On closer inspection, the 'fluff' turns out to be a mat of spines so dense, not even a suicidal desert rat would attempt an attack on its sweet tasting flesh. We camp in the back of another deep bay. There is no one around, but a large lean-to made from palm leaves provides welcome shade from the afternoon sun. At night the air is cold and we huddle close to a driftwood fire, grateful for our down sleeping bags. Fresh water is non-existent on the island, and what we bring is destined for internal use only.
Washing is done in the sea.
Some 500 meters off the northern cape, these two purple outcrops look like they've been put together for a movie set, and not particularly well put together either. Both offer 20 meter high cliffs, where every level spot hosts a generous smear of white bird poop. The barren east coast. Birds are everywhere too, flying, diving, feeding, screaming. The western islet is about a hundred paces long.