Yes, camping is fun. It gets you off the gridÌęandÌęinto most wildernesses for free, once you’ve bought all the equipment. But every so often, it’s nice to have the experience without having to do all the hard work yourself. If you’re willing to splurge, we picked a few of our favorite glamping spots around the world for every type of traveler.Ìę

Alpenglow Luxury Camping

Glacier View, Alaska

Open June through early September,Ìę is a remote outpost about an hour north of Palmer, Alaska. Canvas tents on cedar platforms are located in a forested area on the property of MicaÌęGuides, a local tour operator that leads treks and ice climbing on the nearby Matanuska Glacier. Breakfast and coffee are served each morning, and a communal area has a fire pit, cedar hot tub, and solar-powered chargers for your phone. Outdoor showers are being added this summer.ÌęFrom $132

Asheville Glamping

Asheville, North Carolina

, which opened in 2012 about 20 minutes from downtown, has vintage trailers, domes, safari tents, and, new this spring, treehouses, all open from March through November. Book way in advance to score the large, two-storyÌędome, with a nine-foot slide from the lofted bedroom. Some sites have no running water—you’ll use a shared bathhouse and bring in your own drinking water—but all come with electricity, a refrigerator, and a grill out front. Go for a hike along the Blue Ridge Parkway or a stretch of the Appalachian Trail, mountain-bike in Pisgah National Forest, or do a pub crawl among the city’s more than 25 craft breweries. From $110

Cabañas CuatroCuatros

Ensenada, Baja

With 19 architect-designed tent cabins tucked into a vineyard,Ìę offers the perfect quick getaway south of the border. Just 80 miles fromÌęSan Diego, the accommodations are set on a 144-acre property that’s home to an equestrian center, restaurant, and wine-tasting room. Take a sail through Salsipuedes Bay, scuba dive from the beach, or mountain-bike local trails. Your tent comes with an outdoor shower and a deck overlooking the Pacific Ocean. From $238

The Resort at Paws Up

Greenough, Montana

Ìęoffered glamping way before it was a thing—this summer is itsÌę15th season of booking luxury tents from May through October on itsÌęmassive 37,000-acre property outside of Missoula. While you’re there, fly-fish the Blackfoot River, ride mountain bikes, and paddleboard from the resort’s private island lodge on nearby Salmon Lake. You’ll get a butler who can book outings or start your campfire, a chef at a neighboring dining pavilion, Wi-Fi, and bathrooms with heated floors.ÌęFrom $597

AutoCamp Santa Barbara

Santa Barbara, California

You can camp on the beach outside of Santa Barbara, but if you want to stay closer to town,Ìę has you covered. Sleekly designed, permanently parked Airstreams are within walking distance to Handlebar Roasters, the best coffee in town, plus tasty tacos, craft beer, and homemade ice cream at the Santa Barbara Public Market. Grab the complementary cruiser bike at your Airstream to ride the three-mile Cabrillo Bike Path, which crosses three beaches along Santa Barbara’s scenic waterfront. AutoCamp also has two other California locations, near Yosemite and the Russian River.ÌęFrom $179

The Vintages

Dayton, Oregon

Set in Oregon’s Willamette Valley, theÌęÌęis made up of 34 trailers on a 14-acre property smack in the middle of wine country. Your trailer comes with bathrobes, coffee fixings, and an outdoor grill, and you’ll have access to the property’s pool, lawn games, wine tastings, and outdoor movies in summer. By day, explore the nearby space museum or take a hike in Willamette Mission State Park. From $120

Anegada Beach Club

Anegada, British Virgin Islands

°Őłó±đÌę—on the remote island of Anegada—has standard hotel rooms, but come for the thatch-roofed palapas that dot the beach. You’ll get a canopy bed, a deck that looks out over the sea, and a private bathroom.ÌęKitesurfing, paddleboarding, and kayaking are all on offer atÌęthe shoresÌęout front.ÌęFrom $360

Sandy Pines Campground

Kennebunkport, Maine

You can glamp in any number of shelters atÌę—canvas tents, Airstreams, A-frames, covered wagons, and cottages on wheels. The place has a saltwater pool, a children’s craft tent, and a general store with s’mores supplies. Goose Rocks Beach, with its white sand and mellow surf for paddleboarding, is just a mile away, orÌęride a section of the 65-mile Eastern Trail, a bike path that passes through coastal Kennebunkport.ÌęFrom $199

Under Canvas Mount Rushmore

Keystone, South Dakota

Ìęopened in 2018 near Mount Rushmore National Memorial. You’ll have views of Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Lincoln from the deck of your safari-style canvas tent, whichÌęcomes with an attached bathroom, hot shower, and solar-powered lights. Chefs whipÌęup meals in the neighboring camp cafĂ©. While you’re there, hike in the Black Hills and climb granite walls in Custer State Park.ÌęFrom $149

Hawley Farm Glamping

Hamilton, Missouri

An hour north ofÌęKansas City, you can camp in a yurt or canvas tent atÌę. If you’re coming with a group, they’ll also set up more standard tents for you, complete with beds, lanterns, and a campfire at the ready. Situated on a 210-acre working farm, with hiking trails and a fishing pond, your tents come with solar-heated showers, s’mores fixings, and coffee and breakfast delivered each morning. A wildlife conservation area and the quaint town of Hamilton are just a few miles away. From $165

The post 10 Amazing Glamping Spots in North America appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

As a kid, you can’t control where you grow up. To land somewhere like St. John, in the U.S. Virgin Islands, takes luck—and in my case an adventurous mother.

My fraternal twin brother, Sean, and I were five years old when our mom decided that she was tired of commuting from Westport, Connecticut, to New York City. So in December 1985, she and her boyfriend bought a 41-foot sailboat named Yahoo, we packed everything we owned into 19 duffel bags, and we headed south.

St. John, half of which is covered by , offered singular beauty—and plenty of places to anchor our new floating home. Mom took a job as a landscaper in Fish Bay and eventually got her real estate license. Sean and I fell in with a rat pack of kids who congregated after school to play tackle football, catch tarantulas and lizards, and crawl under barroom floors in search of quarters. We grew up boogie boarding and surfing on the south shore. One day we took turns reeling in a 350-pound shark off the west end of Jost Van Dyke, next door in the British Virgin Islands.

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After two years on the boat, Mom bought a house. A house that, on September 6, 2017, was completely destroyed by Hurricane Irma. At the time, my mother was on the mainland for a wedding and a visit with Sean and me in Colorado, where we both live with our families. Four days after the storm, we found a YouTube video with aerial footage of our neighborhood. It was annihilated; I didn’t recognize our home, a modest two-story structure that had survived hurricanes for 30 years. It looked like someone had shot a missile into it. So did our neighbors’ houses. I watched the video five times. Despite studying the footage, which covered at least a quarter mile in all directions, I could not locate our roof.

It had been more than 15 years since I’d lived on St. John, but I still considered it home. It’s where I learned about the world, everything from fishing to race. When we were nine, my brother and I spent an entire spring glued to a chain-link fence watching St. John’s all-black Little League team practice. The West Indian coaches, former pro prospects Orville “Chopper” Brown and Terry “Chino” Chinnery, asked if we’d like to join the team the following year. We did. On September 16, 1989, while practicing in the island’s main town of Cruz Bay, I got hit by a pitch and broke my elbow. As the doctor wrapped it in a cast, he said, “Have you heard about the storm coming?”

He said it was called Hugo and that the territory was in line for a direct strike. The Virgin Islands have a long, fatal history with tropical cyclones. The first recorded major hurricane hit the island in 1697. Devastating storms followed in 1772, 1819, 1867, and 1916. It had been decades since a legitimate threat had materialized.

By then we were in our new house a half mile above Cruz Bay; other residents live in small communities scattered above bays and beaches. We were oblivious to the storm’s power. Instead of installing hurricane shutters or armor screens, like people do now, we duct-taped an X over each of the six sliding glass doors and sat on our living room couch as Hugo roared through with 150-mile-per-hour sustained winds. We watched a neighbor’s roof peel off, a shed get picked up by a tornado, and a restaurant’s roof slam into our yard like a kite. When the glass started to bow, Mom told us to hide under the bed.

In 1995, Hurricane Marilyn landed another roundhouse. Sean and I were in Connecticut when it hit; Mom rode out the storm on a boat in Hurricane Hole, a sheltered bay that offers some protection from the wind. Though the boat held its position, people who hunkered down in more vulnerable locations on shore still insist that the winds were substantially stronger than the 115-mile-per-hour forecast.

I recall images from those storms, but the damage I saw on the Irma video was in a class by itself—three or four times as bad as Hugo and Marilyn combined, locals estimated. “The forces were just incomprehensible compared with previous storms,” says Rafe Boulon, a St. John native and retired scientist whose great-grandfather opened the U.S. Weather Bureau office on Puerto Rico in the early 1900s. “Some places lost probably 10,000 years of sand and vegetation in a matter of three hours.”

As soon as IrmaÌęformed as a tropical storm off the west coast of Africa on August 30, it grabbed scientists’ attention. Weak upper-level winds over the Atlantic and sea-surface temperatures that were two degrees warmer than average made for an ominous mix as the storm moved toward the Caribbean.

“It’s amazing how much difference just one or two degrees can make at that water temperature in terms of how strong a hurricane can get,” says Jay Hobgood, an associate professor of atmospheric science at Ohio State University who tracked Irma and has been studying hurricanes since the 1970s.

Despite a roughly 400-mile diameter, Irma had to thread a needle to inflict catastrophic damage on populated places. Most destruction occurs in a hurricane’s eyewall, a band of brutally violent wind spinning counterclockwise around the eye; beyond that, winds drop off quickly. This creates a 40-to-60-mile-wide path where you don’t want to be. Almost all hurricanes pass between Trinidad, just north of South America, and Bermuda. But most of them track north of the U.S. Virgin Islands, which have only a 3 percent chance of being hit by a hurricane that’s Category 3 or stronger.

Irma soon grew to Category 5, with maximum sustained winds of 185 miles per hour—the second-highest speed on record for an Atlantic hurricane. The day before it hit, Chopper got a call from his son, ­Okyeame, who works in intelligence for the U.S. Navy and is Sean’s and my godson. At 61, Chopper is built like a defensive end and remains as imposing as when he served as the island’s unofficial patriarch, someone who mothers would bring their sons to for discipline and direction. Okyeame told his father that he had researched the storm and it was a monster—nothing like it had hit St. John in generations, if ever. Chopper felt a wave of fear wash over him.

The same day, I called my closest friend from childhood, Galen Stamford, who was living in the one-bedroom apartment on the first floor of my mom’s house with his wife and six-year-old daughter. Sean and I met Galen our first week in the Virgin Islands. He grew up to be one of the top surfers in the region and a beloved island figure. Like everyone else, he had been watching Irma’s advance with dread. “I don’t think your mom’s house is going to survive this one,” he said. He had decided to stay at a friend’s concrete house in Peter Bay, on the north side of the island, where the windows and doors would be protected by a large armor screen. They had stocked enough food and water to last three months.

Across the 20-square-mile island, the 4,000 residents finalized preparations of their own. In Rendezvous Bay, on the island’s south side, Carlos Di Blasi, a 53-year-old restaurant owner, had decided to ride out the storm in the house that he and his wife, Maria, had built 16 years earlier. It had one-foot-thick concrete walls and a roof made of corrugated tin, three-quarter-inch plywood, and half-inch cedar.

Sailors in the area frantically rushed to secure their boats. Longtime skipper Richard Benson, 66, buzzed around in his dinghy helping other people get ready, including his son, Daniel. Benson owned one of St. John’s iconic charter boats, the all-black, 84-foot “pirate ship” Goddess Athena. He had a long blond beard and gold teeth, and he was known for his stern temperament and reliability. He and Daniel had five boats to prep between them, but as they worked, Daniel was fighting a stomach bug that left him barely able to speak. “I felt terrible,” recalls Daniel, a 26-year-old artist and surfer. “All I wanted was to be with my dad and help him.”

Before Benson steered the Goddess Athena to Coral Bay on September 5, he did something that was rare for him: he admitted regret. “We should’ve sailed south two days ago,” he told a friend.

Benson didn’t have as many options as smaller-boat owners did for where to seek shelter. In Hurricane Hole, the National Park Service allots 105 spots across four bays where captains can clip onto a one-inch-thick chain strung across the ocean bottom. But boats longer than 60 feet aren’t allowed to use the chain, so Benson positioned the Goddess Athena in the shallower water and mud of Sanders Bay, across the harbor.

Just north of where Benson anchored, a 50-year-old lifelong sailor named Adam Hudson tied off his 27-foot Bristol, Solstice, in roughly the same spot he always did: in front of the old customhouse on the east side of the bay. The first time he rode out a major hurricane on the water—Hugo, when he was in his early twenties—Hudson escaped a pileup of boats by jumping into chest-deep water and wading to shore as raindrops shelled his skin. He and his dad watched their boat get pounded for the next eight hours, irreparably damaged. This time he figured he’d be fine, if for no other reason than he’d always been fine in this spot—the same rationale Benson seemed to be using.

The night before Irma struck St. John, it mowed down Barbuda—an island three times the size of St. John—leaving 95 percent of its buildings uninhabitable. St. John­ians who watched the radar that night were forced to accept a grim reality.

“Imagine you’re skydiving, and you pull the rip cord and nothing happens,” Daniel Benson says. “You look at the ground, and the glance that you and the ground exchange, that moment of imminence—that’s what it felt like.”

On the morning of September 6, the storm ramped up at different times in different places, but it happened quickly every­where. In Peter Bay, Galen and his storm mates—seven people and six dogs—observed an almost instantaneous change when the eyewall arrived at around 11:15 A.M. “It was like a snap of your fingers,” he said. “There was no warning. We went from 70- to 160-mile-per-hour winds like that. The bronze railings started to whistle. You could hear ceramic roof tiles getting ripped off one by one.”

Five miles south, Carlos Di Blasi and his family lounged in a bedroom watching a movie, wondering why it was so quiet. Their house faced east and was tucked against a mountain, sheltered from the west winds. Until 12:30 P.M., you could have heard a quarter hit the floor. Then a big gust shook the house, and Di Blasi decided that they should move downstairs to a more secure room. He walked to the closet to get his shoes as Maria and their 11-year-old son, Alejo, looked out the window.

Bang! A deafening explosion rang out—suddenly the dark room was light. Di Blasi looked at his 15-year-old son, Mateo. A long two-by-six beam had pierced the roof like a javelin and missed his son’s head by inches, spraying his hair with wood chips.

Bang! A second beam landed on the other side of Mateo. He stood there, frozen, as water gushed through the ceiling holes.

Bang! A third beam came through. Maria started screaming. The four of them raced downstairs to a bathroom under a concrete ceiling and listened as 11 more beams—ripped from another house by a tornado—­penetrated their roof.

At the other end of the island, in Coral Bay, six-foot waves crashed down on Hudson’s boat, breaking its mast. At 1 P.M., he felt an anchor line snap, and the boat started taking on water. He knew it was only a matter of minutes until it sank, so he grabbed his savings—$5,000 in cash that he kept in a drawer—crawled onto the bow, and waited until the pulpit disappeared into the water. Then he began to swim for his life, greenbacks in one hand, ball cap in the other.

He estimates that he swallowed a gallon of saltwater during the swim. He reached the shoreline, crawled up to a rock, and clung to it for five hours in the fetal position, shivering and slurping rainwater.

Several islanders say they felt an earthquake at the height of the hurricane. Water rose through sink and shower drains, then disappeared. Walls expanded and contracted. “I thought 10 percent of the people on island were going to die,” Daniel Benson told me. “I honestly thought that.”

Across most of St. John, the storm simmered down between 5 and 6 P.M. The eyewall had passed, and a hurricane’s outer bands usually bring more rain than wind. But high on Bordeaux Mountain, the island’s pinnacle at 1,283 feet, the fury was just ­beginning.

Debby Roberts-Liburd, a grandmother whose family lives on a remote plot above southern Lameshur Bay, counted seven tornadoes between 5:30 P.M. and 1 A.M. She had already watched three relatives’ houses get blown apart when her own roof flew away at 10:30 P.M. Then the wind sucked the toilet straight up and out of the bathroom.

“Ma,” yelled her son, L.J., “we cannot stay in this room, because we all will be sucked out.” As Debby hurried outside to take shelter on the lower floor, L.J. saw a tornado coming and knew she wouldn’t make it back inside before it arrived. He ran and grabbed her around the waist as she clung to a water drum. “Don’t look up,” he said.

The wind lifted Debby’s legs off the ground and shook her like a fish. “Just hold on, Ma!” L.J. said. “Don’t loose off, ’cause if you loose off, two of us gone!”

When she felt her grip slipping, Debby prayed. Please, Lord, don’t let anything cut off my hands. Almost instantly, she heard a ssssssip, and the air went still. She ran inside.

The morning after felt apocalyptic. Not a leaf remained; the islands were so brown that the color even showed up in images from NASA satellites. Bizarre sights filled the landscape. Chopper came out of his house to find his dog eating his cat. Boats were stacked on shore like sticks in a campfire. Desperation set in. Looters ripped out ATMs. My mom worried that her belongings would be ransacked before she got home. Galen heard stories of people getting robbed at gunpoint, and he began sleeping with a spear.

At first, some 2,700 residents were unaccounted for—more than half the population. “I was getting two to four messages a minute for a while,” says Jon Shames, president of St. John Rescue, a volunteer organization.

In the sailing community, boaters shared news of who they’d seen and who they hadn’t, in what is known as the Coconut Telegraph. It soon became evident that nobody could find Richard Benson or the Goddess Athena. Daniel Benson spent days using a jury-rigged VHF radio to try and hail his dad. He got no response, but he heard the Coast Guard trying, too, which gave him hope.

Unfortunately, the Atlantic hurricane season was far from over. Two weeks after Irma passed, Maria walloped St. Croix and Puerto Rico—major hubs for the relief effort on St. John. Even though St. John dodged a direct strike, its supply chain was broken.

Richard Benson’s fate remained a mystery for 19 days, until someone saw a British news story about an unidentified man who was found nine miles northeast of Coral Bay, on Tortola’s coast, the day after Irma. “Caucasian, between the ages of 60 and 70, medium build, 5'7 to 5'8 and 160 lbs,” read the description. “He had a long blond beard and hair and was wearing blue coveralls like that of a marine engineer when he was found.” Daniel took a helicopter to identify his father at the morgue. He was, remarkably, the only St. John resident to die during the storm.

Not long afterward, Daniel located the Goddess Athena—or at least the remaining 20 feet of her. The stern, one of 546 shipwrecks left by Irma in the U.S. Virgin Islands, had washed up inside the barrier reef at Johnson Bay, just southwest of Coral Bay. It was a skeleton. The steering wheel and helm were gone, and the interior was gutted except for a light bulb and a speaker. The only thing that Daniel found of his dad’s was his old underwater camera.

My mother arrived on St. John three weeks after Irma, the day the St. Thomas airport reopened. She spent long hours picking things out of the rubble, which she stored in her car, and doing laundry at a friend’s house where she was staying. She applied for FEMA aid. She got exhausted quickly and often.

Everyone kept asking what she was going to do, and she didn’t have an answer. Rebuilding at age 68 with a FEMA loan sounded daunting, but so did the alternative: leaving the island she loved.

I got my first view of St. John two months after Irma, on November 6. Sean and I joined Galen, two friends from Colorado, and my father-in-law to tear down our house to the foundation. Part of me feared the job, not for physical reasons but for emotional ones. Still, the rubble had sat long enough, and we knew Mom would need it gone if she decided to sell the land. (Before she paid off her mortgage five years ago, the bank required her to have hurricane insurance, which cost $18,000 a year. She got rid of the coverage once she settled the debt.)

It’s strange to take a sledgehammer to your childhood home—demolishing the kitchen counter and what’s left of your bedroom walls. But that was better than cleaning out the freezer, which had sat unopened for two months in 85-degree heat. Thousands of rotting maggots combined with shrimp scampi make a strong case for the world’s foulest smell.

As I broke down walls snared in vines, I couldn’t help but imagine how the house had come apart. Assuming that the roof went first, the west-facing wall must have been flattened by 200-mile-per-hour winds. The remaining walls likely collapsed after that, then the south deck and railings, everything swept into the bush.

Iguanas watched from the treetops as we shoveled soggy debris into buckets and piled it eight feet high in the driveway. In one shovelful, I collected a remote control, part of the kitchen table, a phone book, chunks of moldy drywall, and a bottle of vinegar. In the next, my high school ID, more moldy drywall, Ìę on DVD, and a Christmas card to “Gram” from Sean’s kids.

I dug a box out of the mud that contained our grandparents’ Kodachrome slides from the 1950s. Mom found her Woodstock ticket stubs. We discovered a plastic bin full of a hundred framed photos from our childhood and hers, somehow sitting dry next to three bins full of water.

On the third day, a neighbor surveyed our work from his still standing deck. “See!” Mom shouted up to him. “I told you they’d come rescue me.” For the first time in weeks, she sounded hopeful.

Despite spending that week on St. John, I knew I had seen only a portion of Irma’s impact on the region. So in late November I returned, joining local photographer Steve Simonsen on his boat. We motored all over the British Virgin Islands, which neighbor St. John, visiting people who had survived the eye and were now left to rebuild.

One of our first stops was the world-­renowned Bitter End Yacht Club on the east side of Virgin Gorda, a 64-acre resort spread across a mile of sandy coastline. Sixty of its buildings—including 40 rental villas—were destroyed. “It has to be totally reimagined,” John Glynn, a marketing executive, told me.

We pulled up to the dock and met Henry Prince, a 20-year employee and Virgin Gorda native who guessed that it would take at least three years for Bitter End to look anything like it did before the storm. “You’re not going to rebuild it the way it was. You have to rebuild it for the new type of hurricane,” he said.

We headed across North Sound past Necker Island, where Sir Richard Branson has weathered every hurricane for the past 40 years. He told me that 300 of his private island’s 600 flamingos survived winds that broke his anemometer when they hit 210 miles per hour. We stopped for lunch at Leverick Bay, one of the most devastated communities, where four out of every five buildings had been blown apart. Marina manager Nick Willis was sipping a beer on his deck when I found him. He told me about the damage but also how Irma had brought out the best in people. Like the rich Czech guy from Nail Bay who had paid hundreds of locals $10 an hour to work on their homes after the storm. Or the man who had boated up to the marina and handed Willis $100, asking only that he give it to someone who needed it. “It just brings you to tears,” Willis said.

We drove around Tortola with Chino, my old baseball coach, who mentors island kids and lives in Cane Garden Bay, a port famous for its beachfront restaurants, all of which were destroyed. We saw where the ocean had ripped graves out of the earth in Carrot Bay and flipped a 99-ton ferry upside down on Jost Van Dyke. We gaped at a battered airplane fuselage—without its wings or tail—balanced atop a ruined hangar at the Beef Island airport. I heard rumors that the British military measured gusts up to 285 miles per hour. (The unofficial wind speed record is 318 miles per hour, set by a 1999 tornado in Oklahoma City.)

None of the sights, however, compared with what we found on Cooper Island, a tiny cay off the south shore of Tortola. As we neared a concrete dock, an old West Indian woman walked toward us holding a knife above her head. I got off the boat and approached her slowly, introducing myself and asking if I could talk to her about Irma. “Of course. Come in!” she said. She led me and Simonsen toward a makeshift white tent—actually a sail draped over some coconut trees. A frail-looking man limped along the beach to meet us.

Jean and John Leonard explained that they weathered Irma right here at sea level. Jean, 84, came from Trinidad so long ago that she’d forgotten the year. John, 90, was born on Cooper Island and had lived here all his life. Before Irma they had eight boats and 15 fish pots just offshore. Like many Virgin Islanders, they’d seen their share of hurricanes and did not fear them, so when a boat arrived to take them to Tortola, they declined.

Their son, who lives on Tortola, sent his 15-year-old boy to stay with them during the storm, in case they needed some muscle. Soon after the deluge began, a sea grape tree fell on their roof, followed by a coconut palm. The house began to break apart. Ten-foot waves combined with the fast-rising surge almost pinned the Leonards to the bed they were hiding under. Their grandson kicked down the door, and they ran outside. As the wind and ocean raged, John turned to his wife of 54 years. “I can’t make it anymore,” he said. He lay down in the water. Jean grabbed a pile of dry clothes she’d stored in a drum and propped them under his head to keep him from drowning.

The next day, when their son came to check on them, he was stunned. “He say he didn’t expect to see we alive,” Jean told me in her Trinidadian accent. “He didn’t expect to see we at all.”

Two dogs and hundreds of ducks, many still limping from Irma, scurried around in the sand next to an outboard motor and various buoys. Bags of corn for their animals—they also have more than 80 goats, which they sell to a butcher on Tortola—were stacked on the dock. I couldn’t help but notice a second sail fashioned into an A-frame, 50 feet down the beach. I walked over and peeked inside, seeing two old mattresses on rickety frames under the sail. This was where the Leonards were sleeping. Before the Royal Marines brought them sails, they’d slept in the open.

The Virgin IslandsÌęface an uncertain future. The first three months after Irma were focused on solving basic problems and getting electricity restored. It helped that, in addition to local organizations, longtime St. John second-home owners Tom Secunda—a billionaire cofounder of Bloomberg—and country-music star Kenny Chesney launched extensive relief and evacuation assistance. (By the end of the exodus, most believed that St John’s population had been cut in half.) FEMA had contributed nearly $300 million to the islands by mid-­December, including loans, and at one point Virgin Islands National Park requested $68 million in hopes of catalyzing economic progress on St. John. “The challenge is keeping this place on the radar for the American public and also for Congress,” acting park superintendent Darrell Echols told me.

The long-term environmental fallout is unknowable. It took more than three months for the dangerously high levels of bacteria, possibly from runoff tainted by septic backups, to clear up on two popular north-shore beaches, Maho and Oppenheimer. The coral reefs have been stressed by the same runoff. One scientist told me that it could take decades for the red mangroves to recover.

As for reconstruction, David Rosa, an engineer who lives and works on St. John, said that he expects a change in building codes because of Irma. Currently, everything must be constructed to withstand 165-mile-per-hour winds. “It wouldn’t surprise me if they went up to 180 or even higher,” Rosa said. Still, stronger buildings are more expensive: one-inch rebar, for example, costs six times as much as half-inch.

The most important question is how and when tourism will rebound. Five of the resorts on St. John were still closed in early February, and the two biggest, Caneel Bay and the Westin, don’t expect to reopen until 2019. Arthur Jones, owner of Arawak Expeditions, said that he expects to lose two-thirds of his business over the next year. “We are a tourism-based economy, and when tourists don’t come, we are going to be hurting,” Jones said.

“Things are going to change here,” said Miles Stair, an old friend who has lived on St. John for 46 years. “People will go, people will come. Are we going to have fewer restaurants? Are we going to see fewer tourist dollars? Is that good, bad, somewhere in between? I think it’ll be years before we really gain a perspective.”

Richard Branson, who likened Irma’s damage to a nuclear strike, is leading an effort to unite the region so it will be less vulnerable to future storms. It’s called the Caribbean Climate-Smart Coalition, and he views it as a sort of Marshall Plan for the region. The goal: get the Caribbean islands—including the U.S. and British Virgin Islands—­recategorized as a bloc, so they can receive lower-interest loans faster and better insurance terms. “It’s much easier for, say, the World Bank to deal with all the islands at once instead of lots of individual islands,” says Branson, who was forced to cancel bookings at his Necker ­

Island resort through September 2018.

As for the likelihood of more megastorms hitting the Virgin Islands, it’s one aspect of climate change that scientists disagree about. In general, most believe—and the models agree—that we will see fewer Atlantic cyclones. But when conditions align, they could bring monsters.

Infrastructure aside, Irma’s remaining wounds are personal. Galen’s wife and daughter left St. John four weeks after the storm and will probably remain off island through the school year. They’re far from the only family living a fractured existence.

“Life is hard all over again,” said Adam Hudson, the sailor who lost his boat in Hugo and then another in Irma, over a beer on the Coral Bay waterfront.

Daniel Benson was still processing his father’s fate when I met him one afternoon at Hart Bay. We walked out to the rocky point and sat next to the break where Sean and I had learned to surf. With his blond dreadlocks tucked under a bandana and tattoos honoring his roots—U-S-V-I across his left fingers and Love City, Cruz Bay’s nickname, on his thigh—Daniel pondered what happened to his dad.

Benson was believed to have had ten large anchors securing the roughly 40-ton Goddess Athena, so the fact that his boat was found elsewhere means he must have cut his lines. But why? Though friends have differing opinions, Daniel believes his dad lost his dinghy and couldn’t get to shore as the storm picked up. And if his anchors then started dragging, he may have decided to fire up the 200-horsepower diesel engine and roll the dice in the open ocean rather than be smashed on the rocks in the bay.

“I think he made it pretty far south, then a wave took him,” Daniel said. “I can only imagine hanging on to a steering wheel while duck-­diving 20 feet of solid water. I just wonder how many waves he dove through before he finally said fuck it. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe the waves just broke the helm right off.”

In late November, a St. John Rescue truck carrying Benson’s remains led a procession through Cruz Bay. People lined the streets to say goodbye. “I know everybody says my situation is maybe heavier than what they went through,” Daniel said, “but from my perspective, the woman who crawled out from underneath her collapsed house in the middle of the storm, who barely had enough room to breathe, I think she went through something heavier than me in the storm. The girl who had to run out of her house because it exploded and got into a car, then had to go to another car because the first one exploded
” He trailed off. “Everybody has experienced a whole different kind of crazy with this hurricane.”

Sean and I have tried our best to support our mom after Irma. She put her property up for sale in early December, and she’s spending the winter near us in Colorado. In her bedroom, a sign reads Don’t look back. You’re not going that way.

It was hard for her to admit to people that she was leaving. So much of her identity is tied to St. John and enduring life on a volcanic rock in the middle of the ocean. I tried to remind her that the results were out of her control. As Galen said, “We’re like the fleas on a dog, and we got hit by the paw.”

A handful of friends whose homes survived told me that they feel ashamed when people ask how they fared. Mom understands, despite landing on the opposite side of that fate. “In some ways, I’m sad that I wasn’t actually here for the storms. I’ve thought of that a lot,” she said one night at dinner. “ ‘Missed out’ isn’t the right phrase, but I’ve imagined what it must’ve been like, even though it’s unimaginable.”

It’s a weird feeling to know that I can’t go home anymore. I think about sitting on our deck and watching the sunset, picking ripe passion fruit off our vine, hearing the roosters crow each morning. But I remind myself that the island will always be there.

One afternoon in late November, on our way back from the British Virgin Islands, Simonsen and I stopped at the Baths, a famous boulder-strewn beach on Virgin Gorda where you can swim in caves and jump off rocks and nap on soft white sand. Like most beaches in the wake of Irma, it was empty and stunning. I did some bouldering and squeezed through a couple of caves, then jumped into the water to cool off. A family of four, including two boys under ten, snorkeled by. I asked the father where they were from. “Originally the UK,” he said, before gesturing toward the lone sailboat in the bay. “Right now we’re living aboard.”

I smiled to myself and told him they were lucky boys.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű correspondent Devon O’Neil wrote about mountaineer and photographer Cory Richards in August 2017.

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Feet in sand, cold beer in hand—does life get any better? Not really, which is why the highlight of a tropical beach vacation is often the moment you stumble upon a simple beach bar where the lobster is perfectly done, the proprietor tells stories for hours, and the drinks are tasty but lethal. No matter if you’re camping on the beach, Airbnb-ing it, or bunking at the Four Seasons—a beach bar without pretense is always a crowd-pleaser. Serendipity is, of course, part of the thrill—so we can’t help you there, but here are eight so good they’ve made a name for themselves (some even have websites!) and are worth seeking out.

The Soggy Dollar, British Virgin Islands

This in Jost Van Dyke (the smallest of the four main British Virgin Islands) earned its name by merit of its access route: You had to swim there. Once you’re good and salty, the drink to ask for is the painkiller, said to have been invented here in the 1970s. It is made of dark rum, cream of coconut, pineapple, orange juice, and freshly ground Grenadian nutmeg. Don’t have your own boat to moor nearby? There are ferries and water taxis from Beef Island and St. Thomas—but you’ll still get wet.

La Huella, José Ignacio, Uruguay

More than a dozen years after opening, the beachfront is still the epicenter of the scene in JosĂ© Ignacio, the thinking man’s exclusive alternative to casino and tourist riddled Punte del Este. The kind of place you go to unwind without hordes of people. It’s an accomplished restaurant serving top-notch sushi, South American-style grilled meats, homemade bread, and vegetables from a nearby organic farms. Book well in advance.

Scilly Cay, Anguilla

Eudoxie Wallace calls every woman who sets a foot in the sand of his “Gorgeous,” and he somehow gets away with it. That’s the first thing you need to know about this Anguilla institution, which Eudoxie and his wife, Sandra, have run for nearly three decades. It’s become such an Anguillan institution that the Wallaces run boats from the mainland, for visitors to feast on decadent lunches of lobster, crayfish, and chicken. (Skip the chicken. The crustaceans are enormous and delicious).

Pelican Bar, Jamaica

“Beach bar” is a bit of a misnomer for this . It’s a quarter mile from the beach—well, from any landmass—and 20 minutes by boat from Jakes hotel on Treasure Beach. The proprietor is a local fisherman-turned-barman named Floyd, and it’s hard to believe the charmingly dilapidated structure is still standing. Stay for a dinner of fried fresh fish—possibly a fish that you’ve caught yourself (bring gear) or by one of the fishermen who ferry guests out to the bar.

Sunshine’s Bar and Grill, Nevis

The owner—called Sunshine himself—won’t tell you what’s in his signature drink, the Killer Bee, beyond “some rum, some passion fruit juice, then some more rum,” but you should take his word for it. There’s a reason has become a Caribbean standout in the 12 years its been around. Sunshine still serves his potent cocktails under a thatched-roof bar that’s been through five hurricanes and two fires, and still fires up the same barbecue grills that got him started.

Bar do Ulysses, near Ubatuba, Brazil

Close to the cool colonial town of Paraty and the surfer city of Ubatuba, embodies the dream of barefoot Brazilian lifestyle. The best way to arrive is by boat from the nearby dreamy small hotel Pousada Picinguaba; the captain of the hotel’s schooner will call ahead to arrange for fresh grilled squid and icy Brahma beers to be waiting. There are hammocks on the beach for post-prandial lounging, as well as an easy access point for stand-up paddling.

La Gloriette, St. Barth

A welcome respite from all the dressed-up, champagne-spewing bars on St. Barth, is a classic feet-in-the-sand kind of establishment. The menu doesn’t extend much further than pizza: the ambitions here are refreshingly in check.

John Moore Bar, Barbados

It looks more like a gas station, but is one of the favorite bars on the island. Brightly painted but simple, the longtime rum shop is now a social community for its regulars and tourists who come to sample the Caribbean’s finest by the glass. There’s fresh local fish to soak up the booze.

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7 Perfect Island Getaways Around the Globe

From cheap hideaways to epic fishing and diving spots, we dug up seven crowd-free island escapes for every type of adventurer.

Maalifushi, Maldives
Great Abaco, Bahamas
Corn Islands, Nicaragua
Mumbo Island, Malawi
Niihau, Hawaii
Niue, South Pacificu
Jost Van Dyke, British Virgin Islands

Water World: Maalifushi, Maldives

7 incredible island getaways from around the globe

The English word atoll comes from ­Dhivehi, the official language of the Maldives. And with good reason. This nation consists of 1,192 islands spread across 35,000 square miles of Indian Ocean. Turquoise ­lagoons, pearlescent beaches, and coral gardens teem with over 1,900 species of fish, 400 species of mollusks, and 350 species of crustaceans, making it an aquaphile’s paradise. But it can be tough to put together a DIY trip in a place where the easiest way around is by boat or seaplane. Base yourself at , which can ­arrange your ­adventures for you (doubles from $650).

The hotel opens in December and is one of only two resorts in the rarely visited, pristine Thaa Atoll. You’ll stay in one of 66 thatched-roof bungalows and villas on the 20-acre ­island, half of which are raised on stilts above the water. When you’re not in one of the eight spa rooms, there’s plenty to do: fish for ­wahoo and grouper or go sailing in 25-knot winds, or snorkel or scuba with hawksbill turtles, schools of bluestripe snapper, or a few dozen manta rays at one of the island’s 40 dive sites. And while the December swells aren’t as good as the high season’s (April to October), (from $160 per person).

Access: Fly to the capital of Malé, then take a barefoot-piloted to the resort.

Trophy Heaven: Great Abaco, Bahamas


7 incredible island getaways from around the globe

The Bahamas are famous for their beaches and bonefishing. has both—with a little luxury thrown in. Blackfly, located in Schooner Bay, opened in March 2013 and is co-owned by Vaughn Cochran, a retired fishing guide, a marine artist, and an original member of Jimmy Buffett’s Coral Reefer Band. Each room has a broad veranda (with even broader views) and a custom-made colonial-style bed. Dinner is snapper, tuna, and mahi-mahi caught locally, complemented by organic fruit, vegetables, and eggs from nearby Lightbourn Farm. But all that is just an afterthought to the fishing. Blackfly has use of the only Atlantic-facing harbor in South Abaco—20,500-acre ­Abaco National Park practically abuts it—which means that anglers can stalk 30-pound permit and occasional 80-pound tarpon from six separate fishing zones, along with 12-pound bonefish from schools of up to 200 thick. From $2,300 per person for three nights, all-inclusive.

Access: Several airlines fly to Great Abaco from South Florida (Palm Beach is 175 miles east) and Nassau (106 miles south).

Two for One: Corn Islands, Nicaragua

7 incredible island getaways from around the globe

There was a time when visiting the Caribbean meant empty beaches, limpid waters, plentiful fish to catch (and eat), and ample cheap rum and beer. That idyll still exists on Nicaragua’s Big and Little Corn Islands. You can still score a $10 room on the combined five square miles of land—43 miles off the Caribbean coast­—and $70 gets you a ­bungalow with private veranda (and ­electrical outlets) at . Start by beach hopping on the Big Island: try Long Bay for bodysurfing, Sally Peaches for snorkeling, or South West for vegging out with a coco loco—a coconut and rum cocktail—at Martha’s bar. You can walk to any of them, but a cab is just 70 cents per person, no matter where you go. Then watch a Sunday baseball game in the ­island’s 2,000-seat Karen Tucker stadium for $1. ­

After you’ve had enough of the Big ­Island, take the daily water taxi 30 minutes to roadless , and rent a bungalow with Wi-Fi, fans, mosquito nets, and hot showers ($30). Little Corn’s position in the Caribbean makes for consistent winds that are ($50 for an intro course). You can also from a panga outfitted with two fighting chairs ($50), or take all that money you saved and splurge on a lobster dinner—it’s only $14.

Access: Fly round-trip from Managua to Big Corn on ($165). Then take a water taxi between Big and Little Corn ($12 round-trip; head to the Municipal Wharf in Brig Bay).

Simple Solace: Mumbo Island, Malawi

7 incredible island getaways from around the globe

Lake Malawi, a 2,300-foot-deep, 11,400-square-mile gem in southern Africa, is home to 1,000 species of fish—one of the highest concentrations on the planet. It’s also the site of half-mile-wide, 250-acre Mumbo ­Island, one of our favorite out-there getaways. The lake was declared a Unesco World Heritage site in 1984, and once you get underwater it’s easy to see why. There are more than 400 types of brilliantly colored freshwater tropical fish, like damsels, angelfish, and wrasses. Guests can snorkel or scuba with them past sunken knolls of granite boulders or kayak to the lake’s dozen islands for what Cape Town, South Africa–based Kayak Africa calls the top sea-paddling route in southern Africa.

Best of all, the outfitter limits occupancy to 14 guests at a time, putting them up in six furnished bungalows and tents with hammocks, thatched-reed roofs, and hot bucket showers. It’s bare-bones—there’s no electricity—but that’s by design. claims that if all tents and decks were removed, there wouldn’t be a human trace within a year. There’s also plenty to do on dry land. You can watch the hundreds of white-throated cormorants that nest on Mumbo or hike its five one-to-two-mile ­nature trails past rock fig and baobab trees. But after you’ve had a full day in and on the water, we won’t blame you if you just want to rest in that hammock. From $195 per person per night, all-inclusive.

Access: Fly to Malawi’s Lilongwe Inter­­national Airport ( connects through Johannesburg), drive four hours to Cape Mac­lear, on Lake Malawi’s southern end, and take the 45-minute ferry ride to the island.

Out of Bounds: Niihau, Hawaii

7 incredible island getaways from around the globe

Ever since this 70-square-mile spit of land was purchased in 1864 by Elizabeth Sinclair, a wealthy Scottish farmer, Hawaii’s Forbidden Isle has been most famous for being off-limits. But the wild landscape of arid, red-tinged volcanic terrain is easier to reach than you think: you can still take day trips from Kauai. Join Niihau Helicopters, which will land you on secluded beaches with nothing but shells, translucent water, and a few endangered monk seals ($400 per person; niihau.us). Or with monk seals, spinner dolphins, Galapagos sharks, and humpback whales (three-tank dives from $315).

Access: Trips start and end in Kauai. The 17-mile crossing takes 2.5 hours by boat. Stay at (from $346).

Wild Thing: Niue, South Pacific

7 incredible island getaways from around the globe

Eighteen hundred miles northeast of New Zealand, Niue can feel isolated. News on the island is only broadcast twice a week, swimming is frowned upon on Sundays, and, with just over 1,600 people on 100 square miles of the largest uplifted coral atoll in the world, it’s the least populated self-governing ­nation on the planet after the Vatican. But the quirks are part of the allure of this rocky cave-ridden island. Visitors can angle for ($55) or from July through September ($101).

But don’t ignore the land. Chasms and caverns perforate the island by the thousands. ­Until the early 1800s, Niueans inhabited them instead of houses, and even today there are fewer than 100 ­accommodations on Niue. Go for the large studios at the recently opened oceanfront , each of which has a private balcony perched on the rocky shore (from $106). The Huvalu Conservation Area tropical forest covers 13,000 acres, nearly one-quarter of the island, and has plenty of cycling oppor­tunities. or ride the 42-mile road around the island past beaches and along limestone cliffs (bike rentals, $12 per day).

Access: flies from Auckland weekly—the 3.5-hour flight crosses the ­International Date Line, arriving 20.5 hours before it departed.

Easy Living: Jost Van Dyke, British Virgin Islands

7 incredible island getaways from around the globe

Many know Jost Van Dyke, one of the handful of inhabited islands in the BVIs, as the barefoot island. Fifteen years ago, it had no electricity and few paved roads. That’s changed, but the atmosphere hasn’t. There are still no brand-name hotels—stay at , which offers essential amenities like iPod docks and charcoal grills (from $135). Then start with the adventure: rent 12- or 13-foot SUPs from , then head into Great Harbor to paddle near surfacing dolphins ($20 per hour). But take the island’s nickname to heart and spend some time padding between the 50-odd seasonal bars.

, located on White Bay, claims invention of the Painkiller (rum, pineapple juice, OJ, cream of coconut) and serves four-course dinners to the yachting set; boasts one of the biggest Caribbean New Year’s Eve parties in Great Harbor; and does barbecue every Thursday—and offers campsites for the inevitable postprandial collapse (equipped sites from $45).

Access: Fly to St. Thomas directly from the East Coast, and —or take the 75-minute public ferry from Red Hook, which is 25 minutes by cab from the airport.

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As unbelievable as it sounds, it’s true: there are private tropical island resorts that you don’t need to take out a mortgage in order to afford. Look hard enough and you’ll find a bunch of them tucked away on quiet sandy crests dotting the sea around the world, but I’ll focus on two of the finest ones close to the United States—to keep your flight costs down—and another in a more exotic locale.

Coco Plum Island, Belize
Cooper Island Beach Club, British Virgin Islands
Robinson Crusoe Island, Fiji

Affordable Island: Coco Plum

The low-end “no-frills” package offered by this palm-shaded 16-acre island off the coast of Belize is actually pretty frill-full. You’ll be in one of the resort’s 14 bungalows, where you can watch the reef-protected Caribbean lap onto your private pier from the hammock on your porch. Meals are included, as is use of the resort’s kayaks. The only catch: a minimum stay of four nights. Rates start at $280 a night.

Affordable Island: Cooper

The 500-acre island near Tortola that gives its name isn’t completely private to the resort—but there are barely any other signs of civilization on its tree-carpeted expanses. The property’s 11 rooms all have a kitchenette, bug-net-enclosed beds, and a luxurious sense of seclusion from the outside world. The popular activities are diving, kayaking, sitting at the long, expansive beach, and lingering on the outdoor sofas at the bar. Rates start at $250 a night.

Affordable Island: Robinson Crusoe

is as close as it gets to summer camp for adults. You don’t go there for seclusion—rather, the island, known for its dormitory housing, which caters to backpackers for $27 a night, is like a warm, party-going, outdoor activity center. You can surf, kitesurf, fish, kayak, climb trees, or go for a medicine walk within its 30 acres across the bay from the main island of Viti Levu. There are also private cabins, which start for about $120 a night.

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Easy Does It

What a tough guy can learn from an island off Belize

EXACTLY 12 HOURS after walking out the front door of our Brooklyn apartment into a snowstorm, my wife and I stood on the dock at St. George's Caye Resort, in Belize. I was holding my fly rod while she sipped a fruity cocktail and teased me about my bombastic claim that commercial flights do not count as real travel. Any self-respecting adventure traveler, I often say, needs to follow his flight with a couple of days on a train or the top of a bus in order to feel as though he's actually gotten somewhere.

My perspective on the issue was not well supported by St. George's Caye. It's only a 20-minute boat ride from Belize City, yet it feels like a place that should take a couple of days to reach by outrigger canoe. The two-mile-long island is sandwiched between the Belize Barrier Reef and hundreds of square miles of mangrove swamps and bonefish flats that support raucous colonies of seafaring birds and a few local manatees. You could count the permanent human population on your fingers and toes. But my wife didn't need to mention any of this or cite the relevant statistics. Instead, she simply pointed to the school of tarpon lolling in the shallows 30 feet away.

For the rest of the trip I continued to eat my words—along with immense amounts of spectacular food, such as spiny lobster delivered directly to the kitchen by local fishermen. Between meals—served communal style, on the beach, by a smiling crew in flip-flops—we joined a few planned expeditions. There was snorkeling and diving on the reef; a night cruise in search of crocodiles; and fishing for bonefish and permit with a private guide. But, mostly, we took off on our own makeshift adventures. The resort provides plenty of kayaks and sailboats without the fees, rules, and boundaries that too often turn island getaways into chaperoned walks on the beach. We discovered secluded sand, secret swimming holes, hungry schools of fish, and a curious manatee. At night, we kicked back in one of a dozen thatch-roofed cabanas. We could hear the Caribbean roll in just beyond our front porch. Beyond that, nothing. This self-respecting adventure traveler slept well.

GET THERE: St. George's Caye Resort (om) provides guest transport from Philip S.W. Goldson International Airport. Cabanas for two from $218, including meals and local rum punch. One-tank dives, $60; half-day fishing trips, $325.

Fire on the Mountain

Playing in the shadow of a volcano in Papua New Guinea.

Papua New Guinea

New Britain's Tavurvur volcano gets feisty

IN 1994, a 2,257-foot volcano erupted on the island of New Britain, Papua New Guinea, burying the city of Rabaul under seven feet of ash and prompting 30,000 people to evacuate. Only 3,000 returned, leaving the town essentially like Kauai pre–Captain Cook, only with more pyrotechnics: The island is populated mostly by members of some 50 indigenous tribes, and the resident volcanoes, Tavurvur and Vulcan, are still very much active. Go now and you can lounge on a black-sand beach and watch Tavurvur burp up lava and small columns of ash as many as four times an hour.

I arrived two years ago to find an ashy town—the swimming pools were gray—set on an active caldera with countless adventure options just beyond the city limits. One can scuba-dive at a reef wall that served as a berth for Japanese submarines in World War II; sample grilled crocodile at a sustainable farm in New Britain's jungle; or take a helicopter flight over inland waterfalls so remote, nobody has bothered to name them. But the highlight of New Britain is the paddling. On my third day in Rabaul, I drove five minutes south to Matupit Island and rented a dugout canoe with a guide from the Tolai tribe. We paddled across Simpson Harbor while a hot ash cloud boiled overhead. Afterwards, my guide brought me back to the Tolai village and served me bananas poached in coconut milk, which he said was a traditional feast commemorating the arrival of Fijian missionaries—whom the Tolai ate.

GET THERE: Air Niugini flies here at least twice daily from Port Moresby, on the south side of PNG's mainland (from $300; ). Lodging in Rabaul is limited to the Hamamas Hotel (doubles from $59; ). Ask the staff about tours of the OISCA farm ($18 with crocodile lunch; ) and rides to Matupit. The Tolai guides will find you; a day trip is $9.

Vieques Rising

Puerto Rico's Vieques has come a long way from when the Navy played war games on its beaches.

Back in 2001, the Navy was still using Puerto Rico's Vieques for war games on the beaches. There was just a handful of restaurants and hotels on the 21-mile-long, four-mile-wide Caribbean island, and it was the kind of place where guests didn't wear shoes. Today, the Navy is gone and the old bombing ranges have been designated a national wildlife refuge. Now, Vieques is exploding in a different way: New roads are being built; old ones are getting paved. One of the military's old bunkers is now a sports bar by day and a disco by night. Swanky hotels, like the W, which opened in March (doubles from $379; ), and restaurants, like El Quenepo (787-741-1215), are popping up.

But don't worry. While it's now possible to have the resort experience, Vieques is still funkier and more laid-back than most Caribbean islands. Book a łŠČčČúČčñŸ±łÙČč—one-room cottage—at La Finca (doubles from $125; ), a clean but rustic joint with outdoor showers and mismatched towels. Then head for the sand. There are more than 50 beaches—perfect for everything from kayaking (Green Beach) to snorkeling (the islet of Blue Beach) to paddling at night in one of the biggest bioluminescent bays in the world (Puerto Mosquito, a.k.a. “Bio Bay”). The best way to see the latter is in a clear canoe from the Vieques șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Company (two-hour rentals, $45; ), which, should you start getting antsy for more action, can also set you up with decent mountain bikes to explore all the old military roads ($25 per day) or take you kayak fly-fishing for tarpon ($150).

Twilight Zone

Happily lost on a Croatian island haunted by vampires.

Lustava

Northern Lustava

Dalmatian dinner, Croatia

Dalmatian dinner.

BY THE TIME we reached Lastovo, we were made of salt water and octopus. For a week, my family—14 of us, from age 78 down to 16—had sailed along Croatia's Dalmatian coast in a 100-foot Turkish gulet, gorging on grilled fish and pickling ourselves with local wine. We'd come far from the cruise ships of Dubrovnik and left the nightlife of Korcula behind. Lastovo (pop. 800) was the last and most remote island, one big national park with, from the look of the charts, great sheltered kayaking. But even our guide, adventure writer Maria Coffey, had never been.

We'd heard there were vampires on Lastovo—in the 1700s, the island had a little problem with vukodlaci, undead corpses that rose, as our guidebook said, “to visit the beds of bored wives and pleasure them in the night.” This sounded fine to some of our clan, but the island still emitted a creepy vibe. Even today, one of Lastovo's biggest celebrations involves the ritual humiliation of a straw puppet led through town on a donkey.

Sure enough, the crags showed little sign of life—just crying gulls and the colorful towels of naked Germans, the predominant pink-skinned species here, found sprawled along Dalmatia's rocky coast. But the little harbor of Skrivena Luka was a miracle, a still blue bay ringed with stone cottages. At the lone restaurant, Porto Russo, the proprietor brought out homemade verbena-infused Croatian grappa, then white wine (from his own grapes), home-cured olives, and local squid cooked for hours pod pekom—under a metal bell in a wood-fired outdoor oven. Later, in Lastovo Town, a 15th-century wonderland of vineyards and minaret-topped churches teetering on the island's summit, the local street sweeper—who still uses a broom—dragged us into his courtyard for thick, sweet coffee.

Did we come here by plane? Was the World Cup still going on? What was my name again? The Dalmatian islands aren't exactly off the beaten path, but in Lastovo you can feel like you sailed in and discovered them yourself.

GET THERE: Hidden Places owners Maria Coffey and Dag Goering guide ten-day kayaking-and-sailing trips along the Dalmatian coast for $4,550 per person ().

Sweet Bondage

There's no vacation quite like a Colombian-prison-island vacation.

BETWEEN 1960 AND 1984, visitors to Colombia's Isla Gorgona arrived shackled and blindfolded and slept behind barbed-wire fences, on wooden bunks without mattresses. The 2,500 inmates of Gorgona Prison were warned that, if they escaped, the venomous snakes on the tropical island would kill them and, if they braved the ocean, the sharks would get them instead.

Today, the lush, 6.5-square-mile island, 30 miles off Colombia's Pacific coast, is a national park; the lodging here has been managed since 2006 by the winner of the Colombian version of the TV show The Apprentice. Which is to say, this is one strange escape. I arrived last September via speedboat from the coastal town of Guapí. Upon touchdown, military police searched my bags for alcohol (it interferes with the requisite antivenin) and weapons. The other guests—the island hosts 130 at a time—were mostly schoolchildren and besotted couples, enjoying king-size beds in the updated guard quarters by the beach.

I spent my days exploring: first, the grisly ruins of the mammoth stone penitentiary, said to be modeled after a Nazi concentration camp and now overrun with capuchin monkeys and foot-long basilisk lizards, then the dense tropical jungle that covers 85 percent of Gorgona, for which the island provides obligatory boots. There really are pit vipers and coral snakes here, as well as easier-to-spot (and mostly harmless) boa constrictors.

The trekking's good and the kayaking better—I spent a few afternoons dipping into the equatorial water as blue-footed boobies and frigates flew overhead—but the main activity on Gorgona is diving. The island has a fully equipped dive center, and I'd regularly see 20 to 30 moray eels at any site, many as thick as my thighs. Gorgona's nature preserve extends to a six-mile radius around the island, so fish and turtles are plentiful, intrepid, and big. But size is relative. From July to September, humpbacks come to Gorgona's banks to mate and calve, and to see them breach and slap the surface with their gargantuan tails is to forget that once this was a place no one ever, ever wanted to go.

GET THERE: Three-night packages, including three meals daily, island transfers, and flights from Cali to the coastal town of GuapĂ­, in the Cauca department, from $463 (). Two-dive day trips from Gorgona's dive center, $90. Kayak rentals, $5 per hour.

King Kauai

Lush greenery, volcanoes and an endless supply of hidden beaches.

The Big Island has size on its side, not to mention fun volcanoes. Oahu has the storied North Shore. And Maui—well, let's just say that the honeymooners storming its beaches year after year don't come for nothing.

But little Kauai has it all: lush greenery, volcanoes, small towns not yet overrun, and a seemingly endless supply of hidden beaches for surfing, snorkeling, and sunbathing.

This year, all those options are more accessible than ever. On the island's north shore, the St. Regis Princeville opened its doors last October (doubles from $385; ); after taking over the historic Princeville Resort, St. Regis revamped the whole place with a classy retro look. (Think coconut palm floors and a new spa and restaurant by ĂŒber-chef Jean-Georges Vongerichten.)

But you don't go to Kauai to lounge. Join the locals for stand-up paddleboarding in Hanalei Bay—there's a great SUP surf break by the Hanalei Pier—or along the flat calm of the Hanalei River. Kayak Kauai offers lessons and boards (rentals from $42 per day; ). In the nearby Hanalei National Wildlife Refuge, a coastal wetlands teeming with endemic bird species, you'll find the Okolehao trail—a windy, two-mile path offering views of Hanalei Bay and the mind-blowing Na Pali coastline. If it's surf you're after, head 45 minutes south to Poipu, rent a board at Nukumoi Surf Co. ($6 per hour; ), and try the Poipu Beach surf break, one of the island's best. Afterwards, crash just 50 yards away at the year-old Koa Kea, the first and only boutique property here (doubles from $299; ).

Trippin' on Indo

Short-term memory loss in the South Pacific.

Indonesia

Shrines decorated for the Hindu Odalan festival.

Indonesia

Lembongan traffic

LEMBONGAN ISN'T EXACTLY out of the way—just seven miles southeast of tourist-clogged Bali—but it stays perfectly out of your way. Nothing about the place gets between you and your vacation. A three-square-mile speck of coral reefs, empty beaches, and hillside bungalows, the Indonesian island is what Henry Miller meant when he said of Big Sur, California, “There being nothing to improve on in the surroundings, the tendency is to set about improving oneself.”

The easy access from Bali—plus the presence of several consistent surf breaks and dive spots—has given Lembongan a small but steady tourism economy to supplement the traditional kelp farms. My wife and I thought it might be a nice change of pace during our 16-day honeymoon on Bali. It ended up being the highlight of our trip.

It's hard for either of us to say exactly why. I know we surfed and took a beginner scuba excursion. But mostly what we have are hazy recollections of long naps, afternoon strolls, and laughing over dinner about how we'd managed to fill another day doing … er, well, we were never quite sure. And still aren't. We barely even have any photos from our stay. That's Lembongan's gift: letting you let go.

I imagine this empty-mindedness is the sort of self-improvement people seek from meditation retreats. But this retreat has cold beer and a really hollow reef break—from what I can remember.

GET THERE: Island Explorer Cruises offers day trips to Lembongan for $85 per person, including food and activities, and beachside bungalows for two from $90 per night ().

Have Lots, Want Not

The curious challenge of living it up on a private island in Fiji.

Fiji

Three acres of paradise: Wadigi

Indonesia

Wadigi's open air suites

I HAD TWO WHITE-SAND beaches and an infinity pool that overlooked an endless sea. I had a boatman ready at a moment's notice to take me snorkeling, water-skiing, windsurfing, fishing, or paddling in a glass-bottom kayak. I had two chefs waiting to prepare any whim; an open-air villa; an on-call masseuse; and a statuesque hostess who greeted me with a fruity cocktail in a fresh-cut coconut. In other words, I had Wadigi, a tiny islet in Fiji's Mamanucas, at my command.

I'd been sent there by a dive magazine to experience the singular indulgence of a private island. And, as a chronically underpaid writer, I planned to soak up every last perk. But after a couple of days of diving among spiky lionfish at half a dozen world-class sites, dinners with too many courses to count, and enough gin-and-tonics to get me kicked out of any self-respecting American bar, a funny thing happened: I found myself doing absolutely nothing.

As it turns out, when you have everything you might want, your wants start to subside. OK, so I never did get bored with that glass-bottom kayak, but I spent most of my free hours simply lolling around and contemplating the preposterous views. On my last evening, instead of ordering extravagant cocktails and back-to-back massages, I ate all the home-baked cookies in the jar and then simply sat in the pool watching the sun dip below the horizon and the clouds sweep across the mirror-still sea.

GET THERE: From $2,327 per day for two, including meals, most activities, and lodging; two-tank dives, $100;

New Outposts

Seven island getaways to fit every fantasy.

Anguilla

The Viceroy, Anguilla

FISH
Islas Secas, Panama
A group of 16 private islands, Islas Secas sits 25 miles off the Pacific coast, close to the wahoo, marlin, and grouper crowding Hannibal Bank. On land, the place is Gilligan's wildest dream, its seven solar oceanfront yurts holding only 14 guests. Go for the surfing or diving, but mainly go fish: Last winter, fishing director Carter Andrews helped a guest set seven world records here. In a week. Six nights, $6,600 per person;

SAIL
Scrub Island, British Virgin Islands
This 230-acre private island, which opened in February, is the first new resort in the BVIs in 15 years. At the heart is a 53-slip marina, the perfect base to launch a sailing excursion of the BVIs. Or stick around in one of the island's 52 rooms to enjoy day sailing, diving, hiking, and three restaurants. Doubles from $359;

DIVE
Shearwater Resort, Saba
Set some 2,000 feet atop Saba, a five-square-mile volcanic island in the Neth­erlands Antilles, Shearwater offers panoramic ocean views but is only a ten-minute drive from the docks. There, dive boats will take you out to some of the Caribbean's best snorkeling and scuba. (Ask Shearwater about custom packages.) The newly renovated rooms offer flatscreens, iPod docks, and wi-fi. Doubles from $175;

WATERSPORT
Viceroy Hotel and Resort, Anguilla
With three restaurants and three pools, you might be inclined never to leave the grounds of this year-old, 35-acre resort on the shores of both Barnes and Meads bays. But do: The 3,200 feet of coastline on the two bays offers spectacular sailing, snorkeling, and swimming. Doubles from $595;

SURF
The Atlantis Hotel, Barbados
Following a complete refurbishment in 2009, this swank, eight-room lodge on Barbados's east coast offers fast access to Sand Bank, a beginner-friendly beach break, and Soup Bowl, a tenacious reef break that Kelly Slater has called one of the best in the world. Doubles from $255;

MULTISPORT
The Landings, St. Lucia
A 19-acre waterfront resort on the northern tip of lush St. Lucia, the Landings offers complimentary 78-foot sailboats, snorkel gear, and sea kayaks . Pick up one of the latter and paddle 400 yards to little Pigeon Island for a hike to an 18th-century British fort. And don't forget to look inland: St. Lucia's Piton mountains offer some of the Caribbean's best hiking and vistas (you can see neighboring St. Vincent). Six nights, $1,755 per person, double occupancy;

INDULGE
Terre di Corleone and Portella della Ginestra, Sicily
Until recently, these properties were owned by mafia bosses Bernardo Brusca and Salvatore Riina. Thanks to a 1996 Italian law that uses government-seized mafia assets for social purposes, they've been converted into inns and cooperative farms producing fresh pasta, honey, legumes, and, of course, plentiful red and white wines. Doubles from $45;

Fresh Trips

Seven island getaways with the perfect balance of adventure and indulgence.

Belize

Off Ambergris Caye, Belize

PADDLE
Palau
Boundless Journeys' Oceania Odyssey starts with infinity-pool luxury at the Palau Pacific Resort, on Koror, before going rustic: For the next week, no more than ten guests camp on two smaller islands; snorkel over sunken World War II planes; sea-kayak the saltwater Black Tip Lake, accessed by marine tunnel; and dine on fresh-caught parrotfish. January–October; from $4,695 per person;

SAIL
Isle of Skye, Scotland
On the new seven-day Sailing & Walking Around Skye trip from Wilderness Scotland, local skipper Angus MacDonald Smith will ferry eight guests around Skye on his 67-foot yacht, Elinca, seeking out the old pirate anchorages, hailing passing fishermen to buy prawns, and cruising up inlets to launch guided hikes in the steep Cuillin Hills. Go in May or June for 20-hour days and peak seabird nesting. $1,400 per person;

MULTISPORT
Madagascar
Gap șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs' Madagascar Experience focuses on inland beauty. From the capital of Antananarivo, your crew will head south by minibus, stopping to hike in lush rainforests, bike around (and swim in) Lake Andraikiba, and explore the eroded sandstone Isalo Mountains. March–December; $1,449 per person;

FISH
Seychelles
On Frontiers Travel's new six-day Desroches Island Flyfishing șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű, guests cast for hard-fighting bluefin trevally at offshore atolls by day and crash in private villas by night. Casting arm need a break? Explore the 3.5-mile-long island with kayaks, bikes, or snorkels and fins. $7,600 per person, double occupancy;

MULTISPORT
San Juan Islands
REI șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs' San Juan Islands trip is a six-day mash-up through Washington's Puget Sound, including a 50-mile road-biking spin around Orcas Island, sea kayaking with killer whales near Sentinel Island, and one night at a remote campsite. (The other four are spent at the Lakedale Resort's tent-cabins, which have real beds.) From $1,899 per person;

DIVE
Half Moon Caye, Belize
On the seven-day Lighthouse Reef trip from Island Expeditions, you'll kick back in safari-style tents and napping hammocks strung in coconut groves on 44-acre Half Moon Caye, some 50 miles off the mainland. Of course, you'll probably spend most of your time in or on the water, diving the Blue Hole—a famous, 400-foot-deep well—snorkeling in shallows, and exploring the reef by kayak. From $1,789 per person;

RIDE
Crete
Backroads' new six-day Crete cycling trip starts from IrĂĄklion, on the northern coast, and ends, after 268 miles of pedaling, at Akrotiri Cape, in the west. In between, you'll spin past lush vineyards and olive groves and Venetian harbor towns, where fresh seafood and plush inns await. $3,598 per person, double occupancy;

The post Cay Party appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Bahamas
Fly-Fishing

“PUT THE FLY RIGHT ON HIS HEAD” is the common refrain of sight-fishing guides to their clients standing knee-deep in the crystalline Atlantic waters off Long Island, a four-mile sand strip 165 miles south of Nassau. In some cases, the head belongs to a six-pound bonefish; in others it’s a tailing, manhole-cover-size permit. And when the fly drops, more often than not the fish devours it. So goes pretty much every experience with the crew from Bonafide Bonefishing. With everything from flats casting off white-sand beaches to raiding a secret permit stronghold accessible by a 45-minute boat ride from Stella Maris Resort, the 80-mile-long isle makes it tough to say they weren’t biting. Be sure to request either Docky or Alvin Smith, longtime guides who are often booked six months to a year in advance.

PLAYTIME: Bonafide offers day trips from Stella Maris for bonefishing, permit fishing, and reef fishing. Rental rods and gear are available, but they suggest that you bring your own. From $450 a day for two;

ISLAND LIVING: Relax in the newly developed Stella Maris’s Love Beach Bungalows. Set on five acres, each of the three cottages offers two-bedroom, two-bath accommodations, all facing a swimming lagoon and beaches. An SUV is available for unencumbered on-island excursions. From $1,365;

Antigua

Sailing

Antigua

SAILING IN THE CARIBBEAN? It’s tough to narrow down to just one island, we know, but if there’s a single place that balances both the sport and its well-lubricated after-hours lifestyle, it’s 108-square-mile Antigua. The island has become the quintessential yachtie hot spot and, from late April to early May, hosts more than 1,500 sailors during Stanford Antigua Sailing Week, the Caribbean’s second-largest regatta. More than 200 boats race in eight different classes, with participants ranging from landlubbers on chartered sloops to America’s Cup winners crewing billion-dollar boats. And when the sails drop, the long pours begin. The island’s own Antigua Distillery churns out award-winning rums (pick up a bottle of the English Harbour five-year-old). In Falmouth Harbour, where many of Sailing Week’s festivities take place, work your way from the Last Lemming to the Mad Mongoose and then on to Skullduggery, where it’s required that you have at least one espresso martini before hitting up the bars in English Harbour.

PLAYTIME: A slew of private charter companies like Horizon Yacht Charters, whose founder, Andrew Thompson, often races in Sailing Week, operate out of Antigua (a full list is available at ). Qualified captains can take off on their own, or you can always hire a skipper.

ISLAND LIVING: If you don’t feel like sleeping where you sail, grab a room at the newly opened—and swanky—Antigua Yacht Club Marina and Resort, in Falmouth Harbour. They’ll even dock your boat for a daily rate. Doubles from $277;

Bonaire

Diving

Bonaire

THE AQUATIC BOUNTY and 80-plus-foot visibility in the waters off this arid, mostly flat isle 50 miles north of Venezuela inspire a kind of reef madness among scuba divers. “Bonaire has some of the nicest diving in the world,” says Bruce Bowker, who came to the island in 1973 as its first full-time dive instructor. “It’s like jumping into an aquarium.” Just a flutter-kick away from the island’s leeward shore, you’ll find seahorses, soft corals swaying like hula girls, and swirls of sergeant majors and blue tang. Eighty-nine buoy-marked dive sites, all within the Bonaire National Marine Park, shelter almost 500 species of fish—more than can be found anywhere else in the Caribbean.

PLAYTIME: Bari Reef, on the island’s western shore, is said to be the best fish-spotting location in the Caribbean. Hook up with Bonaire Dive & șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű’s Jerry Ligon, a naturalist who can help you on your way to identifying more than 100 different species of fish. From $40;

ISLAND LIVING: Opened in September 2007 on a hillside overlooking the sea, La Pura Vista is a five-room guesthouse with a mosaic-tiled pool. Doubles from $125;

Puerto Rico

Surfing

Puerto Rico

A MULTISPORT DRAW, Puerto Rico offers enough mountain biking, hiking, snorkeling, and diving to keep an energetic visitor occupied for months. But it’s the surfing—centered around the town of RincĂłn, on the western shore— that you’ll come back for. Tied with Huntington Beach, California, for hosting the most ISA surfing events, Puerto Rico reigns as the surf mecca of the Caribbean, with 310 miles of coastline. “All the other islands have open windows, but they’re small,” says Rip Curl team rider and Puerto Rico native Brian Toth. “PR has huge open windows for swells to come through.” The 2007 World Masters had surfers barreling off RincĂłn’s point break, Maria’s, which produces waves up to 14 feet. Toth’s favorite break? Jobos, near the town of Isabela, 45 minutes from RincĂłn, which pumps perfect rights most days.

PLAYTIME: Waves break consistently from October through April—pass up the standard foam board for a lesson on a classic fiberglass longboard with Playa Brava Surf Underground. Surf-school owner Tupi Cabrera takes pride in his island because it has the widest variety of waves and, in his words, “it’s freakin’ cool!” Ninety-minute lessons from $40;

ISLAND LIVING: RincĂłn’s luxurious Horned Dorset Primavera Hotel has 22 private, plunge-pool-adorned villas on four hillside oceanfront acres. Doubles from $610;

British Virgin Islands

Sea Kayaking

British Virgin Islands

WITH ABOUT 35 ISLANDS situated miles apart, consistent trade winds, and strong currents, the BVIs inspire connect-the-dots sea kayaking. But one route stands out: a 14-mile open-water crossing from Virgin Gorda to Anegada, a flat, coral-limestone island that was once a pirate haven with blissful beaches, low-slung brush, and almost as many iguanas and flamingos as locals. Horse Shoe Reef envelops the land in thick and treacherous coral growth, meaning boats need to steer clear or join the 200 or so offshore shipwrecks. But the inner-reef waters are ultra-calm, and your kayak will allow you to snug along the shoreline and squeeze through the narrow inlets to salt ponds, where you’ll find some of the Caribbean’s most diverse and abundant wildlife. Look for brown boobies, pelicans, herons, egrets, and ospreys flitting among the piles of conch shells. Then kayak to the north shore, where you can snorkel for treasure or paddle south to fish the flats.

PLAYTIME: Arawak Expeditions offers custom trips to Anegada and throughout the islands, as well as multi-day camping trips.

ISLAND LIVING: Virgin Gorda’s Biras Creek Resort is a luxurious, eco-friendly resort with 33 suites. Last year’s face-lift added two new plunge pools, a brand-new fleet of kayaks, and a bicycle for every guest. Doubles, $615;

St. Bart’s

Lazing & Eating

St. Bart’s

FROM PASTRY TO PARADISE is how your day on St. Bart’s will most likely start. You just need to make a couple of decisions: almond, chocolate, or butter croissant, monsieur? And then: quiet with great sunning or happening with great barefoot dining? Located about 15 miles east of St. Martin, where the Antilles chain bends to the south, tiny St. BarthĂ©lemy (just eight square miles) is the Frenchiest of the French West Indies. The mostly European visitors—some 230,000 a year—come to eat, drink, and lounge. It’s leisure as extreme sport. And it’s easy to spend $150 on lunch—but worth it. For the tuna tartare at La Plage (), on St. Jean Beach. For the tiger prawns at Le BartolomĂ©o, at the Hotel Guanahani (). For anything on the menu at the St. Barth’s Isle de France ().

PLAYTIME: Digest in peace on a secluded beach, like Governeur or Saline. You can also windsurf at St. Jean, surf at Lorient, and scuba-dive in offshore reserves.

ISLAND LIVING: Do like those in the know and rent a private villa from an agency such as St. Barth Properties ().

Islas Los Roques

Snorkeling & Exploring

Islas Los Roques

EACH MORNING, while the sun warms the sea and the pelicans bomb sardines, the small harbor in Los Roques, Venezuela, slowly comes alive. Here, about 100 miles north of Caracas, sits arguably the largest concentration of beautiful beaches in the hemisphere—some 42 islands of white sand, with turquoise lagoons and only one town among all of them. Gran Roque (pop. 1,600) has breezy inns, an espresso bar, and sandy streets plied only by flip-flops. But wander down to the harbor and you’ll find the fishermen. They’re the ones with literally a menu of deserted islands nearby, and for $15 or less they’ll take you and your snorkeling gear there. “Francisqui? Crasqui?” they say. “Which island you like today?” The decision isn’t easy. There’s premium snorkeling among hundreds of thousands of tiny silversides off Crasqui, a 30-minute boat ride away, and great diving in the coral pinnacles of La Guaza, which teems with jacks and grouper. But of all the islands and all the beaches and all the things to do—Francisqui for kiteboarding, Cayo de Agua for lagoons, and so on—Cayo Muerto, just a 20-minute ride away, is particularly special. A sandbar 500 paces long surrounded by a sea so clear you could mistake it for air, “Death Key” is the classic deserted island of castaway fantasies.

PLAYTIME: If riding a fishing boat isn’t for you, Ecobuzos Dive șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs runs boats out of Gran Roque to various destinations off Los Roques. $35;

ISLAND LIVING: Gran Roque’s newest inn, Posada Natura Viva, features a quiet courtyard and a predominantly Italian clientele and can help arrange everything from flights to renting snorkeling gear. $247;

St. Lucia

Mountain Biking

St. Lucia

FORGET THE BEACHES. The mountain biking on St. Lucia has visitors looking inland, where riders can rip past waterfalls and saman trees on dozens of singletrack trails and fire roads throughout the 238-square-mile island. The best riding is in the 400-acre Anse Mamin Plantation’s 12-mile network of jungle-lined track, dedicated solely to knobby tires. Suitable for a range of abilities, the trails wind through the old sugarcane fields and offer opportunities for freeriders to drop some of the plantation’s original stone walls and stairways. The biggest challenge? The two-mile Tinker Juarez Trail, designed by the endurance mountain biker and two-time Olympian. This climb to the top of a 900-foot peak has been completed only once sans hiking, by Tinker himself.

PLAYTIME: Bike St. Lucia provides Cannondale F800 mountain bikes for day use. $89 per day;

ISLAND LIVING: The new Jade Mountain Resort, which is connected to the Anse Mamin Plantation, features private “sanctuaries” that have infinity pools with views of the Piton Mountains. Doubles from $1,020;

Turks and Caicos Islands

Kiteboarding

Turks and Caicos Islands

UNTIL RECENTLY, IT WAS SCUBA DIVERS who salivated over the turquoise waters and Technicolor reefs. But recently, kiteboarders have discovered the Turks and Caicos—a 166-square-mile archipelago in the eastern Caribbean—and it’s fast becoming a hallowed destination for world-class riding. During the winter, cold fronts rolling across the lower 48 arm-wrestle with the prevailing trades blowing from the east. A deadlock ensues, and that puts the squeeze on, blasting the Turks and Caicos from January to May with buttery-smooth winds. Bathwater-warm seas let you leave the wetsuit at home, and its proximity to the North Atlantic ensures there’s always a swell if you have an appetite for big surf.

PLAYTIME: The Kitehouse is a full-service international kiteboarding outfitter run by pro Paul Menta. Full-day lessons from $300;

ISLAND LIVING: Menta loves houseguests. An upscale suite at his new villa runs from $150 a day, including gear.

The post Island Action appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

I HAVE BECOME—I will admit—a sailing dweeb. Since graduating from my Fast Track to Cruising course, I moor coffee tables to couches and call out nautical commands while grocery shopping (“Cookies alee, prepare to jibe!”). I blame the Offshore Sailing School, in party-rific Tortola, British Virgin Islands. As promised, its ten-day Fast Track program transformed me from mountain-town landlubber to bluewater skipper, certified to charter a bareboat—any ship hired without a crew—up to 50 feet anywhere in the world. Let me say that again: Ten days of instruction and charter companies will hand you the keys to a yacht.

The first three days covered the basics. Our enthusiastic 26-year-old instructor went over rigging, points of sail, and elementary seamanship during lectures and outings on OSS’s custom-built 26-foot daysailers. The most important and reassuring lesson: It’s almost impossible to capsize a larger keelboat, since at least 40 percent of the weight is underwater. Next, along with two other students, I settled into a 49-foot sloop under the tutelage of David Gayton, a salty 54-year-old with a sailing rĂ©sumĂ© that spans three oceans. While hopping from one island to the next, we practiced the basics—rescues, whipping the huge hull around in tight figure-eights, docking the very expensive boat in very unforgiving concrete slips, and anchoring without damaging fragile reefs. We came to understand the workings of the electric systems and diesel engines and plotted courses that accounted for current and leeway, that inevitable sideways drift.

A thrilling feeling of mastery and humility welled up. On the second-to-last day, we dropped David back at harbor and sailed on alone. We headed downwind five miles to a schooner-turned-bar anchored off an uninhabited island, where I realized that I was hooked—that sailing was in me. I walked over to an attractive woman and introduced myself with perfect ship-to-shore radio protocol: “Sexy Lady, Sexy Lady, Sexy Lady, this is Eric.”

Get Certified

These outfits offer distinct routes to a bareboat cruising certificate, which is what most charter companies require before letting you captain a boat. They also offer training in more advanced skills, like celestial navigation and offshore passage making, that you won’t learn in your bareboat course.

OFFSHORE SAILING SCHOOL

Tortola, BVI, and nine other locations throughout the U.S. and Caribbean

The ten-day Fast Track to Cruising, in Tortola, runs $4,860 from December to July, $3,996 July–October, and $4,117 October–December; includes on-boat meals and private accommodations(on-boat and off);

CLUB NAUTIQUE

Alameda and Sausalito, California

Club Nautique recently won U.S. Sailing’s Prosser award for outstanding instruction, especially impressive considering the challenges of operating in San Francisco Bay. Its cumulative eight-day Skipper’s Course and four-day bareboat-certification course teach you how to navigate fog, busy shipping lanes, strong currents, and 25-knot winds. Both courses, $2,590, including on-boat accommodations;

ANNAPOLIS SAILING SCHOOL

Annapolis, Maryland

America’s oldest sailing school offers a progression of three five-day courses, affording apprentice skippers time to explore Chesapeake Bay. All three, $3,240 (April–October only), including accommodations;

Now, Sail the World

A bareboat should range from $400 to $700 per day, depending on model and season. Stock the galley, step aboard, and sail away. If anything important breaks, your charter company will send someone out from their local base to fix it. Even better: You don’t have to worry about cleaning when you’re done.

Though your bareboat-cruising certificate lets you charter anywhere, be realistic—just because you’ve taken driver’s ed doesn’t mean you’re ready for the Autobahn. The following spots are ordered from easy to hard.

British Virgin Islands

The most popular charter hub in the world offers steady winds and easy navigation between islands. The Moorings,

Sea of Cortez

Spring off Baja’s east coast equals barking seals, flat seas, and crimson sunsets. The Moorings,

Newport, Rhode Island

A reliable summer breeze connects the mainland to Block Island and Martha’s Vineyard. Bareboat Sailing Charters,

Grenadines

Long open-ocean passages (eight miles and more) between lonely sandboxes are an any-season favorite among ambitious sailors. TMM Yacht Charters,

Anacortes, Washington

Summer is the best time to master the fast currents and choppy seas of the San Juan Islands, at the edge of the Pacific. Anacortes Yacht Charters,

The post Chartered Territory appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

IT'S A LOT HARDER THAN YOU MIGHT THINK to swim from island to island across four-knot currents, gargling salt water hour after hour, getting chased by sharks, and towing your worldly possessions on a five-foot surfboard while flying the British flag. (It's even harder when you're told on your very first day in the British Virgin Islands that your British naval flag is actually a Swiss flag.) What with the jellyfish, hecklers, and excessive rum intake, you might even think twice about swimming your way through the Caribbean.

W. Hodding Carter

Making the haul from Virgin Gorda to Ginger Island.

W. Hodding Carter

The author and Hopper practicing good anti-shark stroke mechanics in the deep water between Peter and Norman islands.

W. Hodding Carter

The SwimTrek BVI! boys off Virgin Gorda.

Virgin Gorda

Virgin Gorda

But that's what I did for spring break.

Why, at age 43, couldn't I have just plunked myself down at some swanky resort? Blame it on my midlife-crisis swimming fixation, in which I've bragged quite publicly that I'm going to make it to the 2008 Olympics in the 200 freestyle, even though I never even qualified for the trials in my prime. In fact, I pretty much sucked as a younger swimmer until my senior year at Kenyon College, when I came sort of close to qualifying—finishing two seconds behind in the 200 free (akin to being five minutes back in a marathon). After that, I went on with my life, albeit with the nagging thought that if I'd just had a little more time, I could've made it to the podium.

Now, at the last possible moment, I want to see if I was right.

When I first resubmerged myself in the swimming world last fall, I was like any other midlife dingbat pedaling past you in traffic jams or burning rubber at the local treadmill. I was swimming six days a week. Pumping iron. Counting heartbeats. Getting in touch with my inner guppy. But something was missing: I wasn't having any fun. And I wasn't going all that fast. So I decided to train more like I had in college. That meant downing plenty of fresh-squeezed lime margaritas, doing vodka shots in the Jacuzzi, and spending money like my daddy would bail me out. My wife and four children weren't amused, but, sure enough, I got faster. Soon I was closing in on my old pace.

As my besotted winter blurred by, I figured I'd head south like all the other kids for spring break, only instead of passing out on the same beach every night, I'd swim from island to island. That way I could keep up my Olympic training, with only a few tweaks to my rigorous schedule: swim, eat, nap, drink, nap, drink, eat, drink, sleep, repeat.

PREPARATIONS WERE SIMPLE. I chose the British Virgin Islands because they looked close to one another on a Web site's cartoon map. The southeast trade winds dictated a southwesterly route: Virgin Gorda, Ginger, Cooper, Peter, and Norman. Ginger Island was uninhabited, so I'd have to camp, but the rest was resort splendor all the way. Twenty miles of fun-filled Caribbean waters, if you could put out of your mind what the St. John–based kayak guide told me:

“Oh. Ginger, huh?” Arawak Expeditions owner Arthur Jones said when he heard my plan. “I don't know—it's pretty sharky. I remember hearing about someone else who tried that off St. John a while back, and she had to stop halfway through because of a shark. It just started following her and getting closer and closer. But I don't know. Maybe that was just a rumor.”

Suddenly thinking about that old bear joke—the one about not having to outrun the bear, just the guy next to you—I invited my friend Hopper (a.k.a. George McDonough), a 35-year-old landscape architect I'd met at the Y, to come along. A former Division I swimmer at the University of Rhode Island, he was about three months behind me as far as getting back in shape was concerned—in other words, a little bit slower.

“Sure,” he answered. “Where?”

Hopper actually proved useful as more than just shark fodder. We wanted to be self-sufficient and tow everything we needed. I had the bright idea of using a kid's blow-up raft; Hopper had the even brighter idea of a surfboard: low-profile, able to hold a lot of weight, and with tail fins to keep it in line. Hopper was seeming more and more like a good choice. Not only did he come up with a name for our adventure—SwimTrek BVI!—but he also turned out to be an experienced open-water swimmer, having raced at distances up to eight miles. It was Hopper who suggested we bring duct tape and epoxy for board repair, a VHF radio, a Swiss Army knife, a chart, a couple of pairs of Crocs, and the flag we'd fly above our board to warn away boaters. I came up with resortwear and toothbrushes. In my defense, I also got some racing wetsuits that would protect us from Linuche unguiculata, the stinging, itching thimble jellyfish that are everywhere you want to be in the Caribbean in the warmer months. But the airline lost that bag on the way down.

About the only thing Hopper wasn't prepared for was hostile locals. Our first night in the islands, at a bar near our Tortola hostel, he was laying it on thick with Simon, the bartender, perhaps hoping we'd get a few free drinks, when this good-looking Australian woman overheard us talking about our swim.

“Really?” she joined in, pleasantly enough at first. “That doesn't sound very hard—only a few miles between them.”

“I know,” Hopper answered. “Although everybody else we've told hasn't believed us.”

“It's just 20 miles in a few days,” I added. “Anybody could do it.”

I was about to get up and stand closer when her entire expression changed. It reminded me of a look my high school water-polo co-captain would get before kicking me in the balls.

“You're liars,” she spat out, but she wasn't done. “You're not swimming anywhere. Nobody'd be that stupid. Do you know anything about the currents between the islands? You can't swim against them. I've dived in there enough to know. You're a bunch of wankers.”

“Oh, no,” I replied, raising my eyebrows. “We're definitely doing it.”

“Fuckers.”

ODDLY, HER CURSE WORKED more like a blessing. Our first swim—a two-and-a-half-mile warm-up from the Virgin Gorda ferry landing, in Spanish Town, north to the Little Dix Bay resort—went, well, swimmingly. Our “safety” boat—a 25-foot motorboat captained by photographer Paolo Marchesi and first-mated by his assistant, Derik Olson—didn't turn up. (In fact, they wouldn't appear until later that night, complaining loudly about their SS Minnow–quality tub.) Given my nascent shark hysteria, this could've been a bad thing. As we began our first leg, I was doing my best Don Knotts imitation—head and neck bobbing all over the place looking for fins—but the scariest thing we passed was some razor-sharp coral just a foot below the surface, with hundreds of Finding Nemo fish darting in and out.

The surfboard was surprisingly easy to handle. Hopper had devised a simple tethering system: a strap buckled around the waist, attached to a 12-foot length of polypropylene rope. Weighing ten pounds and loaded with about 40 pounds of our things stuffed in two drybags, the board definitely slowed the puller down, reducing speed by about a quarter, but even so, we managed to reach Little Dix Bay in just under an hour. We emerged from the water Sean Connery style, peeling our goggles off in one fluid movement as we strode through the soft Caribbean sand.

“Nice swim,” Hopper said.

A woman lounging in a black bikini looked up and asked, “Where did you two come from?”

“The ferry landing,” Hopper answered nonchalantly, unstrapping his drybag.

“Oh,” she said. “But that's a few miles away, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Hopper answered. “It is.”

“Wow, that's so cool.”

A waitress walked by and we ordered Red Stripes and ceviche. “Name?” she asked, rather sweetly.

“Carter . . .” I answered. “Hodding Carter.”

Despite rustling palms, tropical sun, and fawning girls in bikinis, spring break was turning out to be a little different from what I'd imagined. Instead of passing out naked on coed-strewn beaches, Hopper and I shared a one-room cottage that blended nicely into the local vegetation. Our dates for the evening were Paolo and Derik, a long-footed Italian and a skinny, redheaded Montanan, respectively, and I definitely was not making out with either of them. So we did the next best thing and drank as much of the house rum as we could.

Later, lying in his sumptuous king-size bed, wrapped in a white bathrobe, rum drink in hand, Hopper said, unexpectedly, “I feel a lot more confident about our swim. I feel like we're not gonna die.”

“That's good,” I said and passed out on the cot next to him.

AT SIX O'CLOCK THE NEXT MORNING, I wasn't so sure. We were leaving Virgin Gorda for the four-mile swim to Ginger from the Baths, a boulder-strewn volcanic peninsula that looks more like Joshua Tree than the Caribbean. This was where, according to the Australian woman, we'd have our asses handed to us: The ocean has had thousands of miles to build up its tempo here before it pounds the rocky beach. Indeed, beyond the rocks, I was sure a hurricane waited for us. I felt like I could see shark fins, roiling whitecaps, and marauding speedboats everywhere.

“Hey, Hod,” Hopper called, casually treading water beside me. “What a perfect day to begin our journey, huh? Let's get going, though. Get this under our belt.”

“Yeah, you guys go,” Paolo said from the safety of his speedboat,ÌęwhichÌęwasn't turning out to be so speedy. Not only was it impossible to start, it also wouldn't plane. We'd be half eaten by the time they ever got to us.

Thankfully, Saint Jude, patron saint of lost causes, was smiling down on us: The winds were out of the east-northeast instead of the prevailing southeast, and both the water and the sky were clear and warm. And a chain of rocky islands guards much of the crossing from the Baths to Ginger, blocking the east wind and creating shallow water most of the way.

We didn't see much. Millions of tiny glistening fish streaked along the surface, so small they seemed more optical illusions than aquatic life, and a couple of barracuda swam urgently toward us and then appeared to back up when they saw our size, as if thinking, Oops—my bad. That was it, if you discount the hundreds of jellyfish attacking us. For an animal that has no brain, bones, eyes, or heart, the thimble jelly is a tricky little predator, filled with stinging cells called nemocysts that inject their venom into you with teeny-tiny harpoons.

As the minutes, a half hour, and then an hour ticked off and the water got deeper and deeper, I grew ever more freaked out, despite our mother hens, Paolo and Derik, constantly hovering within a few hundred yards. For some reason, I was most afraid of sharks in the deeper water, although most attacks happen in shallow areas and, even more pertinent, my own not-so-casual research showed that there have been only four unprovoked shark attacks in the Virgin Islands in the past 100 years. Even so, I took comfort in the fact that Hopper was in the rear, pulling the surfboard.

Suddenly, Hopper stopped swimming. We were about a quarter-mile off Ginger Island in 100 feet of water. Not a good place for a chat.

“We gotta do something different,” he said, taking a swig from the water bottle strapped to the board.

“Why would we do that? Let's keep going,” I answered, a little pissy. “We're nearly there.”

“We're not going anywhere. I've been watching that white scar on the cliffs over there for ten minutes. We haven't moved.”

Now that we were no longer in the lee of the outlying islands, those whitecaps I'd imagined had become very real, along with an accompanying 15-knot wind. The one-knot current our chart indicated was more like two to three. Our destination on Ginger—a lagoon behind a northeast peninsula—was now upwind.

We strapped on our Zura Alphas, flexible, lightweight fins that would give us just enough of an advantage to compensate for the wind and current. Except they didn't. We swam for another ten minutes, but we were still going backwards.

Clearly outpowered, we decided to put the wind on our port beam and head for the less desirable north shore, where there appeared to be a boat anchored. Fifteen minutes later, we tumbled ashore, arriving like bewildered shipwreck survivors as breakers sent us rolling over spiny sea urchins. What had looked like an inviting beach 400 yards away turned out to be a 15-foot-wide shelf of broken coral. And the boat that was going to be our salvation was actually a wrecked charter sailboat, itself forlornly waiting to be rescued.

That's how we spent our afternoon—forlornly waiting. While Paolo and Derik went back to Virgin Gorda to get their boat fixed, Hopper and I swam another mile to the western edge of the island and generally wilted in the inescapable sun. That evening, they finally returned with food, drinks, and a still-broken boat.

“Well, day two down and no shark. That's a good thing,” I said, toasting with a shot of rum-spiked Gatorade.

Derik looked at Paolo, as if to ask, Should we tell him? “Paolo did see this really big thing come up behind you once.”

“Really big,” Paolo said, smiling.

That night, camping through two storms on the beach without a sleeping bag, rainjacket, or even a tarp, I dreamed of shark-shaped jellyfish eating holes through my sodden brain. About the only thing that made me happy was watching Hopper hiding from the rain, huddled under a fish crate.

THIS CARIBBEAN SWIMMING was really paying off as far as my Olympic dreams were concerned. My shark phobia had me concentrating like never before on making my stroke smoother, and soon I was sliding through the water like a slippery, unappetizing eel.

Day three was a short two-mile but deep-water swim from Ginger to the Cooper Island Beach Club. Practicing good stroke mechanics and head positioning, I would stare straight down, and what I saw wasn't pretty; it was gorgeous, an endless expanse of dreamy blue water that made me think of exploring deep space. I knew I was looking at least as far as 40, maybe 50, feet deep, but the milky blueness was so uniform in this 120-foot water, I couldn't see anything. No bottom, no fish, no nothing, except for an occasional terrifying strand of seaweed darting into view that never failed to make me jump.

Slowly, though, we were developing a certain rhythm—and not just in the water. “I've figured out the ebb and flow of this trip,” Hopper said the next morning while I fried up a batch of holes-in-the-wall in our little kitchenette at the down-to-earth resort. He was looking and sounding a little stressed. I was feeling the same. “The tension builds as the swim approaches,” he went on. “You're wondering about the variables, the current, the wind, boats, et cetera, and then you're a little bit freaked out when you first shove off. Things start to mellow as your arms loosen up. You're under way. Life is good. Then you arrive and you're all elated. You have a beer, sleep, go over the swim, and then it's just . . . a slow . . . build . . . toward . . . that . . . pre-swim tension.”

The best part of swim-trekking was that, unlike 99 percent of the swimmers in the world, we actually arrived somewhere at the end of our workouts and talked to real people. As five-time Olympic gold medalist Gary Hall Jr. puts it, “It's bad enough talking to the stripe at the bottom of the pool. It's even worse when it starts talking back.”

On Salt Island, a brief stopover between Cooper and Peter islands on the grueling fourth day of our voyage, we came ashore to find a skeletal elderly man wandering outside the ramshackle cinder-block huts that clutter the shoreline, looking somewhat befuddled in his slightly askew construction helmet. His name was Henry Leonard, he said, and he lived there all by himself. There used to be families scattered all over the one-and-a-half-square-mile island, he explained, collecting salt in the inland ponds. Now it was just him, the rustling palms, and the salt, which stretched behind his shack in a long, uninterrupted sheet of gray. We talked for a few more minutes, but then we too had to shove off.

The six-mile Cooper-to-Peter leg was our longest by far, almost the equivalent in effort of running a marathon. And here it was already 10 a.m., and we still had four miles to go. Hopper and I swam off without Paolo and Derik, but after half an hour and no safety boat, Hopper tapped me on the shoulder. “What do you want to do?” he asked. “Turn back? Wait here?” Surely they'd show up any minute.

Mere seconds later, I was staring again into that never-ending nothingness, screaming to myself, Turn back! This is how it's gonna end! But I kept swimming. After about an hour and no bites to our soft underbellies, I noticed that I was no longer jumping like a frightened surface minnow at every perceived attack. I even started hoping that Paolo and Derik wouldn't show up. I was feeling like part of the ocean, as if I actually belonged in it instead of being a temporary, wary visitor. The wind, now stronger, pushed us down the ever-towering swells. I was Aquaman, Johnny Weissmuller, and a dolphin rolled into one!

I was so happy that I didn't even mind the harbor attendant yelling that we couldn't swim near the boats at the Peter Island Resort dock. When we explained to him that we were a boat, he just waved exasperatedly toward a ladder near a sybaritic 50-foot cruiser.

The worst swim was over, and the most dangerous part of our adventure would turn out to be the safety boat, which in fact sank to the bottom of the ocean as Paolo and I scrambled to salvage his gear a day later. But for now, what'd we care? High on endorphins, we zipped around Peter Island's luxurious digs, playing on Hobie Cats, downing more rum, and getting massaged on a hilltop overlooking nearly all the Virgin Islands. And we were just one day away from the ultimate spring-break party.

OUR LAST MORNING, we had a following breeze, making our final goal—a floating bar called Willy T's—absurdly doable. The William Thornton, a 100-foot steel schooner moored in a bay called the Bight on Norman Island, is party central for the Virgin Islands. A place where women jump naked from the railing to get a free T-shirt and men get drunk. “No matter what you do,” one friend had demanded, “you gotta finish at Willy T's.”

It was a five-mile swim that felt like less than one. Time in the water no longer represented worrying about survival. It was simply what we did—where we belonged. We were the SwimTrek BVI! boys, and the ocean was our playground.

When we rounded Water Point, a jutting peninsula on Norman's northwestern edge and the entrance to the Bight, we passed over some divers 40 to 50 feet below us—a surreal experience, to suddenly run into other humans flippering through our sea. Their bubbles bumped into us, drifting to the surface. And then we saw Willy T's itself, about a third of a mile away on the far side of the bay. Without exchanging a word, we decided to race that last stretch to touch the hull, which we did, simultaneously.

“We just swam from Virgin Gorda!” Hopper announced. He was answered with cheers and a couple of free beers.

Zeus, the horniest bartender outside of Tom Cruise in Cocktail, poured us a couple of painkillers—double shots of rum hidden in a masterly mix of coconut, pineapple, and orange juices—when we made it up to the bow. Actually, that first beer had gotten to me, so I don't know if the bar was in the bow or the stern, but I do know it was near an end.

As the afternoon passed, more and more revelers arrived by boat—beers in hand, bodies bobbing to the bar music, heavy on rap, reggae, and sexy R&B. Even the women seemed like predators, waiting to see who would get the most debauched. Silent old men (older than me) stood along the railing, praying somebody would go for a T-shirt. As we got drunker, Zeus seemed more and more impressed with our swim, but when I asked if we could get free T-shirts, he said, “No way, man. That's for the women, and there's only one way they're getting them: They've got to show Zeus the stuff.” Then he turned up Kanye West so loud that even the sea seemed to vibrate.

As if on cue, an attractive newlywed from South Carolina zipped up in a boat with her husband and, after downing a few of her own painkillers, got herself a tattoo. This required the bride to lift her shirt, so that Zeus could lick the skin just above her left nipple. You know, so he could wet a spot for applying the tattoo. Her husband, powering down a Red Stripe, yelled out, “That's what I'm talking about!”

I chugged down another painkiller, gave Hopper a kiss, and smiled, a contented man. The SwimTrekkers had finally found the real spring break.

Oh, and as far as my Olympic hopes go? Thanks to all that BVI mileage, I got even faster—I'm less than half a second off my best time in the 50 free. It's Beijing or bust, baby—as long as they have beer bongs over there.

The post The 40-Year-Old Virgin Swimmer appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű has been putting Paolo Marchesi through the spin cycle lately. For our July and August issues, we sent Marchesi, a Montana-based freelance photographer, on location for two salt-laden features, Tim Zimmerman’s “It’s Hard Out Here for a Shrimp” about the lethal world of the Humboldt squid, and W. Hodding Carter’s “The 40-Year-Old Virgin Swimmer” devoted to the author’s bid to swim the British Virgin Islands.

Paolo Marchesi

Paolo Marchesi

For “Shrimp,” Marchesi came face to face with man-eating Humboldts in Mexico’s Sea of Cortez while shooting diver Scott Cassell, but his most recent assignment to follow șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Correspondent Carter for “Virgin” in the BVIs was decidedly more laid back.

“I can’t deny any lack of alcohol on the trip,” said Marchesi, naming the infamous Willy T, (or William Thornton) a moored boat bar in the Bight Bay on Norman Island as the site of many a cocktail. Over the course of the week, says Marchesi, he downed enough Caribbean rum and Painkillers (a concoction of rum, orange juice and cream of coconut) to last a lifetime.

Italian-born Marchesi had more than his share of Gilligan-esque adventures in the BVIs. Case in point: Seeing their dilapidated charter boat, the photographer muttered to his assistant “I hope it floats.” It sank a couple days later with Marchesi and his assistant scrambling to save the gear. “After it went down and we were rescued, the police took me in for interrogation,” recalled Marchesi. “I was thrown in a room with a guy who had just been arrested. He was thrashing around with a killer look. I tried to disappear. I was in there a long, long time.”

There was also the challenge of shooting Carter and his swim partner Hooper (a.k.a. George McDonough) as they swam from island to island. Their surfboard laden with gear, the pair was slowed enough for Marchesi to swim within range. For Carter and Hopper, a little extra security of having another person on the open-water crossings was comforting—that, “and, of course, the feeling that a shark would take the one lagging behind,” says Marchesi.

But Marchesi’s favorite shots took place on Salt Island where he met the solitary keeper of the island, Henry Leonard. Leonard lives alone on the tiny island, of which his family has been keepers for generations. They all remain buried in a makeshift cemetery next to his hut. “There was no light, no water, not a real house, just him and the island,” Marchesi recalled, “I felt lonely and sad for him but he didn’t seem bothered, from his little island watching the boats go by day after day.”

Marchesi, whose clients include Simms, Patagonia, Climbing, and American Angler, came upon his love of photography almost reluctantly. At the age of 17, he journeyed from his home in Italy to become an art director in Paris, eventually moving back to Italy to find employment as a designer. But his fascination with photography led Marchesi to the camera and to experimenting with a 35mm Minox camera that became his modus operandi in capturing his idiosyncratic images.

After attending the Brooks Institute of Photography in Santa Barbara, California, and building up a portfolio in San Francisco, Marchesi moved to Bozeman, Montana, in 1999 to pursue his other love: fly fishing. “It’s a true art and it takes a lifetime to master it,” says Marchesi. “I am at peace when I am on the river. I’m not religious and that’s my religion.”

Marchesi’s globe-trotting travel philosophy also translates to his photography as he continues to develop what he labels a “styleless” method, attempting to be unencumbered by any set direction or method. In his soft, almost dreamlike pictures and his crisp, contrasting shots, Marchesi switches mediums constantly, from digital to film, from black and white to color. But one thing is certain, his darkroom days are over-“I didn’t like working in the dark.”

For more on Marchesi, including his portfolio go to .

The post In the Field with Paolo Marchesi appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.