Island Frolic, Family Style

Rain forested Dunk Island was just two miles across the impossibly blue water. We’d already flown 22 hours over the Pacific to Australia; two hours more by plane from Sydney to Cairns, on the coast of Queensland; then two more hours south by bumpy minivan to get to a point called Mission Beach on the continent’s eastern shore.

But how were we going to manage this last leg?

The beach ribboning the shore was more like the brochures than the brochures--sand sparkling, waves gently breaking over our toes. The tropical air wrapped us like a terry-cloth robe fresh from the dryer. Our three daughters held their sundresses around their knees and skipped through the water.

The only thing missing was a dock.

Eventually the water taxi responsible for getting us to Dunk Island chugged into view. When it had drifted close to shore, a young man popped out of the rear door and--while my husband, Mark, and I watched incredulously--helped two middle-age women climb down into thigh-high water. As they waded ashore, he tossed their suitcases to another young salt, who dumped them into a cart and hauled them onto dry land.

We looked at each other and scrambled back to our own luggage--sitting under a palm tree by the nondescript office of Dowd’s, the water transport company--to grab our swimsuits.

We changed into swimsuits in Dowd’s bathroom and waded out to the stern, where we climbed aboard via pull-down steps. Shortly thereafter, we were walloping across the waves as our captain tried to beat the daily rainstorm that was bearing down on the coast.

Getting around Australia was turning out to be as interesting as getting to Australia.

Our Big Adventure had been a year in the making. It takes that long to coordinate the redemption of 350,000 frequent-flier miles with the school schedules of three children and the work schedules of two parents. But we were determined to make this trek while our three daughters, Samantha, 14, Stephanie, 11, and Elizabeth, 6, were old enough to take a trip halfway around the world (from our home in suburban Chicago) and yet young enough to enjoy traveling with doddering ancients like their parents.

By the time we neared Dunk Island, we’d already taken full advantage of Australia’s kid-cute activities. In Melbourne, we held koalas, petted kangaroos (and recoiled in horror at the dried ‘roo jerky offered at souvenir shops), visited a historic jail (“haunted” by the ghosts of famous criminals from Australia’s frontier days) and witnessed the daily commute of fairy penguins as they came ashore on Philip Island. In Sydney, we’d seen museum exhibits on aboriginal culture and walked the plank at a replica of Capt. Cook’s ship at the National Maritime Museum.

Sydney, in particular, received the ultimate teen stamp of approval from Sam. “I want to come back,” she declared, glancing at the rest of us. “By myself.”

As we discovered from our baptism-by-immersion at the hands of Dowd’s, you don’t bring a family to Dunk Island Resort in the Great Barrier Reef and expect to stay dry. From our watery introduction to the moment we reluctantly waded ashore back onto the mainland six days later, we were immersed in water and water activities, from reef snorkeling to floating in the three-level cascade pool shaded by mango trees and coconut palms.

Not that there aren’t other things to do on Dunk Island. The resort, which accommodates about 350, has plenty of land-based activities: tennis, golf, movies, live entertainment, horseback riding, eating at the resort’s four restaurants and hiking up a rain forest-tunneled trail to the top of 890-foot Mt. Kootaloo to view miles of cliff-studded Queensland shoreline.

Dunk is one of the chain of Great Barrier Reef islands that stretches 1,000 miles along Australia’s northeast coast. It’s part of a necklace of barely submerged coral cliffs and cays, or islands, some barely an acre big, that supports spectacular sea life. Resorts occupy some of the islands; many are national parks. Some resorts are for singles; some super-exclusive with prices to match; and some are so big that they’re small towns.

We chose Dunk Island on the recommendation of friends who’d lived in Australia and because of its family-friendly reputation. We weren’t disappointed. After we had waded ashore and hiked to the white stucco cottages set among palm trees and spiky palmettos, the cheerful staff welcomed us, engaged our daughters in small talk, and had plenty of patience helping us choose and get to all our activities.

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For $500 per day for all of us, we had access to the entire island and most activities (horseback riding was extra), a kids’ program, breakfast, dinner and two adjoining rooms. (Note to parents of adolescent girls: When you’re changing clothes several times a day after water sports, you need two bathrooms.)

When we were there, Australian kids were in school, so the playmate population was thin. (Peak times at Australian resorts are around Christmas, when summer break starts, and in June, during winter break.) Still, the staff helped Elizabeth, our 6-year-old, make social connections with the other school-age kids in the Kids Korna. The Korna has two locations: one in the main lodge, so that kids can eat dinner with the staff at 5:30, then relax with snacks, low-key crafts and videos. It also has its own walled garden play space, patio and playroom adjacent to the pool.

It didn’t take much to persuade Elizabeth that the Korna was a great idea. She joined the staff at 5:30 one evening for a meal of “bangers”--”The best sausage I ever had in my life,” she reported--followed by a liberal dose of Disney until 9:30, and was hooked. She insisted on going back each evening until we left. That let me and my husband, Mark, linger over dinner and walk along the beach in the moonlight before collecting her for bedtime.

Of course, the potential for romance was limited by the presence of Sam and Steph, who were eager to walk along the beach too. (Dabbling in adult-type activities was one trip theme. Sam and Steph successfully lobbied for their first facials and pro tennis lessons; Sam and Mark took up archery one afternoon and Steph went along with some ladies for a horseback ride featuring tea brewed over an open fire.)

The main event, however, was snorkeling in the Great Barrier Reef. The older girls, I was sure, would take to the water like, well, fish. After all, we’d practiced snorkeling all summer in our local pool. And on a vacation in Vermont, we’d even shot a roll of knees, toes and murky pond plants with a disposable underwater camera. “I hope we get better pictures than this at the reef,” Stephanie had said as she examined her portraits of minnows.

Elizabeth, however, was proof that it is possible to overdose on the Discovery Channel. For months, she had been deeply worried about encountering sharks in the reef. She wanted to pack a metal shark cage, just like she’d seen on TV. Over and over we’d assured her that the people who operated the reef snorkeling tours would hardly jeopardize their own livelihoods by throwing tourists to the local jaws.

On a one-hour catamaran trip to Beaver Cay, which has a particularly good underwater landscape, a chipper crew member showed the assembled 50 novice snorkelers a video of the fish we were likely to encounter. Among them: white-tipped and black-tipped reef sharks. “They’re mainly nocturnal,” she said “but sometimes swim out of their caves near the bottom. Don’t worry--they don’t eat anything bigger than they are. They’re about 6 feet long, so you’re all safe--they’ll just eat your kids.” Ours were the only kids on the boat.

At that particular moment, Elizabeth was watching sea foam spray past the window. She was armed with her new snorkeling gear and fresh from practicing in the resort’s cascade pool. Mark and I glanced at each other and crossed our fingers.

With the catamaran anchored a few hundred yards away from Beaver Cay, a pancake of pulverized coral barely rising above the waves, we climbed down into a long, narrow boat with a deep well lined with windows 5 feet below the water’s surface. Here, the uninitiated can take a half-hour underwater tour of the reef without getting their little toes wet. We glided past spiky staghorn coral, gently mounded tiers of table coral, schools of black and white striped zebra fish, long-armed blue star fish and gently waving pink sea anemones. Eighteen-inch grouper peered curiously in the window, apparently eager for a preview of the fish feeding that ends every cruise.

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After that unintimidating start, we were ready to dive in. We gathered up our snorkeling gear and clambered onto to a little dinghy, which zipped us over to the cay. As we sailed over the surface, the reef below became less dense; when the water was about 5 feet deep, the reef had dwindled to a scattering of stony coral lumps covered with the undulating soft fuzz of live coral. In 2 feet of water, we climbed out and headed to the cay, which rose perhaps 10 feet above sea level.

Mark, Samantha and Stephanie immediately plunged into the bath-warm water. Elizabeth and I, the two least experienced and most apprehensive, waded ashore.

And, as it turned out, stayed there for the next three hours. No amount of coaxing could persuade my hyperventilating child to put more than a toe in the water. “Mom, didn’t you hear that lady on the boat?” she wailed. “She said there are SHARKS in there!” Fortunately, she was content to walk around the cay, collecting smooth fragments of coral and examining lavender scallop shells. (The reef is a World Heritage Site, and you can pick up anything that washes up but you can’t take it with you.)

I ventured out to a depth of 6 feet and, popping up periodically to check on Elizabeth, swam with a variety of sea life: white fish with yellow-tipped fins; blue and green butterfly-like fish; zebra fish; shellfish stretching out muscly fingers; sea stars relaxing on beds of coral. It’s very, very quiet in shallow water in the Barrier Reef. The only sound is your own breathing through the snorkel tube and a soft rushing, like the sound you hear when you listen to a conch shell. I floated along, my face in the water, more relaxed than I usually am in my bathtub at home, watching through half-closed eyes as fish flitted through the stained-glass water. Rocked by the waves, I almost fell asleep.

We reunited on the catamaran in late afternoon to the news that the others HAD encountered a shark. It was more energetic than the guide had predicted, rapidly swimming from its lair at the bottom of a 45-foot coral cliff, circling Stephanie, and then, unimpressed, leisurely moving away.

Though Mark and Stephanie enthusiastically related tales of clams as big as sofas, 6-foot sea cucumbers, and huge schools of glittering fish, nothing could dissuade Elizabeth from the notion that she’d just escaped with her life.

But she got over it. Two days later, we took a schooner sail to a small island about five miles south of Dunk. In a protected cove, Elizabeth screwed up the courage to, if not swim with the sharks, at least paddle with the batfish. It was OK to collect shells at this beach and that was all the incentive she needed to crisscross the cove in search of the perfect specimens. The rest of us took turns accompanying her and venturing out to a small reef, that, while less spectacular than Beaver Cay, had its own share of intriguing sea worms and schools of nearly transparent neon-colored fish.

Sam gathered up the courage to dive 14 feet down to touch the rough shells of giant clams. “What would you do if you got your hand caught in a clam and couldn’t get it out?” she asked, sparking a discussion on potential marine misadventures that lasted all the way back to Dunk.

When it was time to rinse off the masks and snorkels and pack them in a suitcase that wasn’t opened until we were back in the States, we did so with regret. Now when we visit aquarium exhibits of tropical fish, we feel the wash of tropical waves across our backs, the brush of a feathery fin against our legs, and the prickle of sharp coral sand between our toes.

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GUIDEBOOK

A Dunk in Australia

Getting there: To get to Dunk Island, fly to Cairns, Australia, changing planes in Tokyo or Sydney. There’s nonstop service L.A.-Tokyo on United, JAL and Singapore Airlines; nonstop Tokyo-Cairns on JAL or Qantas. There’s nonstop service L.A.-Sydney on Qantas or United; nonstop Sydney-Cairns on Qantas. Round-trip fares L.A.-Cairns begin at about $1,290 including tax.

Then, either rent a car or make reservations on a van that makes a two-hour trip south on Bruce Highway to Mission Beach (about $50 per person, round trip), then water-taxi from Mission Beach to Dunk Island (about $30 per person, round trip). Or fly from Cairns to Dunk on Qantas for about $125 round trip. We made our land and water taxi arrangements through Dunk Island Express (formerly Dowd’s); telephone 011-61-70-688310.

Dunk Island: Dunk Island, Via Townsville, 0410; tel. 011-61-70-688199. Or call the resort’s owner, Australian Resorts, tel. (800) 227-4411. Rates: for a garden room (no beach view), per adult, per night, about $150; children ages 3 to 14 are an additional $15 per day for food. The tariff includes a generous if uninspired breakfast buffet, dinner at any of the resort’s four restaurants, tennis, golf and water sports; horseback riding or use of a motorboat is extra.

Other resorts: Island resorts known for welcoming kids most enthusiastically are:

Great Keppel Island Resort, CMB, Great Keppel Island, Qld 4702; tel. 011-61-79-395044. It is renowned for its beaches, considered a good value.

Brampton Island Resort, Brampton Island, Qld 4740; tel. 011-61-79-514499. At low tide, you can snorkel between Brampton and its twin, Carlisle Island.

Hamilton Island Resort, Private Mail Bag, Hamilton Island Post Office, Qld 4803; tel. 011-61-79-469999. It is the biggest of the Reef resorts, with a wide range of activities and entertainment. It has daily flights direct from Sydney, Cairns and Melbourne.

For more information: Aussie Helpline, (847) 296-4900, fax (847) 635-3718.