C’mon, admit it. If you reflect on some of your most exhilarating moments in the wild, you’ll almost certainly come up with at least one bracing skinny-dip or triumphant strip on a summit—moments that left you feeling more alive for facing nature the way you came into the world. The places where you bared it all are also precious, hidden gems you share carefully. Even if most of us never adopt the lifestyle of a true naturist (keep your Speedo on if you like), thinking like one can lead you to some of the few Edenic places left. In what follows, our brazen correspondents put this theory to the test.

Full Monty Maui
SQUINTING IN THE low light of the jungle to recheck our coordinates, I was having doubts. The writing on the back of the envelope was clear, but the directions were sketchy. “Follow main highway past town. Look for black mailbox. Climb through the big gate across the street. Watch out for cows. Follow trail to the Portuguese oven. Go right. It’s dead ahead.” Assuming that the pile of concrete and ashes we had walked past a few minutes before was the oven, we were on the right track. But the dense brush made it hard to tell if we were lost or on the edge of the promised Eden: the mystical “.”

Pushing ahead through the moist leaves and the sweet stench of rotting mangoes, I stumbled into a bright patch of afternoon sun and then out onto a cliff. Below me lay a dark, bottomless pool framed by soaring rock walls lined with vines. At the inland end of the pool lay a massive hardened lava flow that snaked out of the overgrowth and into the still water; at the other was a thin ribbon of black-sand beach that separated the pool from the ocean. The only sound: surf pounding the shore. Then a middle-aged woman popped out of one of the crevices in the lava and waved. Pink sunglasses aside, she was buck nekkid. Waving back, I turned to my wife and said, “Well, this must be the place.”

While we hadn’t come to Maui with the express aim of taking our clothes off, it didn’t take long to realize that nudists seem to have cornered the market on what was left of the island’s unspoiled places. Since hanging out au naturel remains just outlaw enough to require some privacy, these folks have established a small circuit of remote and sparsely attended spots like the Venus Pool—one of our last finds, on Maui’s eastern shore. Directions were available only through the “coconut wireless”—a word-of-mouth network—but plugging into it was easy enough. All it took was a stop at Mana Natural Foods in Paia, the north shore’s best health-food store, where a surfer was more than happy to connect us.

Until recently, I’d never been one to equate discretion with nude sunbathing, but nudity is technically illegal in Hawaii—another reason that nude spots are off Maui’s beaten path. It’s covered by a state statute outlawing “lewd behavior,” designed to protect the sensibilities of native Hawaiians who find public nudity shameful. Such delicacy hasn’t always been the case; the ancient Hawaiians were not nudists in the modern sense, but they were certainly not offended by the human body, and most wore only small garments made of kapa-bark cloth that they removed before swimming, surfing, or fishing. Then the first Calvinist missionaries from New England arrived in the early 1800s and brought with them a host of Puritanical attitudes. These days nudity might not be equated with damnation, but complaints to the police are treated as a priority, and arrests—with convictions entailing as much as 30 days of jail time and fines of up to $1,000—still occur. No worries, though. Starting with the quick tip from the surfer at Paia, we managed to turn a series of casual suggestions into an amazing weeklong tour of secret swimming holes, remote beaches, and hidden waterfalls, several on or near the private property of out-of-the-way resorts, where it’s perfectly legal to skinny-dip.

We began the week by visiting a place that was more like a carnival than a secluded paradise: the legendary Little Beach at . Nestled along one of the last stretches of undeveloped coastline on Maui’s south shore, Little Beach was a hippie hangout in the sixties and seventies that gradually evolved into the island’s best-known public spot for basking au naturel. While the great bodysurfing and beauty of the main strand, known as Big Beach, draws plenty of visitors from the nearby resorts at Waliea, the real attraction—100-yard-long Little Beach—is tucked behind the lava-rock wall at its western flank. (Authorities turn the other cheek to nudity here so long as you stay off Big Beach).

Stretching out among 70 or so sun worshippers, I surveyed a scene that would become familiar over the next few days: small groups sharing picnic lunches and fat joints of pakalolo, elderly men with oversize sunglasses strolling back and forth, sunburned middle-aged couples rubbing lotion into each other’s skin. Many of the guys wore only sandals or baseball caps; the women tended to favor scarves or a gold chain or two. My wife nudged me, pointing to an ultra-groomed, gym-chiseled man in his thirties lying nearby. Trunk twisted, legs in the air, his yogic contortions made it look like he was trying to get a tan where the sun don’t shine. “If anyone thinks that nudism is about sex, they ought to come to a place like this,” I said, watching a large man jiggle down to the surf.

Even so, the beauty and casual vibe of the place inspired us to ask around about other nudie spots, and a woman we met in the parking lot suggested that we check out the Hale Akua Shangri-La, just past Haiku on Maui’s north shore. Set at the end of a dirt road lined by a neat row of swaying wiliwili trees, Shangri-La’s tidy compound of five wooden buildings is so well hidden that I had to ask the gardener to show us to the front door.Ìý

Founded in the mid-eighties as a New Age retreat, this 12-room bed-and-breakfast now offers a comfortable option for those in search of an alternative to the standard high-rise hotel package. What’s more, the Shangri-La’s clothing-optional policy accommodates varying degrees of modesty. “It’s perfect for couples where one person may be more comfortable with nudity than the other, but it seems that most people wind up naked after a few days,” says Madhava D’Addario, the Shangri-La’s manager and resident yogi. Shangri-La boasts a naturally ozonated, black-bottomed swimming pool, and a pair of hot tubs that offer dramatic views of both the ocean and the Haleakala volcano. It also has a rock pool with a small waterfall carved right into the cliff below the compound. Still, D’Addario had plenty of other suggestions. “We always give our guests directions to private beaches where they can snorkel among the sea turtles,” he said. “My favorite is the hidden bamboo forest up the road.” It didn’t disappoint. We found the promised waterfalls and a natural clay cave where we spread mud all over ourselves. We also ran into a ponytailed massage therapist who set us on the path to the town of Hana, and by day four we were headed east on the twisty two-lane road to the .

Beyond a padlocked cattle gate, the Maui Sun Club sits in a small clearing in the middle of 19 acres of tropical forest. Known to locals as the Honokalani Ranch, the Club is surrounded by groves of wild bananas, mangoes, papayas, and guavas, all overgrown with creeping hou vines. Unless you subscribe to naturist journals, you’d never know it’s the only totally nude resort on Maui. It has only three apartments and three small cabins, so there are rarely more than ten people visiting at any time, and it’s about as off the grid as it gets: no television, no pool, no bar, no clothes. The Club is owned and operated by Georgianna Dryer, who, after checking us in, gave us directions to local refuges like Red Sand Beach, Makahiku Falls, Waianapanapa State Park, and the Venus Pool.

The next day Dryer personally escorted us to a favorite spot in her beater pickup. Coasting to a stop at a muddy opening in the trees, we climbed out of the cab, squishing fallen mangoes beneath our feet. Leading the way, Dryer picked a path down through the jungle and then along a rugged beach. Several hundred yards later she turned and whispered, “Blue Pool” to announce our arrival at a stunning freshwater hole crowned by a waterfall and a luminescent cascade of pink and purple impatiens. Pulling off her top, she pointed out at the horizon and smiled. “I love to come here for the sunrise.” She added, “Floating in the pool, listening to the waterfall as I watch the waves, I feel blessed with a simple abundance and completely connected to nature. That’s what my lifestyle is all about.”

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We searched the South Pacific for the ultimate in tropical paradise. Now grab your hammock and sunblock and go!

Show Me the Mana

Gauguin found it on Hiva Oa. So can you.

PEPERU, A MOP-GIANT of a Marquesan man, his cousin Siano, and I have been hiking for four hours through the steamy jungle when he turns around and whispers, “The first time I came here, I got chicken pox—from the mana.”

I expected our destination, an ancient ceremonial site, to hold an air of mystery, but I didn’t realize that the mana, or supernatural power, would unleash an infectious disease.

“You don’t mean goose bumps, do you?” I ask, remembering that English is only one of Peperu’s four languages.

“That’s it,” Peperu says.

We’re hiking in the interior of the 77-square-mile volcanic fang of Hiva Oa, the second-largest island in the Marquesas archipelago, about 800 miles northeast of Tahiti. From the rocky seashore, the terrain vaults to 4,000-foot peaks that top out in a razor-sharp central ridge. Only about 1,800 people inhabit Hiva Oa, all but a handful in the town of Atuona, on the southern coast. True, Atuona now has a swank Pearl resort, paved roads, and Pringles, but due to its distance from everywhere, the ten-island chain is mostly left to itself. Aiming to immerse myself in local lifestyle, I stay at the family-run Temetiu Village Pension, on a hill overlooking the Bay of Traitors a half-mile east of Atuona. The bungalow is modest but spotless, and my gracious host, Gabriel Heitaa, serves tasty traditional meals of fresh tuna and lobster, or wild pig and breadfruit from the jungle.

Lured by tales of islanders living in a state of grace, artist Paul Gauguin sailed to the Marquesas in 1901 and died on Hiva Oa in 1903, 100 years ago this May. The island still reeks of the sensuality and mystique Gauguin captured on his canvases: Wild horses race across fern- covered hillsides, and even casual hikes through glades of pandanus lead to ancient ceremonial sites. Little in the way of outfitted sporting adventure exists, but you can always rent a mountain bike to tackle the singletrack pig trails lacing the bush, or find a local who will take you on a dive excursion to the sea caves that punctuate the coast.

But it’s the vertical terrain and the lost world it conceals that make Hiva Oa worth a visit. In the 200 years following the first European contact, in 1595, slave traders and disease decimated the Marquesas. An entire culture was ravaged, leaving vestiges of its history standing in the jungle.
Peperu and Siano lead me to a ridge where, shrouded in lush vegetation, low walls of stacked stone support rectangular platforms. On one a slab forms a seatback—a chieftain’s chaise. Nearby lies the worn but unmistakable shape of a pestle, left where it was discarded hundreds of years ago. Lichen-softened stone panels display bas-relief forms of carved tikis— figurines of ancient gods. Siano shows me a fantastically twisted gray-green boulder that chieftains once held on to while seeking divine guidance. I palm the boulder and am overwhelmed by the sense that the stone is touching me back. This, I understand at once, is mana. Looking down at my forearms, I find them covered with bumps. Once again, it seems, the mana has inspired a wicked case of Marquesan chicken pox.

It’s Namenalala-Land!

Taming the dragon under Fiji’s Heavenly Skies

The beast in its lair: Fiji lying in wait

A FEW MONTHS BEFORE I WALKED DOWN THE AISLE, I had become obsessed with finding the perfect place. I wanted our honeymoon to be nothing short of miraculous. Happily, the gods forgave my hubris and plopped us on Namenalala.

Our first glimpse of the island was from a 15-foot fishing boat that carried us 25 miles across the Koro Sea from Savusavu, Fiji. We squinted into the bright sunshine at the lush, mile-long, sleeping-dragon-shaped island and saw a week of perfect moments on the five pristine beaches, the 19-mile ring of barrier reef, and the three miles of hiking trails. Namenalala was uninhabited until 1983, when an intrepid American couple, Tom and Joan Moody, took out a 99-year lease on the 110-acre island and built a ten-acre resort. In place of manicured grounds and air-conditioned rooms, there are wildly overgrown landscapes, twisted, hilly walkways, and six bures (cottages) built on stilts, each with five sets of sliding doors to let in the breeze.

Throughout our stay, we couldn’t get enough of the aquamarine, 80-degree ocean. A 15-minute ride in a dive boat brought us to some of Fiji’s best scuba sites—Fish Patch was our favorite, and Karl the dive master took us there every morning to explore the Grand Canyon, a mile-deep underwater wall where, at about 80 feet, we could swim amid huge schools of trevally and wait for white-tip, gray-tip, and hammerhead sharks to swish by.

After lunch the first day, hungry for more time in the drink, we grabbed our goggles and jumped back in. The fringe of Namenalala is covered by cashmere-soft beaches—the sand made from exoskeletons of shellfish that have been crushed into powder. We snorkeled from one beach, three-quarters of a mile around the tip of the island, to the next beach, hovering to wave our hands over the giant clams’ Day-Glo-green mouths and watch them snap shut. Forty minutes later we crawled up on shore, gasping like guppies (but pretending to be shipwrecked sailors).

The next afternoon, after early-morning yoga on the deck and our midmorning trip to the Fish Patch, we set out by sea kayak. It took us half a day to circle the island, due in part to my secret backseat lily-dipping and pendulum-swing steering.

Despite the island’s size, we managed to spend all of the next afternoon hiking. One trail led through thick fig-tree roots, berry-covered bushes, and massive flame trees to the island’s 400-foot crest. Because this was the perfect place, we arrived at the Dragon’s Head, a sloping bulb at the tip of the island, at the perfect time to enjoy the sunset. The sky was streaked with wide, red fingernail marks of clouds, and what seemed like hundreds of red-footed boobies and lesser frigates called overhead. They were all going somewhere with great purpose, but it was hard to imagine there was a better place to be.

Think Naked

Baja, Pt. II

Passing through an opening in the hedge, we saw an empty volleyball court, an open-air bar, and a vast star-shaped hot tub. I counted 30 naked and oiled people soaking up sun, standing, sprawled on loungers, sitting and sipping drinks. They generally ranged in age from their thirties to their sixties: pudgy, skinny, tanned, pale, droopy, firm, you name it.


We said hello to one group. Liisa draped her towel over an adjacent chaise lounge. No hesitation. Off came her top. Down went her bottom. Smiles all around. I tried to remember the axiom of scuba diving: Don’t lose control of your breathing. “The only tan-line I want,” she announced, “is from my wedding ring.


This was not what I imagined nudism to be, at least not the blasé variety in which naturists sit naked and splay-legged in mixed company playing shuffleboard and rummy, almost trying to prove that nothing is off. But neither did we sense the overt expectation of swingers. Instead, the people here seemed to be in some personal, racy in-between. They were flashers, they were voyeurs. The proximity of other naked bodies added a certain frisson of possibility, but the targets of people’s hedonism seemed their own partners. A woman and her man would stare at each other with the flushing pride of prom dates, perpetually startled and pleased by the absence of costume. Liisa and I realized that most of the couples on this side of the oleander hedge were madly in love&3151;and found daring the buff in the Mexican sunshine a remarkably loving thing. So while I don’t know if I’ll ever feel completely normal about it, I discovered that being naked in public with my wife was just all right with me—thrilling, but relaxing, too.

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I was mashing at the pedals and sucking wind as we ground our way to the top of the final ridge. The Baja desert is unforgiving, but when you throw in lung-busting ascents, technical descents, and dense stands of towering cardón cactus, you’re really asking for it. Ignoring the oozing gashes on my knee and forearm—the result of a crash on a near-vertical scree slope—I crested the final 1,000 feet of our 20-mile ride and followed my guide into a sandy arroyo that split open to reveal the sun setting over the sparkling Pacific surf.

Pacific views: Punta San Carlos, Mexico

I had been coming to this desolate spot in northern Baja—known as Punta San Carlos—for more than a decade to surf its legendary mile-long waves, but this ride was a revelation. A new, 30-mile network of singletrack has transformed the barren, rust-colored landscape into a knobby-tire playground. The realization that this was now a place where, in a single day, I could nail the trifecta of my outdoor addictions—surfing, windsurfing, and mountain biking—hit me like a shot of tequila.
An isolated outcrop 300 road miles south of the U.S. border and 35 miles from the nearest stretch of pavement, Punta San Carlos was discovered by the California surfing crowd in the late sixties. Set on a south-facing bay with a point break churning up dreamlike, slow-turning barrels, its only flaw was a relentless afternoon wind that sandblasted everything in its path. But the “flaw” attracted a new set of fanatics in the mideighties: Windsurfers raved about this secret spot where the side-off breeze ran parallel to the breaking waves in a textbook-perfect setting. Driving to Punta San Carlos was an odyssey involving roadblocks, bribes, and mechanical breakdowns, but the payoff was enormous: surfing and sailing in a pristine, private setting.

The peninsula’s newest arrival, adventure outfitter Solo Sports, has only improved the scene. In 1997, Solo founders Kevin Trejo, 41, and Ron Smith, 39, a pair of annoyingly fit multisport enthusiasts from Irvine, California, worked with local landowners to secure a long-term lease on five square miles around the beach. Then, without altering the area’s relaxed vibe, they began a series of subtle improvements.

Piles of trash—scraped-up surfboards and old camping supplies left by various hard-core contingents over the years—disappeared, and a neat row of outhouses erased the need for the time-honored shovel-and-squat routine. Trejo and Smith developed a simple beachfront base camp, with four outdoor shower stalls, private tents, a large dining room, and piles of the latest gear, to serve clients on Solo’s eight-day package trips as well as those visiting Punta San Carlos on their own. On the mesa overlooking the ocean, they carved out a looping mountain-bike trail system that rivals anything in Moab.

Round One for me started just after sunrise with a couple of hours of surfing in clean, glassy overhead swells. There were three of us, straddling longboards and taking turns picking off the choice waves as the sets rolled through. With the exception of the whales breaching just outside the impact zone, we were the only sign of life along 20 or so miles of visible coastline.

By 11 a.m. the wind was ripping, and it was time to rig up a sail and head out for Round Two. When it comes to windsurfing, few things beat wave sailing—basically surfing with a sail in your hands—and nothing beats wave sailing at Punta San Carlos. At about 60 degrees, the water is colder here than it is in Maui, usually 75 degrees or so, but there’s never a crowd, and the winds are consistent at 25 to 35 miles per hour.

After lunch, a buffet of cold cuts, assorted breads, and fresh veggies, and then another sailing session, I waded out of the water and was rummaging through the cooler when Trejo rolled up on his bike.

“Quick ride?” he offered. I started to protest—I was still in my wetsuit; my arms and legs ached from a good eight hours in the water—but the next thing I knew it was Round Three, and I was madly pedaling to keep up with my guide. When we straggled back into camp, someone handed me a beer and some Band-Aids—a fitting salve for a bruising yet perfect day.

While there’s almost never a bad time to visit Punta San Carlos, the weather is most consistent between March and October, with dry, sunny days and reliable afternoon winds. Winter can bring monster swells, and sudden storms can wash out roads and strand you for days—not always a bad outcome. Highs range from 60 degrees in March to 75 from August through October; nights are always chilly.

Guided Trips: Solo Sports (949-453-1950; ) offers eight-day multisport packages year-round starting at $1,350 per person (with a 20-person limit), including round-trip van transportation from San Diego—an eight-hour trip each way—all meals, and gear. Custom trips are also available. Solo provides roomy, private dome tents, sleeping bags, and the latest models of Terry Senate surfboards, Naish and RRD sailboards, and full-suspension K2 mountain bikes. There’s plenty of room in the vans if you’d rather bring your own bike or boards, but take a hard look at how many airports you’ll have to hump them through first. Do pack a wetsuit and booties, a windsurf harness, hiking boots, and a CamelBak.
On Your Own: Punta San Carlos is about a 300-mile drive from Tijuana, Mexico. Follow Mexico Highway 1 south; about 15 miles past the village of El Rosario, head west on the rugged 35-mile dirt road that leads to Punta San Carlos. (Beware, the turnoff isn’t always well marked, thanks to surfers who jealously protect their slice of paradise by plastering the sign with surfing stickers.) A four-wheel-drive vehicle with plenty of ground clearance is recommended. Bring everything you could possibly need, including spare vehicle parts, since Punta San Carlos has nothing in the way of amenities. The good news: You can buy meals and water and rent gear and tents through Solo Sports even if you’re not on one of its package tours. Call Solo Sports for a price list.

Don’t Miss: An evening Baja Fog at base camp—a vaporous tequila-and-beer drink that will ease the throb of those aching muscles.

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The geophysical details of Alaska are to powder hounds what the specs on the V-12, 525-horsepower, $250,000 Lamborghini Diablo are to your average car aficionado: numbers to die for. With 49 mountain ranges, 17 of the 20 highest peaks in the United States, annual snow levels in excess of 33 feet, and a season that can run eight months (from October to June), Alaska offers several lifetimes’ worth of terrain. And, unlike the Diablo, it’s all within reach. But there is one catch: The entire state has fewer lifts than you’d find in any major Lower 48 ski area, which means that getting to the good stuff often requires a major trek.

Well-endowed AK: flowing in slow mo

Not that this has stopped the locals. Even though the tempting double blacks of Alyeska Resort lie just 40 miles south of downtown Anchorage, most folks skip paying for lift tickets. Armed with basic avalanche knowledge, a beacon, a snow shovel, and a probe pole, they hike, ski, drive, fly, or hop a train to a network of nearby spots that guarantee fresh tracks every time.



Tincan Peak
At the top of Turnagain Pass off Seward Highway at mile marker 66, Tincan is a local favorite. Just 40 minutes south of Girdwood, pull left off the road onto an unmarked dirt lot (easily recognizable by the dozen or so rusting pickups vacated by their ski-fiend owners). Strap on your skins, and spend the next two hours climbing to a 4,000-foot false summit just below the 4,660-foot peak. Your reward: almost 3,000 feet of bowl after bowl filled with hero snow. Despite its accessibility to the city, a crowded day might see only 30 people—but at least someone else is there to break trail to the top.

Road Run
Break up the six-hour drive on the Richardson Highway from Anchorage to Valdez by pulling off about 20 miles east of Valdez at the top of Thompson Pass. Then climb the guardrail, gear up, and shove off, turning through a network of empty bowls and several intermediate drops—all of which funnel back onto the main highway outside of town. Then it’s off with the gear and out with the thumb for a quick ten-minute ride back up to your parking spot.

Ski Train
February is the “month of dumps” in the Chugach Mountains. The Nordic Skiing Association of Anchorage celebrates this bounty every March with its traditional Ski Train from Anchorage south to Grandview Pass. This one-day round-trip requires a $60 ticket and $20 annual ski-club membership, but you’ll get a seat on a chartered Alaska Railroad locomotive outfitted with everything from well-stocked dining and bar cars to a strolling polka band. Once the train stops at the top of the pass, just click in and ski down. But be forewarned: The run back to town in the bar car can be far more lethal than anything the backcountry can toss at you (reservations: 907-276-7609; ).

Mount McKinley
While the town of Talkeetna is ground zero for climbers headed up to 20,320-foot Mount McKinley, it’s also a popular ski spot for those willing to commit to the three-hour drive from Anchorage. Hire a plane or helicopter from one of Talkeetna’s many guide services, which will fly you to the lower half of North America’s tallest mountain. Little Switzerland and the Ruth Amphitheater offer countless runs and some of the most mind-boggling mountain scenery on the continent. (Talkeetna Air Taxi offers round-trip flights from $250; 800-533-2219; ).

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Okay, so you’ve mastered the art of doing absolutely nothing but soaking up the rays, ordered up just one more piña colada, and achieved beached-whale nirvana. Then what? How about one of these seven full-tilt and sublime adventures (plus several more bold diversions) to inject a jolt of adrenaline into your next Caribbean idyll? Because even paradise needs an edge.

Recharge: pulling into a tube at Salsipuedes beach near Isabela, Puerto Rico

BAHAMAS
PUERTO RICO
HONDURAS
DOMINICAN REPUBLIC
GRENADINES
DOMINICA
VENEZUELA
ISLAND HOPS

Bahamas

Nothing but Blue Seas Below

Paddling to remote Exuma Cays Land and Sea Park

THERE ARE TWO imperatives for a successful trip to the Exumas, a mostly uninhabited, 120-mile-long archipelago that stretches in a narrow crescent from southeast of Nassau in the Bahamas to the Tropic of Cancer. First, while in George Town, the capital, stop in to see the Shark Lady, aka Gloria Patience, a legendary septuagenarian who earned her nickname—not to mention an audience with Queen Elizabeth II—by hunting down some 1,500 sharks around Great Exuma Island over her lifetime. Second, ignore her on the subject of sea kayaking, because she doesn’t realize she lives in the best damn place in the Caribbean for paddling.

Here in the Exumas, the sea is like Bombay Sapphire in a bottle—a perfect blue lens for a paddler’s up-close perspective, magnifying yellow coral heads, purple sea fans, and tropical fish aplenty. The 88-degree, unpolluted water offers world-class snorkeling, and there are no fewer than 365 cays to explore. “Most classic sea-kayaking trips—Baja, the Honduran Bay Islands—follow a coastline,” says sea-kayak outfitter Bardy Jones of New York–based Ibis Tours. “In Exuma, you’re tiptoeing across a string of islands. You can look to the left and look to the right and see wide-open ocean. It’s kind of intimidating, and it’s seriously remote.”

If you have at least a week and you arrive during the spring, hop a 25-minute charter flight from George Town to Exuma Cays Land and Sea Park near the northern Exuma port town of Staniel Cay, where two outfitters have been guiding weeklong, 50-mile trips in the park by sea kayak for more than a decade. Established in 1958, the 176-square-mile park is a no-take (i.e. no-fishing) zone that serves as a nursery for grouper, conch, and lobster. Miniscule cays spring up everywhere, home to the white-tailed tropicbird—a smallish bird endowed with a spectacular, three-foot-long white streamer—and the faded ruins of British loyalist plantations.

If you have less than a week, sign up as I did with Starfish, the only Exuma-based outfitter, in George Town. For two days I explored the red mangrove colonies and bonefish flats of the nearly deserted south side of Great Exuma with a taciturn Dutch guide, Valentijn Hoff, and his younger Bahamian sidekick, Philip Smith, who entertained us with his granny’s bush-medicine wisdom: The “juice” from a ghost crab kills an earache, tea from the “strongback” plant increases male virility, and sniffing crushed orange peel dispels seasickness. After a short hike around 18th-century limestone ruins on rocky Crab Cay, we camped on the sand of an unnamed barrier island, uninhabited but for a ravenous air force of mosquitoes and no-see-ums.

But the trip’s standout hour came the next morning. As we coasted back toward George Town, the hot sun splintered through the turquoise sea, casting a brilliant net that scrolled across the white-sand floor—picture an enormous David Hockney pool. Then, from just beyond my right paddle, came a sudden, loud outbreath. Three dolphins leaped among our bright plastic hulls for a moment and then vanished.

Access + Resources

Whether you arrive in Exuma during the dry season, from December to May, or the wet from June to October, which averages six to nine inches rainfall per month, it’s easy to locate an ocean-worthy kayak and all the gear you need to set out to sea.

GETTING OUTFITTED: Starfish (877-398-6222; ) runs trips around the coast and barrier islands of Great Exuma and Little Exuma for $45 (half-day) to $75 (full day) per person year-round; overnight trips, like the 12-mile route I did, cost $150 per person per day for the first two days, and $100 per night for every night after that. If you want to go it on your own, Starfish rents touring kayaks ($30 per day for singles, $40 for doubles) as well as Hobie Wave sailboats ($50 for a half-day), tents, and other camping gear. March through May, Ibis Tours (800-525-9411; ) runs eight-day trips in Exuma Cays Land and Sea Park () in the northern half of the archipelago for $1,595 per person, including charter airfare from Nassau.

GETTING THERE: American Airlines (800-433-7300) flies from New York to Nassau for about $420 round-trip, $360 from Atlanta. Charter airfare from Nassau is included in outfitters’ package prices; or, if you’re traveling on your own, ask at your hotel or the local marina for information on the many private planes that can fly you to Staniel Cay for about $250 one-way.

LODGING: George Town’s Peace & Plenty (800-525-2210; ) is the small town’s clubby social hub. Doubles start at $175.

Puerto Rico

Riders on the Perfect Storm

Tough commute: heading out to a break on Puerto Rico’s west coast

IF YOU HAPPEN to reach for your sheet one night in your cabina in Rincón, Puerto Rico, you’ll know the cold front has arrived. No worries: By the time the big lows that rumble out of the Arctic and fling nor’easters at the whole eastern seaboard hit Puerto Rico, they’re feeble, welcome whiffs of free AC. But before you snuggle under your sheet and drift back to sleep, listen close—feel—for the detonations, because cold fronts bring good tidings. Far out in the dark, thundering like a thousand derailing boxcars, is just what you came for, and at dawn, you’ll have your proof: Pools Beach submerged, seawater raging up into the dry streambed, and the surf…humongous.

If it’s early in your trip, congratulations—you’ve won the raffle! The swell will last three or four days at least. And now you’ve got a ton of good options. (As for your surf-swell lotto odds, they’re excellent in February, good for March, but dicey after April Fools’ Day.) There’s surf on the whole north coast of Puerto Rico, from San Juan to the Punta Borinquén corner, and more along the west coast south to Rincón. In fact, the northwest corner of the island is Oahu’s North Shore writ small—OK, miniature—but also minus the ego wars and the raging King Kamehameha Highway.

Start by heading to Tres Palmas, less than five minutes by car from Rincón, and the island’s biggest wave. A deep-water reef and a thousand-mile stare across the Puerto Rico Trench mean you see the real fist-prints of the storm from here. To the south it’s all channel, and an easy, if tense and longish, paddle out to the breakers. But unless you’re a badass—and even if you are—beware of Tres Palmas: The sneaker sets are sneakier than you are, and even on a ten-foot day (the minimum for Tres), there’ll likely be a 15-foot set with your name on it.

For a base of operations, it’s hard to top that cabina in Rincón, the Capital de Surf on the island’s west end, which has all the amenities of a small resort town tweaked for its surfista clientele. It’s Gringolandia, fer sure, but you can rent anything from a Ted Kaczynski cabin under a palm tree to a villa in the lush hills and be within walking distance of dozens of breaks. Rincón is the most bike- and pedestrian-friendly surf destination I know, and the unofficial capital of the Capital, Calypso Bar and Grill, sits within binocular range of Tres Palmas and boasts a commanding view of The Point, arguably PR’s best point break. Restless? Take a quick 300-yard hike from Rincón along the tawny, tide-pool-bejeweled beach up to El Faro, a lighthouse atop a grassy bluff where the whale-watchers gather. From there, it’s a quarter-mile or so up a rutted dirt road to Domes, site of a defunct nuclear apparatus and a sliver of beach whose first-rate right point has an inside-bowl section perfect for launching aerials. And don’t neglect Spanish Wall, a few steps farther north, or Sandy Beach, just around another small point and anchored by its own pub, the Tamboo Tavern.

Meanwhile, a case for day trips can easily be made. Get up early to beat the gridlock in Aguadilla and drive 30 miles north of Rincón to Wilderness, a series of spacious reef breaks at the foot of the old Ramey military base golf course. With its rugged coast of tall causarina pines, Wildo is lovely. Or venture farther north to the less populous dunes around Jobos, or even remoter spots such as Shacks or Middles. Middles is said to be the best all-around wave on the island, an A-frame barrel on its signature days.
Still can’t quite picture it? Allow me: It’s the third day of a weeklong swell, and you’re at the end of an afternoon session. You’ve been working your way north as the crowd thinned, moving from the overhead right and left peaks of Dogman’s, over the shallow reef at Maria’s for some tuck-in tubes, and now at twilight you’re shading toward The Point itself with just a handful of surfers still out. The sun is slipping down behind Desecheo, the silhouette of the island looking like Captain Nemo’s Nautilus. On shore, the lights of the Calypso are twinkling, music wafting out over the water. You take off on a wave that’s tall, razor-thin, backlit, and burnished by the setting sun, thinking it might be your last wave of the day. But then it lines up so sweetly, section after section, that when you kick, spray slightly chilling you with that faintest hint of winter, you think, well, maybe one more. And here comes a guy paddling out, wall-to-wall grin, who says he just arrived from Maine. “Took off in a snowstorm,” he says. “Man, am I glad to be here.”

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GETTING OUTFITTED: TWA (800-221-2000) flies from New York’s JFK to Aguadilla (30 minutes by car from Rincón) for $288; or try TWA from Fort Lauderdale to San Juan (two hours’ drive from the west end) for $285. American Airlines offers Miami–San Juan flights for $350. The major U.S. rental-car agencies have outlets at both Puerto Rico airports.

OUTFITTERS: Best to bring your own board, but there are several surf shops in Rincón where you can rent or buy used boards in an emergency. Also, if you stay at the Rincón Surf and Board, they’ll rent you one.

WHERE TO STAY: I recommend either Rincón Surf and Board (787-823-0610; ), with suites for $85 per night and dorm-style accommodations for $20 per person, or the Lazy Parrot Inn and Restaurant (787-823-5654). Rates at the Lazy Parrot run $85 for a single, $95 for a double, including a pool. For extended stays or more posh spreads, try Island West Properties (787-823-2323), which lists peak-season rentals (lots are oceanfront) from $553 to $3,675 weekly.

Honduras

Tropical Thrilla in Utila

Give me five: reef life in the Bay Islands

TIME WAS THAT on Tuesday nights, everyone went a bit mad on the island of Utila. It was the day when the supply ship made the 20-mile trip from mainland Honduras, bringing oil for the island generators. As a result, the lights stayed on late and the island became one big electric fiesta. The bars—including my favorite, the Bucket of Blood—set up their good sound systems and the dancing and partying (aka “liming”) ripped full tilt. The supply ship comes to the island’s only town, East Harbor, every day now, which doesn’t mean Utilans don’t still know how to throw a good lime. But even during the high season, which sees less than a couple hundred tourists at any given time, the action tends to wind down before midnight. Negril it ain’t. The reason? Everyone gets up early to dive.

The water averages a mellow 80 degrees Fahrenheit and is as clear as any in the Caribbean when the seas are calm—practically all year, from November to September. On the north shore of Utila are walls where the shallows suddenly drop from five feet to 1,500. On the southeast side, near the airport, are magnificent reefs of soft coral and sea fans. The Bay Islands host a wide variety of aquatic life—from sea horses to sea turtles, and corals such as pillar, elkhorn, lettuce, star, and brain—but they’re also a veritable graveyard of ships. The mainland port of Trujillo was once the main shipping point for the Spanish, and Utila and Roatán were the hideouts for 17th-century buccaneers like Captain Henry Morgan. There are regularly scheduled dives to such famous 20th-century wrecks as the Prince Albert off Roatán or the Jado Trader off Guanaja, and I heard it said a dozen times that for the right price to the right pocket, dives can be arranged to some of the old colonial wreck sites.

During the three weeks I spent on Utila, evenings at the Bucket of Blood, followed by early-morning dives, defined my routine. Later each morning, I’d hang out, read, and swim until I washed up like waterlogged detritus on the beach. After a cheap fresh-fish lunch it was time for a hammock nap, and then in late afternoon I’d climb the hill up to the Bucket of Blood for dominoes with Mr. Cliford Woods, the owner, who has since passed away. He’d mutter angrily whenever he saw me in the doorway, so I think he looked forward to it. Still, every afternoon after he’d given me a good whuppin’ at the table, he’d say, “So tomorrow you’ll be going home, eh?”

Islanders’ attitudes—along with a low beach-to-marshland ratio—have so far saved the island from massive tourism development. Twenty-five-square-mile Utila, the islands of Roatán and Guanaja, and some smaller uninhabited and sparsely inhabited cays comprise Honduras’s Bay Islands. (In 1998, Hurricane Mitch devastated Guanaja, doing thousands of dollars’ worth of damage, but left Utila virtually unscathed.) Most of Utila’s 5,000 inhabitants live along Main Street, a narrow road that runs along the crescent-shaped bay of the east side. It’s a bike-and-hike island when it’s not too hot to move around.
But most of all, it’s a dive island. Some of the world’s least expensive scuba certification programs operate out of the dozen or so different dive shops along Main Street.

On one of my leisurely dives just a hundred feet from the tiny airport’s runway, I fell into a trance among the delicate sea fans, letting the schools of parrot fish, indigo hamlets, rock hinds, and the occasional sea turtle circle but otherwise ignore me as they went about their business. Suddenly, a huge dark shadow came toward me and then, in a flash, passed overhead. My first panicked thought, of course, was that it was the Mother of All Great White Sharks. I swam hard and broke the surface a few yards from land. That’s when I saw that the large, looming shadow was in fact a small plane landing at the airstrip.
Afterwards, when I dropped in on Mr. Cliford, I downed a Port Royal and told him of my high adventure. He looked at me as he might a failed vaudeville act. “You know, there’s not a day go by I don’t wish you tourists would stay home,” he said with a long sigh, pausing to move a domino. “Or at least go to Roatán.”

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GETTING THERE: The best way to reach Utila’s waterfront airstrip is by flying on one of the major carriers into San Pedro Sula, Honduras (American Airlines, 800-433-7300, $840 from New York, $420 from Miami), and then connecting to either SOSA (011-504-425-3161) or Atlantic (011-504-425-3241) for the short $110 round-trip to Utila.

DIVING: According to Troy Bodden, owner of Utila Water Sports (011-504-425-3239), the owners of most of the dive shops on the island, such as Cross Creek (011-504-425-3134), Bay Islands College of Diving (011-504-425-3143), and EcoMarine Gunter’s (011-504-425-3350), have cooperatively priced the basic PADI beginner open-water certification—including four to five days of instruction, equipment, and two tanks—at $159 per person.

WHERE TO STAY: There are several clean, basic hotels in East Harbor for under $20 a night, with ceiling fans and occasional hot water. I stayed at the Bayview Hotel (011-504-425-3114) for $14 (ask for the first-floor room facing the bay); I also recommend Hotel Trudy Laguna del Mar ($15, 011-504-425-3103) and Utila Lodge ($75, 011-504-425-3143), which has amenities like air-conditioning and a recompression chamber.

Dominican Republic

The Bigger Island, the Better Ride

Hot Wheels: the Rocky MF trail in the El Choco National Park, Dominican Republic

CONVENTIONAL WISDOM has it that the tiniest Caribbean islands are the most precious and desirable. Think eight-square-mile St. Bart’s, or the newly chic crop of “single-resort islands.” This logic is fine if your idea of dry-land adventure starts and ends with daily barefoot beach strolls. But if you’re a mountain biker seeking enough varied terrain to explore for more than an hour or two, you probably subscribe to that all-American axiom “Bigger is better.” Hence the allure of the 19,000-square-mile Dominican Republic, which occupies the eastern two-thirds of the Caribbean’s second-largest island, Hispaniola. (Haiti lies to the west.) And it’s not just size that appeals: The range and diversity of riding here beat any you’ll find elsewhere in the Caribbean.

Flying into Puerto Plata on the north coast, you immediately see that the country has more to offer than beaches. With tropical bush–covered peaks rising steeply from the cultivated coastline, the Dominican Republic looks like a rugged, misplaced chunk of Central America. Forget the value-priced, all-inclusive resort compounds for which the DR is dubiously famous. Instead, take a 20-minute taxi ride east from the airport to Cabarete, and make it your home base for two-wheel adventure.

A tiny fishing village when wave-craving Canadian and Swiss windsurfers started showing up more than a dozen years ago, Cabarete has quickly matriculated from backpacker’s crash pad to a thriving, polyglot adrenaline-sports colony. A few Cabarete outfitters have turned their backs on the ocean to focus on the region’s river-threaded valleys, limestone caves, misting waterfalls, and twin cordilleras (10,414-foot Pico Duarte, 100 miles southwest of Cabarete, is the highest peak in the Caribbean). Upstate New York native Tricia Suriel is foremost among these inland guides. With her seven-year-old company, Iguana Mama, she’s scouted hundreds of miles of bike routes, on everything from paved roads to goat paths to highly technical singletrack across waist-deep rivers. If you bring your own bike—or rent one of Iguana Mama’s new XT-equipped Specialized RockHoppers and ride guideless—it’s still smart to sign on for a ride or two to get oriented.

One standout trail, the cryptic-sounding Rocky MF, is a remote, seven-mile experts-only ride that climbs up and then careens down jagged, rock-mined singletrack, all beneath the dense shade of mango and avocado trees in El Choco National Park, one of the country’s newest, just outside Cabarete. But most day rides from Cabarete are less technical, rambling forays into the Cordillera Septentrional. As you pedal, the ubiquitous concrete-block shops selling Coke and lottery tickets thin out. Soon you’re passing pink-and-green-painted wooden shacks and hibiscus bushes draped with wet laundry. Uniformed schoolkids rush out to try for rolling high fives; farther outside town, they just stare shyly. Trading dirt road for rutted cow path, you navigate between leafy “living fences”—piñon stakes revivified in the fertile soil. Above shoulder-deep pasture grass, egrets flash white, tending humpbacked Brahman bulls.

Slowly absorbing the way life is lived here is what can make riding in the DR so eye-opening. Curious locals seem willing to entertain the rustiest of Spanish-language overtures. Up for some real immersion? Join one of Iguana Mama’s multiday trips (they’ll design custom itineraries, or you can book ahead for one of their five-day expeditions). During an overnight to Armando Bermudez National Park, near the base of Pico Duarte, my small group enjoyed a vegetarian coconut-milk stew with the park ranger’s family, and then sneaked our sleeping bags inside park headquarters to escape a nocturnal downpour.
All this is not to say you should sacrifice the island’s more traditional Caribbean seductions for mountain biking: They are best enjoyed hand-in-hand, as exemplified by a triumphant return to the beach at Cabarete after a good hard ride. Late afternoons, you can try out everything from Hobie Cats to sea kayaks to kiteboards. Or my personal favorite, a nice long bodysurfing session and a face-in-the-sand nap.

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GETTING THERE: American Airlines (800-433-7300) flies round-trip to Puerto Plata for about $460 from New York, $360 from Miami. An $18 taxi ride gets you from the airport to Cabarete.

OUTFITTERS: Mountain-bike day trips with Iguana Mama (800-849-4720; ) run $40 to $85 per person. The five-day Dominican Alps inn-to-inn trip costs $950 per person, including guides, equipment, hotel lodging, and meals; customized biking and camping trips are also available. Bikes rent for $30 per day.

WHERE TO STAY: The newly renovated Cabarete Palm Beach Condos (809-571-0758) are spacious and homey, with great beachfront balconies. Two-bedroom condos cost $60 to $160 a night, depending on season and occupancy; studios go for $40 to $70. The 60-unit Windsurf Resort (809-571-0718) charges $74 for a one-bedroom poolside apartment.

Grenadines

The Pleasure of a Steady Nine Knots

Rum Runners: sailing near Palm Island

FOR SEASICKNESS, try beer and peanut butter. I hit on this desperation diet my second morning aboard the Boom Shak-A-Lak, a 45-foot Beneteau sloop that three friends and I had chartered for a two-week, early-winter cruise through the Grenadines. As a novice mariner, I’d had visions of a leisurely sail through bathtub-still waters, the moist tranquility of the tropics permeating my vacation-deprived soul. That nonsense was immediately debunked once we left our mooring in Bequia’s Port Elizabeth. After passing the lee of the island, we were borne by a stiff wind to port as we sliced through the steely water—nearly perpendicular to it—at a steady nine knots. Then for two nights we were pounded by unseasonal rain and high winds that left us cranky and queasy; surprisingly, a breakfast of Corona and Skippy calmed my churning stomach, and what had started out looking like a two-week ordeal instead became a promising adventure.

Known for their unblemished white-sand beaches, spectacular reefs, and northeasterly trade winds, the Grenadines, a minimally developed archipelago in the eastern Caribbean, are an ideal place to drop off the map for a while, guided by the whims of the wind and the waves. Our loose plan was to sail from north to south, stopping at Mustique, the Tobago Cays, Canouan, and Union before ending the trip in Grenada.

After the initial excitement aboard the Boom Shak-A-Lak, I expected our focus to be the islands, with the sailing merely the means of getting from one to the next. In fact, for all their splendor, the islands—celebrity-clogged Mustique, low-key Canouan, the uninhabited Tobago Cays—began to blur together in my mind, while the time spent under full sail, surfing the swells as the wind howled around us, made me feel most alive. In contrast to the relative sameness of the closely spaced landmasses, the sea was infinitely variable, hypnotizing me with its shifts of color and light.

Quickly, we settled into an unhurried routine of rising late, breakfasting on board, and then sailing from one island to the next, stopping along the way to dive the region’s many reefs. Evenings, we went ashore to dine and drink and compare notes with other sailors, most of them French or German. After ten days or so, the land had all but ceased to exist—I didn’t care if we ever docked the boat. By the time we anchored in Tyrrell Bay on Carriacou (politically part of Grenada, but geographically a continuation of Saint Vincent and the Grenadines), we were so attuned to the rhythms of the sea that we now felt queasy only when we ventured onto dry land.

A party at Carriacou’s yacht club, the best that we’d found, soon took care of that. In addition to surprisingly good food, something of a rarity in these parts, we were served the most potent rum punch of the trip, heavily laced with Iron Jack, a spirit so strong (190 proof) that its manufacture is banned in most of the Caribbean. Smuggled in from Trinidad, where it’s legal, or brewed in clandestine backyard stills, Iron Jack has a reputation for bringing even the most experienced rum-swiller to her knees. Sure enough, halfway through our dinner of roti and french fries we were barely able to remain upright, the conversation degenerating into uproarious laughter over nothing in particular. And that was after only one drink.

Back on board the next morning, we discovered that our dinghy had disappeared, and no one could quite remember who had been designated to tie it up. In fact, we couldn’t remember returning to the boat at all. As we prepared, somewhat fuzzily, to sail for Grenada, our final stop, we were a somber bunch. Fortunately, beer and peanut butter works for hangovers, too.

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GETTING THERE: There’s no easy way to get to the Grenadines. The most direct route is to fly to San Juan, Puerto Rico, where you can connect to a nonstop flight to St. Vincent on American Eagle ($330). Most of the yacht-charter operations are on St. Vincent or Grenada; Bequia is a nine-mile ferry ride from St. Vincent.

YACHT CHARTERS: We got our boat through Trade Wind Yachts (800-825-7245; ), which also handled our airline tickets and hotel reservations in San Juan. A Beneteau 445 like ours, with three cabins and three heads with showers, rents for $2,065 to $3,458 per week, depending on the season.

Dominica

Moonscapes and Mountain Chickens

Hell of a time: Dominica’s Boiling Lake Trail

DOMINICA ISN’T YOUR typical Caribbean paradise: There are few beaches to speak of, and the snorkeling’s only so-so. But if you’re the kind to go stir crazy after a couple of languorous hours surfside, you’ll agree—this place is heaven. The largest but least populated isle in the eastern Caribbean’s Windward chain, Dominica has 289 square miles of rugged, 4,000-foot mountains, active volcanoes, old-growth tropical rainforest, and more than 300 miles of hikable trails. On my last visit, hoping to spot an exotic bird (Dominica boasts 172 avian species) or a ten-inch crapaud (locals call these big, tasty frogs “mountain chickens”), I followed Glen, my dreadlocked local guide, up the Syndicate Nature Trail, a rocky ten-mile path through stands of gnarled, hundred-foot chataignier trees, to the summit of 4,747-foot Morne Diablotin, the highest point on the island. Not two hours in, a blue-green Sisserou, the largest, rarest Amazon parrot, glided across the clearing on three-foot wings to land just a few feet ahead of us.

The surreal landscape on the eight-mile, eight-hour out-and-back hike to Boiling Lake, a 200-foot cauldron of bubbling, gray-blue water that simmers at upwards of 200 degrees Fahrenheit and recalls Milton’s Paradise Lost, was equally spectacular. The trail winds through Morne Trois Piton National Park, a 17,000-acre preserve just west of Roseau, climbing the 45-degree slopes of 2,700-foot Morne Nichols before dropping into the Valley of Desolation, a half-mile-wide moonscape of sharp volcanic rocks, hissing steam vents, and hot springs, some of the cooler ones ideal for soaking.

World-class hiking in the Caribbean? Jah, mon.

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GETTING THERE: Dominica is a two-hour flight from San Juan, Puerto Rico ($290, American Eagle, 800-433-7300), or 30 minutes from Guadeloupe ($150, LIAT, 268-480-5601).

OUTFITTERS: You will need a guide—the island’s 300-plus inches of annual rainfall means trails are often washed out and difficult to follow. Hire one ($40 a day) through your hotel. Ken’s Hinterland ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø Tours (767-448-4850; ) can arrange group hikes or kayaking trips.

WHERE TO STAY: Papillote Wilderness Retreat (767-448-2287;), a cozy inn five miles from Roseau, offers double rooms for $90 a night. Simple, fan-cooled doubles at the colonial-style Springfield Plantation Guest House (767-449-1401), 15 miles northwest of Roseau, also go for $90.

Venezuela

Love on Los Roques

Lean machine: caught speeding near Los Roques National Park

MY PALMS WERE beginning to burn—a sign of the blisters to come—but I couldn’t resist; I pulled hard on the boom and trimmed the sail against another gust. The entire length of the board lifted off the water and shuddered, then settled back on a few inches of fin. I barreled across the channel toward the tiny island of Esparqui, its thick tangle of mangrove trees growing larger by the second, and waited as long as I could before throwing the rig forward and turning sharply through the wind, away from the sandy shore. A huge sea turtle slid beneath me as I headed back to my launch, an empty, salt-white stretch of beach now a good mile away. Except for the masts of a few sailboats shimmering in a distant anchorage downwind, I was the only thing on the water.

Perfect wind, every conceivable sailing option, warm, clear seas, and utter isolation. In 15 years of windsurfing all over the world, I’d never seen anything like this. Just 11 degrees above the equator and 85 miles north of Caracas, Venezuela’s Los Roques National Park is a pristine archipelago of some 350 small islands, cays, and reefs scattered across 15 miles of iridescent turquoise water. First charted by Spanish explorers 470 years ago, it has remained a refuge from time and civilization, with 1,200 or so residents and few visitors save a handful of hard-core yachtsmen and bonefishing addicts, and the 200 or so windsurfers who ride its steady stream of east-northeasterly trades each year. A primitive airstrip near Gran Roques, the collection of empty sand streets and sun-bleached pastel facades that is Los Roques’ only town, is the one link to reality.

Arriving on Francisqui, an hourglass-shaped island less than a mile long, via a fisherman’s small, open peñero several hours earlier, I had trouble taking it all in. To my left was the flat water of the channel, perfect for easy cruising or speed runs to other islands; on my right lay two reef breaks—a left and a right—for shredding chest-high waves and jumping. Beyond them, rolling swells of open ocean. And every possibilityblessed with 13 to 22 knots of the kind of breeze windsurfers dream about. There was only one thing missing.

“What,” I jokingly asked my guide, Elias Pernales, “no point break?”

He gestured over my shoulder toward the tip of the island. “Ten, maybe twelve tacks upwind and around the anchorage. But it’s tricky getting through the reef, so I don’t bring too many people there.”

Pernales, a relaxed, 36-year-old Venezuelan with a body straight off the cover of a fitness rag, manages Vela Los Roques, the only windsurfing operation on the islands. Working alone out of an open, metal-roofed hut stocked with 30 new sailboards and a huge quiver of pre-rigged sails, he spends his days guiding intermediate and expert sailors—rarely more than three or four in a day even during the high season, thanks to Los Roques’ remoteness—as they weave between islands or along the serpentine barrier reefs. We spent the morning gliding between jagged cays and exploring hidden lagoons, and then retreated to the welcome shade of his “office” for a lunch of fresh tuna steaks, cold pineapple slices, and frosty Polars—the light pilsner that’s considered the national beer of Venezuela. Just as I was eyeballing the hammock, Pernales dragged out a two-man kayak. “Time for some snorkeling, eh?”

We did, among waving sea fans and yellowtailed angelfish near yet another deserted cay. By the time we paddled back to Francisqui, the tide had shifted and the swell was up, so it was out to the reef for some five-foot waves. I tacked upwind a few hundred yards and began slicing down the smooth, right-breaking faces, trying to stay focused on the sharp coral just below the surface. As the tropical sky began to grow pink, I spotted the peñero buzzing slowly across the bay to retrieve us, but I couldn’t bring myself to head in. Instead, I turned the board toward the horizon and raked the sail back for speed.

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GETTING THERE: American (800-433-7300) or Continental (800-231-0856) Airlines can fly you nonstop from New York or Miami to Caracas, Venezuela, and book your 50-minute connecting flight to Margarita Island ($800 total from New York, $687 from Miami). Vela Windsurf Resorts will provide air transportation from Margarita to Los Roques (see Outfitters, below).

OUTFITTERS: U.S.–based Vela Windsurf Resorts (800-223-5443; ) runs the only windsurfing operation in Los Roques and takes clients on single- or multiday excursions to the archipelago from its Margarita Island resort, 180 miles west of Los Roques. Trips leave Margarita Island daily and include round-trip airfare (it’s a 60-minute flight) on Venezuela’s Aerotuy Airlines, boat transfers, accommodations at one of several small guest houses in Gran Roques, meals, equipment, and guide service (one day/one night, $185 per person; three days/two nights, $525). The $16 national-park entry fee is not included.

Island Hops

Even more splendid ways to escape from the chaise longue

Guadeloupe: Pedal Like the Pros
Professional cyclists from around the world meet on this butterfly-shaped isle for the annual Tour de Guadeloupe, a 797-mile, ten-stage road race. The race comes to the island in August, but you can ride the circuit any time (call Dom Location, 011-590-88-84-81, for a map and bike rental, $10/day). Or ditch the bike and explore the island’s offroad attractions: black-sand beaches, jungle waterfalls, and the short hike through clouds of sulfur to the top of La Soufrière volcano.

St. Barthélemy: Buff Enough to Surf
The curl at the out-of-the-way (and, unofficially, clothing-optional) Anse de Grande Saline beach is the island’s best for bodysurfing. The half-mile-long stretch of white sand on the south shore is a 15-minute walk and worlds away from the Hollywood types at St. Danjean Beach. Call the St. Bart’s Tourist Office, 011-590-27-87-27.

Cuba: Total Immersion
Wheel through Havana with the local biking club. Hone your underused salsa moves. Debate hot political issues using your newly mastered verbs (like derrocar—to overthrow). All this and more on a two- to four-week crash course in Spanish language, Cuban culture, and island adventure. Call Cuban Outreach Tours, 415-648-2239; .

St. Lucia: Climb the Big Piton
St. Lucia’s lush, volcanic twin peaks tower over sunbathers on the beach below—but why sit around in the shadows? Though local foresters have tagged precipitous and overgrown 2,461-foot Petit Piton off-limits due to falling rock, the summit of 2,619-foot Gros Piton begs to be topped, and the 2.5-mile trek can be done in four hours. Call the St. Lucia Forestry Department, 758-450-2078, for maps and information.

Trinidad: Walk with the Animals
Hike past the Lagon Bouffe Mud Volcano and two miles up a forest path, where howler monkeys, peccaries, and orange-winged parrots await you in the Trinity Hills Wildlife Sanctuary—a private preserve owned, interestingly enough, by a local oil company. To visit, call the Incoming Tour Operators’ Association of Trinidad and Tobago, 868-633-4733.

Jamaica: Raft the (Other) Rio Grande
Play Huck Finn for a day on a guided, seven-mile run down the Class I water of the lower Rio Grande in the jungly Blue Mountains. Your craft: a 30-by-6-foot, hand-hewn bamboo raft. The highlight: chatting with rural Jamaicans—and Red Stripe vendors—along the riverbank. Call Valley Hikes, 876-993-3881.

Martinique: Absalon, Absalon!
Bushwhack through the rainforest, rappel down a 40-foot cliff, navigate a boulder field, and then slip into the 90-degree, orange (from the iron in the rocks below) waters of the Absalon Thermal Spring. Call Aventures Tropicales, 011-596-75-24-24; .

Jost Van Dyke: La Vida Coco
Watch the sun set over White Bay and grab a painkiller (Pusser’s rum, Coco Lopez, multiple juices, and the obligatory nutmeg) at the self-serve Stress-Free Bar (284-495-9358) on Jost Van Dyke, a three-square-mile dot in the British Virgin Islands. Then pick up a guitar, bongos, or an empty coffee can and jam into the night with the eclectic house band. (Bonus: There’s a campground out back.)

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Muck Rakers

Each summer, the Dutch like to get dirty—en masse

Amazon Not Com

Bolivia’s Chalalan Ecolodge

Virgin Scuba

Steals

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