The Peter Island Principle

By Gary Walther

Private-island resorts are the Greta Garbos of the luxury-travel world. They're tailor-made for couples who vant to be alone--or, rather, want to be alone with a few other couples who want to be alone, too. At such resorts, geography becomes mind-set: That nice big moat between you and all that lifestyle chaff flying around out there is a subliminal reminder that you're here to log off. In the Caribbean, such resorts are, as a rule, not the swishiest places, more stalwart Swiss francs in a world of flashier currencies. Even Mustique, with all its bold-face-name villa owners (Mick Jagger, Tommy Hilfiger), is about privacy, not publicity.

It's just such notes that compose the siren song of Peter Island Resort in the British Virgin Islands, which makes up a small beachhead on the 1,200-acre granite-girded Peter Island. This year the property added a new line to the harmony, a very good 10,000-square-foot spa with its own pool. It represents a considerable investment, given the fact that Peter Island has only 52 rooms, but has paid off. The spa's reputation is such that it's already on the yachting crowd's itinerary. They now sail in for treatments.

Peter Island's forte is simplifying life--it's a savings account, not a derivative. It's not about style--the room decor (dark wood, stone, conservative-print fabrics) is yachtsman on shore leave. It's not about nightlife, either: According to general manager Sandra Grisham, the ambition of many guests "is just to read a good book." Early to bed, early to rise is the resort rhythm, with many guests also melting away after lunch for a siesta. At two on most afternoons, there are far more chaises on the beach than bodies in them.

One of the curious things about private-island resorts is their capacity to arouse proprietary feelings in guests. It seemed particularly prevalent at Peter Island. I made the acquaintance of one dapper gent--he wore a cream jacket and black bow tie to the resort manager's cocktail party--who had come for two weeks to recover from open-heart surgery. Within 48 hours of arriving, he had somehow convinced himself that the GM was going to offer him the job of maýtre d' in the restaurant. Moreover, he had already decided to accept. His only concern was how to broach the subject with his wife back in Lancashire.

Peter Island Resort

Another guest, who sails over frequently from St. Thomas on his yacht, acted like the captain of the beach-restaurant dining room, collecting nods and greetings from the staff as he walked to his table. And in the spa, a guy tells me, without prompting, "There's so few people around here, I kinda feel like I own the place." Before disappearing into the steam room, he adds that he's already reconnoitered his room for next year. It's number 201, a ground-floor Beach Villa, which he wants because there's a hammock right off the terrace. (I know: It happens to be my room.)

The Building Code
The new spa is built in the saddle of two hills at the far end of Deadman's Bay. (And, yes, the name does come from the sea chantey "The Pirate Song," better known by the line "Sixteen men on a dead man's chest." Legend has it that the treasure mentioned in the lyrics was buried on Deadman's Island, which lies just outside the bay.) The site is a wild spot, with the new landscaping only making the island's austerely beautiful granite-and-cactus visage more apparent. The treatment rooms are mostly in the back of the spa building, which faces Big Reef Bay, the island's wildest stretch of coast. The bay is floored in rock and coral--you can see the ocean sheeting after the waves storm over the reef.

The building is, frankly, a puzzle at first. It's an irregular polygon of nine or ten sides--I could never get the count to agree--with a second, smaller polygon on top, and some three stories high in all. Yet once inside, you see that the spa occupies only the ground floor, with the rest of the space going unused. The architecture also does something most island spas don't--draws a clear boundary between inside and out. There's no feeling of flow.

My bafflement must be manifest because spa director Maggie Wagner mentions that the person who drew the plans was a furniture salesman from Atlanta, a friend of the resort's owners who fancied himself an architect. By the time they realized he wasn't, the building was up. They did, however, have the interior redone to make the best of the awkward design.

Which it does. The treatment rooms are very spacious, and several have Jacuzzis the size of Mini Coopers. The rooms in the back have private terraces that look out over the ocean. There are also two bohios--freestanding studios with large louvered windows--well away from the spa building, right on the ocean. They can be booked for massage, one-on-one yoga classes, or a private spa day that includes lunch.

My time at the spa is a reminder that it's the staff, not the building, that ultimately makes the experience. The Kur, a remineralizing body mask and wrap, makes novel use of a Vichy shower: It's turned on while the wrap is around you, supplying additional warmth. The treatment culminates with a hydrotherapy bath and a gentle massage with lotion to seal in the moisture.

Even better is the Thermal Sand Bundle Massage. It employs what look like small flak jackets, each consisting of eight roughly five-pound casings of purified sand from the Peter Island beach. The bundles are heated to 120 degrees in a hydrocollator and then placed on towels spread over the body. The heat seeps through the material and into the muscles. As the bundles can be precisely placed, this is a good massage for something that ails you.

I have the same therapist, Carrie MacInnis, throughout my three-day stay, and I make the most of that by having her concentrate on my hips and lower back, which have been giving me trouble since spring, when I started bicycling long-distance again. Our daily contact enables her to respond with initiatives of her own. On my last day, she gives me a myofascial massage (not on the menu) that includes a stretching of my neck muscles, especially around my throat, because she thinks that tension there might account for the tightness in my upper back. The concept is known as referral pain--the body's version of passing the buck. I can't say it's the reason I leave the resort without those back twinges, but it's a reminder that the source of the problem is often not the site of the pain.

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