Cook Islands are not usually the first islands to come to mind when a traveller is thinking about the country.
But on the island of St Mary, in the central Pacific, we find the most amazing place you’ll find anywhere: a lonely island.
A tiny, barren rock in the middle of the ocean.
The only thing that’s there is a sea.
On a Sunday morning last year, the islanders of St. Mary were busy washing dishes, sweeping floors, working the grill.
The day was busy.
But it wasn’t for the lack of doing.
They were all busy, because they were all part of the same family.
It was the first time we’d ever been here.
We’d just arrived from a two-week trip that had been planned for this coming Sunday, which meant we were staying overnight and not doing anything.
We were on St. Martins beach for a visit, so we were all set to go.
The beach is not very far from St. Peter, the St. Martin island where we had spent our summer vacation.
There are no houses on the St Martin island, and the island is almost completely covered with coconut palm and coconut trees, which, in fact, are quite rare on St Martins beaches.
We had just arrived and it was a beautiful day.
As we were driving by, a man from the island came up to us and asked us if we wanted to go for a walk, and he asked if we had a car.
The man who came up was an Englishman who called himself Jack.
He was in his 50s.
He said he had seen us in the supermarket a few days before.
We went to the supermarket, and Jack said he saw a man with a cane walking down the road, and when we saw him we were surprised.
We walked down to the beach, and I told him we’d just come to the island, which was pretty big, and that he was right.
We got out of the car, and we saw this small little house on the beach.
It had no windows.
It’s the only house on St Martin, and no one knew what it was, and nobody knew what to do with it.
I asked him what was wrong with it, and why was it there, and what kind of island it was.
He explained to me that the man who lived in it had just been shot, and his son had been kidnapped and taken to the village, and so he had just come down to St. Margaret’s beach.
So we went out to the other side of the island to look at the house, and all I saw were the trees and the coconut palms and the houses.
Jack said that this house was where his father had lived when he was kidnapped.
I don’t know how to describe it, but I’m thinking it’s a little bit like the house in the jungle.
We took some photos and then we walked back to the car and got ready to drive back to St Martens.
I remember sitting in the back seat and thinking, It’s nice to be here, to have a nice beach to see.
We didn’t drive back that day, but we were there again the next day, driving the same route.
When we arrived at the village we were greeted by people from the local village, who welcomed us.
It turned out that the house was just a few houses down from the one Jack had seen the day before.
The people of the village welcomed us as brothers and sisters.
And I’m so happy that this is where I grew up.
We visited the island again the following week, when the islander from St Mary came back.
He had been out of town the week before, and had never been back.
We stayed for a few more days, visiting the islands surrounding the island and visiting the man from St Martains house.
Then, on the afternoon of the third day, we were out in the sun, and a large crowd had gathered around a small boat with three other men.
The two men were wearing white clothes, but they looked more like men in a military uniform.
We drove the boat to a small clearing, where the three men took turns to swim in the water and chat with the crowd.
We saw a little girl who looked to be in her teens and 20s, wearing a black dress with a black blouse.
She had her hair braided in a bun, and she had a little black dress on her.
I think she looked like a model, because her hair was braided up.
She said she had been in the island for about five years, and her father had been killed in a car crash when she was about five.
She also said that her mother had been raped by a man while she was a little child.
And she had lived on St Mary Island for five years and her mother was now dead.
They had been separated for a long time. The