sanger |
Look down: Paddling a saltwater
lagoon south of Koror
|
For the paddler, the 20-mile stretch of the Rock Islands presents a seemingly benevolent universe: short crossings between lush rock piles, glassy waters, and campsites on deserted island beaches (most outfitted with rustic shelters and outhouses). There is, however, the small issue of rodents. Nearly every islet hosts a fearless bevy of
rats—or smooth-tailed Palauan squirrels, as locals like to euphemize—a flourishing legacy of centuries-old shipwrecks. Don't be tempted to sleep in the open air, as I did my first night, only to awaken to little paws scampering through my hair, whiskered noses sniffing peckishly at my fingers—but nothing a few primal shrieks couldn't scare
away. Seal yourself into a tent and string up food bags on ratproof vertical lines.
Most tourists buzz through these islands on dive boats at 30 miles per hour, paying little attention to the wildlife above the waterline. But glide out on a sea kayak and your experience instantly deepens. Glittering emerald crabs scuttle and clatter in the pinkish shade of the islands' overhanging shorelines, eroded by acidic limestone runoff. Terns,
kingfishers, and shearwaters swoop low overhead, squawking like crazy. Tiny spotted eagle rays hunt in the bright turquoise shallows. Identically overgrown with a tangle of vines, ferns, and poison sap trees, the islands meld together only to separate upon approach. It's like navigating a maze, so you have to have a plan.
 |
| David Hall |
The skittish pink anemonefish
|
Sam's Tours manager Dermot Keane and marine biologist Ethan Daniels of Planet Blue Kayak Tours, the kayaking arm of Sam's, helped us map routes and locate snorkel spots and campsites. (Some islands are off-limits to tourists.) If you lack the time or experience to set out solo or would like to get oriented first, book a day trip. Before we took off on
our own excursion, Daniels led us on an eight-hour foray that was not for the lazy or squeamish. We scrambled around collapsed cave systems, snorkeled through a narrow tunnel inhabited by juvenile whitetip sharks, hurled ourselves off a 35-foot cliff, and explored eerily untouched World War II hideouts, including one where two skeletons had been excavated
from a sandy burial by land crabs.
Once we got our sea legs, we set out and explored tranquil, rarely visited marine lakes—landlocked lagoons refreshed by porous limestone and tunnels—napped on powder-soft beaches, and snorkeled over reef-grazing schools of fish so vast they brought to mind visions of buffalo herds darkening the prairie. The most sublime spot was Ngemelis, a
coconut palm—fringed island with white-sand beaches at the southern end of the Rock Islands. It's only a short swim or paddle from Palau's best snorkeling—including Jacques Cousteau's Palauan favorite, the 1,000-foot Big Dropoff. "Owned" by the chief of Koror, Ngemelis could easily command tens of thousands of dollars a day. Instead, the chief,
being a kind soul, grants free camping permits to those in the know (Metallica drummer Lars Ulrich recently threw his wedding party there), and the use of two open-air beach "lodges" separated by a shallow lagoon at high tide.
At the end of an idyllic week at Ngemelis, I took a long walk along the narrow strip of beach, basking in denial for as long as possible. Just then, offshore, I noticed a three-inch, black-tipped dorsal fin cutting through the transparent water beside me. I was touched. An emissary from the Palauan Farewell Committee had come to say good-bye.
Susan Enfield, a former Outside editor and a frequent contributor, lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
|
