Intimate Caribbean

The bar at Saltwhistle Bay is open-air, with views of the Tobago Cays, where I'm headed next. The bartender whistles when I tell him of my plans. "Maybe I come with you. But ... why you don't have a motor on that thing?"

Just a mile off Union Island's port town of Clifton is 135-acre Palm Island. Not so long ago, Palm was a swampy, mosquito-infested spit named Prune Island — until veteran sailors John and Mary Caldwell happened by and in 1966 arranged to lease it from the government. (Similar arrangements have seen other Grenadine islands — including Mustique, Young Island, and Petit St. Vincent — refashioned into private playgrounds.) The Caldwells irrigated the swamp with salt water (to rid it of mosquitoes) and built bungalows; John Caldwell became known as "Johnny Coconut" because of his affection for planting palms.

Elite Island Resorts bought out the Caldwells in 1999 and turned Palm Island into the all-inclusive property it is today. When I kayak up to the beach, its phalanx of chaise longues are filled with hard bodies in skimpy bikinis and Speedos. I nurse an expensive ($12.50) rum punch at its Sunset Grill while examining a stunning turquoise conch shell I picked up on the beach. I ask for help identifying it, but even the locals are stumped as to the exact species.

Despite the punch of the rum cocktail and the lure of the beautiful resort and its private bungalows, I'm determined to paddle back to my base on Union Island before nightfall. Pocketing the shell, I head to my kayak. Fifteen minutes later, a pair of tall, bare-chested, dreadlocked men welcome me to a much different isle.

Happy Island is minuscule and man-made from rocks, Portland cement, and huge pink conch shells. It's late on a Caribbean afternoon, the sun starting to slip toward the horizon, but Janti, the island's owner, and his co-worker Roderick are still hard at work. Between puffs on a giant yellow-papered fatty, they are mixing cement, completing a half-moon wall surrounding a saltwater fish and lobster tank.

Taking a break, Janti reaches behind the bar and brings out a stack of photographs showing the six-year history of the island, a little tax-free paradise that is both his home and business, within striking distance of Union Island's yachties and main town. He is not explicit about how he's managed to build an island in the heart of the busy bay. "I didn't ask anyone," he says. "I just started one day, and no one's ever asked me to stop."

Teetering on the edge of the island is a two-room building made of wood and cinder block, its sole structure. One room is a combination kitchen and bedroom; the other is the bar: Its floor is sand, its chairs are plastic, and the bar itself is covered with half-filled Coke, rum, and Fanta bottles. Reggae issues forth from a pair of giant speakers stuck into the sand, and a welcome late-afternoon breeze rustles the recently planted palms, just six feet tall.

This is my kind of place. For an hour I help the two men mix cement, and pay $4 for a rum punch the equal of the one I had for thrice the price back on Palm Island, though I imagine that Happy's overhead is much, much less.

So far, the island has been hit just twice by hurricane-force winds, but it seems a statistical certainty that Janti will one day have to deal with the big one. For now, though, he's content to spend his days collecting conch shells and mixing cement.

As I climb back into my kayak, I'm glad to know that Happy Island exists; it smacks of rebelliousness. I ask Janti if he envisions being here for many more years. "I really don't look much further than tomorrow," he says.

After nine days and six islands, the marine reserve at Tobago Cays is my last stop in the Grenadines. Protected by Horseshoe Reef, the marine park comprises five uninhabited islands. From my kayak I see sponges, colorful coral, parrot fish, grouper, trunkfish, and a six-foot nurse shark.

I go slow, my eyes peeled for the reserve's green turtles. Buoy markers carve out a sanctuary within the sanctuary for the turtles; a Union Island taxi man named Taffa told me that they also serve as markers for poachers. "Sometimes the bad boys come over, dive in, and take the turtles anyway," he said.

Taffa also pointed out the unnamed spit of sand on the southern edge of the cay where Depp, Bloom, and Knightley fought over a box of treasure in the first “Pirates” movie. The cay is tiny, thick with green undergrowth and a smattering of palms.

As I paddle toward it, the late-afternoon light is setting the reserve aglow, and I think about something I am often asked: "What is the most beautiful place you've ever been?" I usually avoid answering, suggesting that it's far too subjective — as much about timing and whom you're with as it is about geography. Antarctica under dusky 24/7 light can be just as spectacular as a South Pacific atoll.

I walk the beach of what I have dubbed Pirate Island, hoping to find a skeleton key, a locket, or a map left behind by the movie­makers. A steady breeze sweeps the island, but it remains hot and humid, and so I go for a swim in the clear blue sea.

The island is only a third of a mile across and half a mile long, and ends with a distinctive sandy point — the Caribbean on one side, the Atlantic on the other. As I walk toward the tip, waves rush at me from two directions. It feels as if I'm walking both on the water and off the end of the earth. In the near distance, the setting sun silhouettes the mountainous islands. At that moment, a thought runs through my head that I almost never have: This spot, this pirate's island, is most definitely in the running — it might just be the most beautiful place I've ever been.

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