"crumpet. Fifty years later, Michener and the Yanks show up. Then come the travel hacks, who have to justify their fancy rooms and plane fare by telling us this shithole is paradise." He stubbed out his cigarette. "Come to think of it, paradise probably is a shithole. The missionaries sold a pup with that one, too. At least I hope they did, because I'm certainly not headed there." We motored back to our yacht mooring. In twenty-four hours we'd be flying off the island. As we walked out on the pier, our legs still vibrating from five hours in the fun car, I asked Roger if he planned to come with me to Cook's next landfall. "To New Zealand? Good God, that's a pup even the Frogs couldn't sell me." I told him that French explorers barely went to New Zealand, and the first who had gone there ended up being eaten by Maori. Roger laughed. "Frog legs?" --