At Champagne Beach the water starts to prickle around your ankles as the tide goes out. Gas works its way up through the sand and comes out in strings of small bubbles, which is the trick the beach is named for. It is faint and it comes and goes, and plenty of people stand in it without noticing. The sand is white because the island is. Espiritu Santo is old reef limestone levered out of the sea, former seabed now standing as hills, and rain sinking through that porous rock resurfaces across the island as springs and blue holes. On one reading it is also what is coming up through this beach.
The crescent is smaller than its reputation: barely 350 metres from one forested headland to the other, walked end to end in five minutes. The middle is clean sand with little living in it, so the fish gather at the rocky southern end, where coral heads sit close enough to snorkel from the beach. Nothing is hired on the sand, so you bring your own mask. The bay faces northeast, in the lee of the trades that blow May to October, so the shallows stay flat while the exposed side of Santo chops up. At first light, before the vehicles come up from Luganville, you have the whole beach. The stalls and kitchens set back on the grass belong to the families of Hog Harbour, not to a concession: grilled fish, fruit, a coconut opened while you wait. When a cruise ship anchors off, tenders land and about thirty stalls go up; on the days between, hardly anyone is standing in the bubbles. Foreigners cannot own a square metre of Vanuatu; the constitution of 1980 gave all the land back to its custom owners. So the most photographed beach in the country has landlords rather than rangers, and what they charge at the gate can change from year to year.