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Palm Island: The Little Island That Could

Author: Bob Morris

Some advice for those who visit the rejuvenated Palm Island Resort: Never underestimate how big a small island can be. make sure to fast before you get there. And, most importantly, avoid snorkeling in the Tobago Cays when the nude cruise drops anchor.

Palm Island is not just small, it's almost microscopic. At a mere 135 acres, it is the Lichtenstein of St. Vincent and the Grenadines. Beyond the talcum powder-fine beach lies a marshy interior that has somehow evolved into a five-hole golf course. There's not much in the way of topography. Three small hills, more aptly described as large mounds, sit in counterbalance on opposing rocky points, covered with clumps of Turk's head cactus that look like gatherings of red-headed gnomes. Godzilla-size iguanas amuse themselves by skittering from the underbrush to scare the hell out of unsuspecting visitors.

There is no actual town here. No cars, just a few golf carts. Life revolves around the Palm Island Resort, which, aside from a few private homes on long-established lease holdings, owns the entire island. The 200 or so people who populate Palm Island at any given time - a maximum of 80 guests, the resort staff, a daily visitation of vagabond yachties - are what passes for its indigenous culture. There are two policemen, nattily uniformed re-sort security guards who pedal their bicycles along sandy paths, ever ready to fight crime that doesn't exist. You can walk from one side of the island to the other and back again in 20 minutes. And that's if you dawdle.

So considering it is such a tiny place, I figured three days on Palm Island would do it. Stay any longer and the tropical equivalent of cabin fever might set in. My wife and I had a week to celebrate our 23rd wedding anniversary and we also wanted to visit several of the neighboring islands.

But as our launch set out from Union Island for the 10-minute ride to the resort, I realized I had made a grave tactical error. The view in all directions - north to Mayreau, south to Petit St. Vincent, east to the Tobago Cays and back west to the Triceratops-like crest of Union Island - was so pretty it hurt. And as Palm Island grew larger, we began to see its charms: a perfect, striped palette of blue, white and green as sea led to sand then palm; the pink and yellow sails of windsurfers; the shaded terraces of cottages sequestered behind flaming orange-red hedges of croton and ixora.

My wife sighed. I sighed.

''I know just by looking at it that I could stay here the entire week,'' she said.

Then we both sighed again.

THE WAGES OF HEDONISM

It was exactly 16 paces from the sea to our cottage, although pacing off that distance was way too much effort on my part. It was far better to approach it in stages: Start off by wallowing chin-deep in the warm water, then bask in a chaise lounge on the silky white sand, take respite from the sun in teak chairs on the terrace and, finally, nap on the double bed beneath the gauzy canopy of mosquito netting draped from the ceiling to floor. Yes, one must rest up if one intends to vegetate in serious fashion.

Call us slothful, call us idle ... just don't call us late for dinner. Chef Matthew Jack, who grew up in St. Vincent and arrived at the resort last September to direct a kitchen staff of 15, saw to it that our days were measured by mealtimes. There were breakfasts of banana pancakes, lunches of lobster salad and dinners of fresh red snapper. To ward off starvation, afternoon tea came with an assortment of fresh-baked cookies and cakes.

The thatched-roof bar offered its own brand of sustenance. I've had more wretched rum punches in the Caribbean than I care to remember, thin and overly sweet concoctions that may as well be poured straight from a can. But Palm Island's punches have substance. One of the bartenders, a Union Island native appropriately nicknamed Bash, shared the secret: Make the simple syrup base out of brown sugar, not white, and use three different rums, not just one.

''It's a rum punch that could make God happy,'' said Bash. For mere mortals, it brings giddy calls for another round.

At sunset, the bar was the scene of a convivial fellowship presided over by Kent Humphreys, Palm Island's general manager, and his wife, Sarah, who runs the resort's boutique. The Humphreys were newly arrived from Toronto and still had a hard time believing they had landed such a plum assignment and would spend their next winter not in the snow and ice, but amid palm trees and warm breezes.

We still pinch ourselves every day just to make sure, said Kent as we oohed and ahhhhed at the glorious streakings along the western horizon. Does it sound trite to say that we landed in paradise?

''No, I told him,'' it's the truth.

WAY OF THE FLESH

It would be a crime to travel all the way to Palm Island and not pay a visit to what are perhaps the best snorkeling grounds in all of the Caribbean. So one morning we wrenched ourselves out of blissful indolence to join another couple - honeymooners from San Francisco - on an outing to the Tobago Cays. Boarding the resort's 24-foot skiff, we embarked with its two able crewmen, Leroy and Ricky, on a 20-minute ride to a cluster of uninhabited islands smaller even than Palm Island and surrounded by clear, shallow waters dappled with the dark cauliflower-like outcroppings of coral heads.

At anchor in the channel between Petit Rameau and Petit Bateau sat a classic three-masted schooner, its deck rising several stories above the water. And as we knifed past to negotiate the cut, we heartily returned the hellos from dozens of passengers on the schooner's deck.

''Oh, mon, it's them,'' said Leroy.

''Best close your eyes, now,'' laughed Ricky.

It took a moment before we realized that none of the waving passengers were wearing any clothes. And let's just say that there was a whole lot of jiggling going on aboard the schooner. Our friendly waves froze in the air.

''It's the nude cruise,'' said Leroy. ''Comes around once, sometimes twice a year.''

We turned our eyes to the snorkeling grounds where, for a happy hour or so, we finned around with nude fish and lobster, a far more comely crowd.

So stoked were we by the snorkeling, that when it came time to dry off and motor up to the beach at Petit Rameau for lunch, we paid little attention to the 50 or 60 other people already there, paddling in the shallows and sunning on the beach. Only as we waded ashore did we see that the naked cruisers had invaded the island.

But that didn't stop Leroy and Ricky. In the mottled shade of a grove of coconut palms, they unfolded a picnic table, covered it with a genuine tablecloth and set out a small feast: fresh fruit, locally caught fish, a fine selection of cheeses and breads and, to top it off, a properly chilled pinot grigio. We sat down to eat in civilized chairs, feeling almost Victorian in our bathing suits and T-shirts. There were naked people to the left and naked people to the right, and sadly not one of them was easy on the eyes. We raised our glasses and offered a toast: So much cellulite, so little shame.

Then we hopped in the boat and sped back to Palm Island.

ALL GOOD THINGS MUST...

We stretched it out as long as we could, postponing our original morning departure to nab seats on the last plane of the day. We walked Palm Island's perimeter, scaled its three miniature hills, played a round on the 5-hole golf course and cooled off with a sea bath. Despondency set in as we boarded the launch to Union Island and the breeze taunted us with the aroma of Chef Jack's latest creation.

The 5 p.m. Mustique Airways flight to St. Vincent bumped along the runway, lifted above the sea and, as it set a course north, banked just enough for us to get a final glimpse of Palm Island. We could see every inch of the tiny landmass framed in the airplane window. But we knew it was bigger, much bigger, than it looked.

Posted online 03/01/01.

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