Australia: Cairns Experience: Frankland Islands, Fitzroy Island,
- Stephanie Fluger
- Apr 5
- 5 min read
Sydney was the soft landing. Cairns was the reason we came.
There's a shift that happens when you leave a city and land somewhere that exists entirely because of what's in the water. Cairns isn't trying to be cosmopolitan. It's a gateway town — warm, tropical, and completely oriented around the reef. The moment we stepped off the plane the air felt different. Heavier. Greener. Like the whole atmosphere was reminding you that you were somewhere genuinely wild.
We had one domestic flight between Sydney and Cairns. Short, easy, no drama. And then we got to the Airbnb.
The Airbnb That Made Me Lose My Mind (In the Best Way)
I don't gush easily. Ask anyone.
But this place.
You know that moment in Wicked when Glinda arrives in her bubble and says "No way! I'm obsessulated!"? That was me walking through the door. It was perfect in every way that matters for a family like ours — space, calm, a kitchen, room for everyone to decompress in their own corner. After the pace of Sydney, this felt like exhaling.
Having a kitchen on this trip was non-negotiable. My son has ARFID. We can't just walk into any restaurant and assume there's something he'll eat. Being able to make breakfast every morning — something familiar, something safe — set the tone for every single day. It's not glamorous. It's just how we travel.
Franklin Island
First reef day. We were picked up by shuttle — first ones on, exactly how I like it. First on means fewer bodies, less noise, less stimulation before the day has even started. By the time everyone else loads up, my son is already settled.
Our guide Riley was wonderful from the moment she met the kids. Warm, engaged, immediately connecting with both of them. That matters more than people realize — when a guide sees your child as a person rather than a potential problem, the whole day shifts.
Now. Let's talk about stinger suits.
April in Cairns is the tail end of jellyfish season. Which means before you get anywhere near the water, you're getting into a full stinger suit. Head to toe lycra. My son had worn a wetsuit before through surfing, so the sensory experience wasn't new — he was fine. My daughter? Not thrilled. But they both got in them.
I called them my little blue oompa loompas. My son didn't care. My daughter was offended.
The water at Frankland was murky — a cyclone had passed through two weeks prior and the visibility hadn't fully recovered. Not the crystal clear blue we'd pictured. But we snorkeled the coral for a good hour with our full-face kids' masks, and it was genuinely beautiful even through the haze.
My husband did his own snorkel tour with the guided group. My son and I snorkeled together for a while before he spotted the paddle boards on the beach.
That's when things got interesting.
Picture this: my son sitting in front of me, me sitting behind him, one paddle, rain coming down, wind pushing us further out into the ocean with every stroke.
I had to lift the paddle over his head on each side. I hit him in the head a solid ten times. He thought it was hilarious. I was less amused.
But here's the thing — I knew we were okay. The guides could see us. We had life jackets. If it became a real situation, someone would have come. So instead of panicking, I made it an adventure. Kept my voice calm, kept it light, and we paddled our way back in.
If I had freaked out, he would have freaked out. That's just how it works.
We survived. We laughed about it. It became a story.
That's the whole thing right there.
Meanwhile my daughter was on the beach with Riley, building an entire sand fort. She was not needed by me at all. Riley had it completely handled. I was not needed either, apparently.
Flying Foxes at Dusk
Every evening in Cairns, as the sun started to drop, the flying foxes woke up.
Thousands of them. Pouring out of the trees in waves, filling the sky, wheeling overhead in this massive living cloud. It is one of those things that sounds impressive on paper and then completely stops you in your tracks when you actually see it.
My kids had both watched enough Wild Kratts and Bluey to know exactly what flying foxes were before we ever got there. That pre-trip knowledge — the thing that feels like just TV time — became the bridge between a new experience and something familiar. My son wasn't encountering an unknown creature. He was meeting something he already understood.
We never got tired of watching them. Not once the entire trip.
Fitzroy Island
Fitzroy was a different kind of reef day. A scheduled ferry to an island with one resort, a nature walk, and a private snorkeling tour with a marine biologist — just our family of four plus our guide.
The weather stayed overcast. We did a walk through the trees to a beach on the windward side of the island, realized immediately the wind was ferocious, let the kids play for fifteen minutes, and retreated back. Then came the rushing — getting gear on, getting to our tour on time — and I hate rushing. It does something to my nervous system that I can't fully explain. Either way we made it.
Our guide was a marine biologist from Italy. Patient, knowledgeable, maybe not quite as warm as Riley the day before — but she knew her stuff. We snorkeled Shark Fin Bay, named for a rock formation that looks exactly like what you'd imagine. The water was rough and murky, the fish were sparse, but the coral was stunning and she pointed out every variety.
When our tour ended we lined up for the ferry back to Cairns.
First in line. Always first in line — not because we need to be line leaders, but because when you're at the front, my son only feels what's ahead of him. Not the crowd pressing in from behind. It's a small thing. It makes a real difference.
We stood there watching the departure time come and go. I looked at the sky, saw the dark clouds building, and said to my husband — I think they're waiting for the rain.
He told me I was wrong.
The sky opened up and dumped. Five minutes. Then it cleared. Then they started boarding.
I didn't say anything.
My husband had stayed right there in the rain the entire time, holding our spot at the front of the line.
You might look at that and see a dad who just didn't want to move.
What I saw was a dad guarding his son's sensory cup like the protector that he is.
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