The Bali Hai Boys had the big idea—overwater bungalows. Now one lagoon alone has 398 of them. Time for Ron Hall, avid historian of the Polynesian version of paradise, to return and take a new tally of his favorite islands, from the still unmolested to the lavishly appointed

Now, a decade later, I have retraced my steps through the South Seas to see what has happened in the meantime. Again there is a shortage of visitors, though this time for more apocalyptic reasons than before, and again the charm and simplicity of the islands have survived largely intact. But be warned: Things in the South Pacific are not always quite as innocent as they seem, as we shall soon find out.

My first port of call was the obscure volcanic island of Ofu, one of a small group known collectively as the Manu'a Islands, which, in turn, are part of American Samoa. Of all the places I had visited on my earlier journey, this is the one that had seemed most vulnerable to unsympathetic development. Yet here it was, still in mint condition, exactly as I had left it ten years ago.

Ofu's beach is the big attraction, a beach so wild and so dramatic and yet so beautiful and benign as to place it firmly on my list of the best in the world. The sand, as white as sand can be, curves in a two-mile crescent along the southern coast of the island. Its texture is as soft and powdery as talcum, but it manages to escape the manicured, fussed-over feel of a municipal beach. Coconut husks stay where they fall to germinate in their own time without human assistance.

Behind the sand is a fringe of tall palms and then a swathe of dense jungle, patrolled from on high by white-necked flying foxes, the local breed of fruit bat. The jungle conceals a rough jeep track, useful for getting quickly between favorite stretches of beach. The conical shape of an extinct volcano adds a flourish to the end of the bay, while the whole scene is backed by a sheer volcanic wall rising abruptly from the sea to more than a thousand feet.

Unusually for a lagoon beach, the water is deep enough for swimming at low tide, without endangering the coral gardens just a little way offshore. The authorities at the National Park of American Samoa have identified at least sixty-four species of coral in Ofu's protected zone, all in an unusually pristine state.

Even more unusual is the fact that along the entire length of the beach there is no sign of human habitation. The superstitious Samoans are convinced that the southern side of the island is occupied by aitu (evil spirits) and so keep well away. Even tourists are rarely seen. During my visit I was the only foreigner on the island, and somewhat embarrassed at being the sole beneficiary of so much beauty.

Arriving by plane on Ofu is an entertainment in itself. The island's main "hotel," Vaoto Lodge, is a collection of half a dozen wooden shacks with basic human comforts. It is situated immediately beside the landing strip so that incoming planes—two Twin Otters a day from Pago Pago (pronounced pang-go pang-go)—can taxi right up to it before dropping off cargo and luggage. The lodge doubles as the departure lounge, where youngsters stop by for a Coke. The same woman who checked your ticket is also the baggage handler, expertly loading suitcases onto the plane. The new breed of discount, no-frills airlines would have much to learn here. If you have only two aircraft (the entire fleet of Samoa Air), you need ingenuity to survive.