Carnett:

Editor’s note: This is the second part of a two-party column.

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My dad and I went to the South Pacific together in 1984.

He’d just retired after 37 years with his employer, and was looking forward to embarking on a trip he’d waited a lifetime to take. Dad was 62; I was 39.

As part of the retirement celebration, Dad and I took five weeks and traveled to Australia, New Zealand and the South Pacific.

My mom was not a traveler and Dad didn’t want to make the journey alone, so he invited me along.

We planned to hit Australia, New Zealand, Fiji, the Cook Islands and Tahiti.

After 20 days in Australia and New Zealand, we boarded a plane in Auckland for Nadi, Fiji.

We were slated to spend four nights there, then a week in the Cooks, and finally several days in Tahiti. The best laid plans …

We checked into a Nadi hotel after a three-hour flight from Auckland. We slept well that first night, and looked forward to the next day’s adventure.

Dad and I booked a one-day excursion to remote Castaway Island, a pristine 174-acre South Pacific speck with white sand beaches, a tropical rainforest, and vibrant coral reefs. The 90-minute boat trip from Nadi was spectacular.

The water inside the reef at Castaway was azure and green, and so clear that boats anchored in the lagoon appeared to be floating in the air.

Dad and I had a wonderful time snorkeling and kayaking, and eating a Fijian feast.

Our Nadi hotel had a pool but not a beachside location. We had no specific plans for the second full day, so dad had an idea.

My father, being slightly tight with a nickel, discovered a “sure-fire” way to get us some beach time … at no cost. We’d hire a cab to take us from our modest hotel to one of the big luxury jobs on the bay.

We’d walk through the lobby and onto the beach. Voila!

I wasn’t confident of success. It sounded too easy.

“Dad, I’m not sure,” I said. “This could be embarrassing.”

Well, Dad was determined to give it a try, so we hailed a cab and beat it to the luxury hotel. We exited the cab, walked through the lobby and out the back door. We spent the day on the beach. It was lovely.

The next day was to be our last on Fiji before leaving for the Cooks, so Dad suggested we spend another several hours on the luxury hotel’s beach. We felt more confident this time.

We’d been on the beach for an hour or so when we noticed a couple of security guards randomly chatting with guests on the beach. I tried to burrow inconspicuously into the sand.

One of the guards came over to us.

“Are you gentlemen guests of the hotel?” he asked politely but firmly.

“Hmm,” my dad pondered.

“Uh. You mean this hotel?” I stammered.

Busted!

“Gentlemen please show me your keys.”

“We were just leaving,” I assured him. I picked up my towel and began folding it.

I felt as though we’d attracted every eye on the beach. We hailed a cab and made it back to our hotel.

That night we were informed that the once-a-week flight to the Cooks wouldn’t be leaving the next morning. In fact, no flight for the foreseeable future would arrive or depart Fiji. Airport firefighters were on strike. The strike lasted nine days.

We spent most of those days wolfing down delicious Indian cuisine and sitting around the pool getting to know every last guest at the hotel.

We met British newlyweds from Bahrain, New Zealanders on holiday and relishing being “stranded” in paradise, a French chef, and a couple from Chile.

When the strike finally ended, we faced waiting several more days in Fiji to catch the once-a-week flight to the Cooks. I made an executive decision.

“Dad, we’re going home … tonight.” I missed my wife, Hedy, and the kids.

Though I’m certain dad would have loved to try to salvage the rest of our trip, he didn’t pitch a fit.

We flew home. I smothered Hedy with kisses at the gate.

That trip with Dad is one of my fondest memories, ever.

JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.