Kiritimati is a coral atoll in Kiribati with more dry land than any other atoll on Earth: seven-tenths of the country sits in this one ring around a lagoon. It also keeps a date that geography says it should not. It lies east of the 180th meridian, but its clocks run fourteen hours ahead of Greenwich: in 1995 Kiribati pushed the date line east so its far islands would stop working a day behind the capital. The new day reaches you here before it reaches anywhere else people live. At low water the lagoon drains into a hard sand plain you can walk for hours, casting to bonefish that tail in inches of water and to giant trevally hunting the reef edge. That runs on its own clock too: a slow tide lets you wade all morning, a big one pushes the fish off the sand fast.
The interior is a plantation that was never finished. A French priest put in half a million coconut palms in 1917, nobody harvested them all, and they have gone half-wild into grass flats studded with trunks that run for kilometres between lagoon and ocean. Eighteen seabird species breed here. The islets in the lagoon are closed without a permit and a guide, and that is why frigatebirds, tropicbirds and boobies still nest on them almost within arm's reach; you hear the colony before the boat touches sand. From September, plovers, curlews and tattlers arrive from Alaska and work the salt flats until April. Britain fired hydrogen bombs here in 1957 and 1958, and the United States twenty-two more in 1962. Nobody was evacuated for any of them; the men on the ground were told to sit facing away, cover their eyes and wait for the flash. Sooty terns breed twice a year here, because the equator gives them no seasons to keep time by. The colony was once about seven million birds. One El Niño, in 1982, emptied it, and it has come back only in the hundreds of thousands.