Why Palmerston is resisting an airstrip and other conveniences

When our 38-foot sloop approached Palmerston at dawn one September morning, more than 300 kilometres from the nearest speck of land, we’d been staring down squalls on the South Pacific for five days and nights. We hadn’t seen a soul since departing from Bora Bora 1300km ago, but we knew we were close when we noticed the phrase “Kiss My Arse Rock” on the chart plotter.

When our 38-foot sloop approached Palmerston at dawn one September morning, more than 300 kilometres from the nearest speck of land, we’d been staring down squalls on the South Pacific for five days and nights. We hadn’t seen a soul since departing from Bora Bora 1300km ago, but we knew we were close when we noticed the phrase “Kiss My Arse Rock” on the chart plotter.