The clock on The dash of Eric Anderson’s dusty truck is four hours fast. Or maybe it’s eight hours slow. It doesn’t matter. Not here. “Want some gum?” Eric asks, jawing on his own piece of Eclipse. Eric is 68, looks 49-ish and plans his day like he’s 14. He has toyed with retirement and real estate since he moved to Roatan in 1971, so I’ve asked him to take me to my island dream home. Not a pipe-dream monstrosity, but a real deal that I could afford with a wad of cash barely bigger than the wad of gum in his mouth. I’m looking at the island, 35 miles off the coast of Honduras, as a place to chuck the daily work routine for a Roatan retirement life. Whatever that is. But instead of hustling through ocean-view floor plans, we’re bouncing over a side of the island that’s still better suited for mule transit.