Call of the Gooneys by Richard Newton

On an atoll in the Pacific, a five-hour flight from civilisation, I was conversing with the doctor to whom I would entrust my life should misfortune strike. He was stocky and middle-aged, wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt and a ponytail. His introductory small talk involved detailing the consequences of eating fish from the lagoon. He made it sound more like an invitation than a warning.

"The fish are infected with ciguatera, a neurotoxin with a neat side effect in humans: it reverses your body's response to temperature. For instance, ice cream'd taste like it's burning your tongue. A fire would make you shiver. I've not had a case yet, but it'd be kinda interesting."

Later, when I went fishing, I negated any fishy health problems by catching an albatross.

I had been casting for giant trevally, but the massive bird flew into my line and snagged. Fortunately (not to mention embarrassingly), my fishing companion was Rob Shallenberger, the local honcho of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, the administrators of Midway Atoll since the U.S. Navy closed its base here in 1997. Together we wound the bird in. While I held its formidable beak closed with a firm grip, Rob laboured to cut the tangled line.

After 10 minutes of sweaty work, we released it and it clacked its bill indignantly. Then, unfurling its seven-foot wingspan, it launched into a waddling take-off run and lifted gracefully onto the sea breeze. The sky was busy with wheeling birds. The land, too, was dense with them. During the breeding season, from October to July, more than 400,000 Laysan albatrosses (or gooneys) descend on Midway.

They are not alone. This tiny atoll, which consists of a six-mile-wide lagoon fringed by two main islands with a combined area of two and a half square miles, hosts fifteen other seabird species, including the black-footed albatross, the wedge-tailed shearwater, the red-footed booby, the great frigatebird and the nocturnal bonin petrel. At the height of the season, more than 2 million birds jostle for space.

During my visit, human inhabitants numbered 130. A handful of American administrative staff (including the doctor) were supported by Sri Lankans, Filipinos and Thais, who maintained the place and were responsible for cooking up spicy fare in the communal canteen. Tourism was limited to 100 visitors at any one time, flying in from Honolulu.

The flight was a journey through geological time. The 1600-mile-long Hawaiian chain is essentially an island production line. Over the past 44 million years, an undersea magma hotspot has given rise to a succession of volcanic islands. Each new island is inexorably conveyed north-westward on the Pacific plate, gradually eroding. Midway, at the far end of the chain, is one of the oldest. The islets and reefs encircling the atoll's lagoon are the last vestiges of an ancient caldera.

Flights were timed to touch down after nightfall to minimise the risk of a bird strike. When the naval air base was active, the rate of aircraft collisions with the gooneys per take-off or landing was one in ten.

I arrived on a warm spring night. The instant I stepped off the 19-seat Gulfstream turboprop, the sound and scent of the gooneys engulfed me. On the short bus ride to my lodgings - a comfortable room in the converted officer's barracks - I saw them crowded on both sides of the road; many were noisily engaged in elaborate courtship dances. The din continued throughout the night. Several pairs were at it immediately outside my ground-floor window.

In daylight, Midway looked like paradise. I took breakfast at the Clipper House, a smart restaurant overlooking a shimmering width of white beach and the azure lagoon beyond. Albatrosses were already aloft, with occasional tropicbirds weaving between them. Along the beach, a highly endangered Hawaiian monk seal had hauled itself ashore; Midway hosts a vital population of about 45.

Gazing inland, much of the view was obscured by tall ironwood trees. In this respect, the atoll has been transformed beyond recognition since it was first sighted, by the American ship Gambia, in 1859. A permanent settlement was not established on these hitherto uninhabited islands until 1903, when the Commercial Pacific Cable Company set up an outpost to maintain their undersea telegraph cable. The four company houses still stand and the original cable lies in the lagoon: one of the very first strands of the world-wide web.

During the 1930s, Midway became an overnight stop for the fabled Pan American China Clipper flying boats between San Francisco and the Orient (the atoll's name derives from its position approximately midway between America's west coast and Japan). By then the atoll's two desert islands had been planted with grass and ironwoods on soil imported from Guam.

Unfortunately, along with the soil came voracious termites, and the wooden Pan Am hotel, nicknamed the Gooneyville Lodge, was ultimately eaten to sawdust. A hotel-shaped depression on a manicured lawn is all that remains.

The halcyon clipper era ended with the onset of WWII. The atoll was bombarded by warships on the same day that Pearl Harbor was attacked. Six months later the Japanese launched a full-scale assault, aiming to use Midway as the launch pad for a decisive invasion of Hawaii. The ensuing naval battle resulted in the loss of four Japanese carriers and 256 planes. American victory, achieved against the odds, proved to be the turning point of the war in the Pacific.

Rusty gun emplacements still remain from the battle, and several Japanese Zeros lie within the lagoon, providing a major attraction for divers. Off the coast, but in 17,000 feet of water (illustrating the severe drop-off around the atoll), the wreck of the US carrier Yorktown symbolises the cost of the American triumph.

After the war, Midway remained one of America's military linchpins, and was kept firmly off limits to visitors. That changed during the Clinton administration, when the decision was taken to close the base. A core of naval buildings (the canteen, bar, bowling alley, shop, aircraft hangars and residential quarters) was retained, but much of the base was dismantled. Subsequently the atoll, which is a U.S. Overseas Territory, was managed primarily for wildlife, though small-scale tourism was actively encouraged.

At the time I arrived, all visitors were required to attend a briefing on their first morning to learn the do's and don'ts of life in this unique place. The guidelines included a mandatory 100-foot exclusion zone around the monk seals (we were encouraged to use the 'rule of thumb' - at the appropriate distance, our thumbs held horizontally should obscure a basking seal).

No such restrictions applied when approaching the birds, which were remarkably unfazed by people and often had to be stepped over, though it was best to carefully skirt the black-footed albatrosses, which were consistently irascible.

For five idyllic days I signed up for several free Fish and Wildlife-run tours focusing on history and wildlife, and spent the rest of the daylight hours ambling around Sand Island. Eastern Island, a short distance away by naval landing craft, is inhabited only by wildlife and could only be visited in the company of a guide.

During my wanderings, the trees provided welcome shade, but for the albatrosses they had been a disaster. These unwieldy birds are not natural forest dwellers. I saw several dead birds dangling tragically from the upper branches, and on one walk along a forest path I had to dive for cover as a gooney struggled for altitude after taking off towards me. Its eyes visibly widened as the distance between us closed. That same day, another gooney took off straight into the plastic windscreen of a golf buggy that was transporting a group of visiting pensioners. The driver sustained cuts and bruises. Fortunately, the bird only ruffled a few of its feathers.

It is not just the trees that pose a hazard. The grass, too, would be a problem if left uncut - parents would struggle to find their chicks. With incredible skill, the Asian gardeners pirouetted their sit-on lawnmowers around the nests, keeping the turf closely cropped.

Restoring Midway to its original sand and scrub state would be a costly endeavour, and attempts at habitat restoration have been modest: a few strips of forest felled here and there; the replanting of native plant species.

When tourism was first mooted, a golf course was proposed to make use of the vast grassy areas during the summer months when the albatrosses aren't in residence. A feasibility study was initiated and it produced an unexpected result.

"We discovered that there'd be a direct impact on the bonin petrels, which nest underground," related James Aliberti, one of the resident Fish and Wildlife guides. "While we were playing experimental rounds we accidentally lost a few golf balls down their burrows. Turns out a golf ball's more comfortable to sit on than an egg, and the petrels started kicking their own eggs out of the nest and adopting the stray balls. That wasn't going to help petrel conservation, so the golf plan was scrapped."

Other environmental problems proved harder to combat. Heidi Auman came to Midway to research the effects of pollution on seabirds. "This was going to be our control site. We expected to find a pristine colony unaffected by manmade contaminants. But when we examined dead birds we found all kinds of trash they'd fished from the open ocean: unbroken lightbulbs, hypodermic needles, dishwashing gloves, and lots and lots of plastic cigarette lighters - sometimes six per bird."

The beaches of Midway are also affected by human detritus. On a brief seaside stroll I found plastic toys and yet more lighters, carried here on the prevailing currents from the Far East.

A few weeks before my visit the wreckage of the trimaran Nai'a had washed up. The boat had capsized 300 miles off Tokyo during an attempt at the fastest solo crossing of the Pacific. It took 18 months for the remnants to reach Midway. Its skipper, Michael Reppy, had been safely rescued and came to Midway to say goodbye to his craft and to take the compass as a souvenir of its unaccompanied voyage.

Sand Island is intersected by two active runways, the longest of which is capable of taking a 747 (it is an emergency option for commercial flights between Hawaii and the Far East). One afternoon as I was crossing one of the runways I noticed with alarm that a bird considerably larger than an albatross was heading my way.

I scarpered and watched as an aircraft carrying the US Marine Corps Band touched down. The marines were stopping off for R&R after a tour of South East Asia and the Middle East. They gave an impromptu (and fairly raucous) concert in the bar that night.

Over the hubbub, I conversed with Ski, the pilot, who described his struggle to dodge the albatrosses while bringing the plane in to land. "It was pretty hairy. The tower told us that the gooneys glide on the thermals, so we tried to fly above the first group and under the second as we approached the threshold. About a mile out we took a hit from a stray bird on one of the four props. But we got down safe in the end."

The party raged into the early hours. Ski eventually passed out with his head on the table. The following morning, the barman reported that Midway had run out of Budweiser.

Walking off my hangover, I stumbled upon an unsettling little graveyard in a patch of secluded woodland. It was the exclusive resting place of no fewer than five Midway doctors. One of them, according to legend, died while attempting to remove his own appendix. My resolve to stay healthy intensified. I continued to avoid the fish.

I ate most of my meals in the communal canteen, and quickly got to know almost everyone. Ostensibly, the Midway philosophy was that the moment you arrived you were a local. However, astute visitors could detect an awkward undercurrent. While US Fish and Wildlife looked after the atoll and its wildlife, a private company, the Midway Phoenix Corporation, was responsible for the day-to-day running and the logistics of bringing in planeloads of tourists. The relationship between the two sides was becoming fractious, and in March 2002 it broke down entirely.

'I wouldn't say we were the Hatfields and McCoys, but we were operating under two different philosophies and living in two different worlds,' said Bob Tracey, vice president of Midway Phoenix. "Fish and Wildlife are self-appointed stewards of nature, but if they had to look at a profit and loss statement, as we do, they would have to be flexible."

In particular, Fish and Wildlife were reluctant to allow cruise ships to visit. With tourist numbers falling short of expectations, Midway Phoenix decided to cut its $15 million losses and get out.

All of that was yet to come as I prepared to leave before dawn on my final morning. The albatrosses were also preparing to leave, priming their wings for the epic, lonely journeys that would take them thousands of miles across the open ocean. The instinctive lure of this tiny jewel of land would unerringly bring them back. For many humans, bewitched by this remarkable place, the pull is just as strong.

For now, the atoll is severed from the outside world. But moves are afoot to resurrect tourism in the near future. And then wanderers like me will be able to answer the insistent, unshakeable urge to return to Midway.