I love to travel. I also love checking things off a list.
After visiting all seven continents in 2017, I needed a new goal. I landed on this: visit 100 countries before I die. Sometimes I plan trips around places I haven’t been. Other times I take advantage of being nearby and add something on.
Papua New Guinea (PNG) was the latter.
Since I was already flying all the way to Australia for my sister’s wedding, it felt logical to tack on a few nearby countries. That’s how we ended up in Fiji before Australia — and how I found myself booking three days in PNG at the end of my time in Oceania.
I had zero expectations.
Which is probably why it became one of the highlights.
Day 0 — Port Moresby
I chose to stay in Rabaul because it was a short flight from Port Moresby (POM), described as relatively safe, and offered enough activities to fill a few days. Worst case, I figured I’d relax at the resort and maybe snorkel.
Getting there, however, was another story.
I landed in POM without issue, cleared immigration, re-checked my bag, and walked to the domestic terminal. Minutes before boarding, our flight was cancelled for “operational reasons.”
The terminal dissolved into chaos. There were no lines, just a crowd pressed against a customer service window. I pushed my way forward and eventually learned I’d be rebooked on the next flight—but I needed to arrange my own hotel.
I had intentionally avoided staying in Port Moresby after hearing safety concerns. Now I had no SIM card, no Wi-Fi, and no plan.
After borrowing a stranger’s phone and texting Chris to book a hotel with a shuttle, I fought my way back to the desk so they could call for pickup. While waiting, I met a missionary family who’d been living on one of the islands for years. Their flight had also been cancelled. The mom casually mentioned that afternoon delays were common. Good to know.
Three hours passed between cancellation and finally getting to the hotel.
It was…not great. Old. A little dirty. Small cockroaches in the bathroom. Tap water had to be boiled even to brush my teeth. I felt a full meltdown brewing after the long day, but I kept it together. Showered. Ate a surprisingly decent dinner in the restaurant. Slept.
The next morning, my flight was delayed again—but it did leave. And I finally made it to Rabaul.
Day 1—Dolphins & Tuna
I shared the shuttle to the Rapopo Plantation Resort with a woman—Anna—I’d briefly met during the airport chaos.
My room overlooked the pool and out toward the Bismarck Sea. Immediately better. I booked a dolphin swim for the next morning and tentatively planned a harbor cruise. Otherwise, no agenda.
The Dolphin Net
Turns out Anna had also signed up for the dolphin swim.
We met Leonard at the dive shop, grabbed snorkels and fins, and headed out in a small boat. First stop was the dolphins’ feeding ground. Nothing. We continued another 30 minutes toward their “home.”
Then we saw them.
Small pods appeared in the distance, then closer—swimming in the wake, leaping out of the water. Because the boat was so low to the water, we could lean over the bow and watch them glide just below us.
Then Leonard pulled out a long metal bar and hooked wide nets across the front of the boat. The idea was simple: lie face down in the net and get pulled along slowly. It felt slightly insane. And completely amazing.
As the boat moved, the net lifted and I was skimming just under the water. Dolphins darted in and out of the wake. I could hear their clicks and chirps. At one point I spotted a baby swimming close to its mother. I stretched my arm out hoping to touch one but they were just out of my grasp.
We stayed in the water about 30 minutes. It was easily one of the coolest wildlife experiences I’ve ever had—close, natural, and not staged.
The Invitation
Back at the resort, while we were collecting our things from the dive shop, two guys who’d been swimming when we docked invited us to join them for a day of fishing and snorkeling.
It felt like one of those moments you either say yes to or regret later.
Mark and Tom were in PNG for work. They were clearly happy to be off duty and on the water.
After about an hour of organizing food, drinks, and gear, the four of us climbed back into the boat.
Yellowfin
We first chased a cluster of birds circling over a patch of ocean. Tom dropped a line in. Nothing.
We moved on toward the Duke of York Islands, stopping briefly at a small village where we were invited to sit with an elder and his family and drink fresh coconut water. The day felt easy. Unstructured.
As we motored away from the island, I spotted it—a massive gathering of birds, far bigger than the first.
I pointed. The guys immediately shifted into action.
“Yellowfin.”
As we got closer, the water was alive. Birds dove straight into the surface. Fish churned below. It looked like the ocean was boiling.
Tom readied his rod and dropped the line in. Within minutes: a bite.
What followed was 30 minutes of yelling, cheering, and pure adrenaline. He let the line out. Reeled it in. Let it run again. The rod arched dramatically as the fish fought back.
Man versus fish.
Eventually, the silver body broke the surface. Leonard leaned over the side and grabbed it by the tail while shouting for Tom to keep reeling. Finally, the tuna flopped onto the deck.
We completely lost it. High fives. Shouting. Laughing like we’d just won a championship.
The tuna, however, kept thrashing. Reality set in quickly. We needed to end it. The only tool onboard was a dinner knife—not ideal for a 25-kilo fish. It wasn’t pretty, and the celebration quieted a bit as we let Mark handle what had to be done.
Sunset & Fish Four Ways
Before heading back, we snorkeled near Pigeon Island while Leonard cleaned the fish. The coral wasn’t particularly vibrant, but swimming out to the drop-off and staring into the blue abyss was surreal.
Back at the resort, Tom kept a portion of the tuna and asked Leonard to distribute the rest to his village and the hotel staff. Generous and thoughtful.
At dinner, we asked the kitchen to prepare our share four ways: crudo, grilled, stir-fried, and in sauce. We assumed we’d get four shared plates.
Instead, we each got four full dishes.
It was absurd. And delicious. The crudo—pure, melt-in-your-mouth tuna—was my favorite.
We sat on the deck overlooking the water as the sun set, replaying the day. It was spontaneous, chaotic, and completely unplanned.
Exactly the kind of day you can’t design.
Day 2 — Volcanoes, History & Perspective
The next morning I ran into Mark and Tom and we said our goodbyes one last time. Funny how quickly 24 hours can turn strangers into people you’ll always associate with a place.
Then I headed out for a harbor cruise with Leonard, and three other guests.
Our first stop was cruising past Mount Tavurvur. I could see the trail snaking up toward the rim. I had briefly considered hiking it, but looking at it from the water felt sufficient. The volcano last erupted in 1994, devastating much of old Rabaul and forcing the provincial capital to relocate to nearby Kokopo—where I was staying.
As we entered the harbor, I noticed so many fishing trawlers.
Leonard explained that through agreements with China, large commercial vessels operate in these waters, hauling in massive quantities of tuna. We watched as a giant net heavy with fish was lifted onto a mother ship. Nearby, small wooden outriggers clustered alongside, locals bartering bananas and other goods for fish.
It was hard to ignore the contrast.
People who have lived off these waters for generations now negotiating with industrial fleets in order to access their own resource. Watching it from our small boat, the imbalance felt stark. Yesterday we had been cheering over a single tuna. Here were tons of them being hauled up at once.
The mood shifted.
We finished the morning visiting a couple of Japanese tunnels carved into the hills during World War II—another layer of history embedded in this small harbor.
When I returned to the resort, Anna texted to see if I wanted to visit the local market with her again. We met for lunch and took the shuttle into town.
The market itself wasn’t dramatically different from others I’ve visited—sections for produce, meat, dry goods—but it felt deeply local. What stood out most was watching Anna interact with the vendors. Within minutes she seemed to know everyone. She asked questions, laughed easily, listened. The women responded to her warmth immediately. It was fun just observing.
I ended up buying a long strand of shell money that I’m hoping to frame—a tangible reminder of a place I hadn’t expected to feel connected to.
That evening we had dinner with another hotel guest, an Aussie who married a local woman and now lives in Port Moresby. The conversation flowed easily—about travel, about the environment, about life in PNG. It felt less like tourists passing through and more like being folded, briefly, into someone else’s world.
The day had a different energy than the one before. Less adrenaline. More context.
And I was grateful for both.
I keep a list because I love the structure of it. But trips like this remind me that the magic isn’t in the counting—it’s in what happens once you arrive.
This one began with a cancelled flight, a sketchy hotel, and a near meltdown in Port Moresby. It continued with dolphins skimming beneath me, a yellowfin tuna that didn’t give in easily, strangers who felt like old friends, and a sobering glimpse of how global forces ripple into small developing countries.
The itinerary was planned. The best parts weren’t.
PNG may have started as a checkbox. It ended up being so much more than a stamp in my passport.