Advertisement

Young Island

February 13, 2008
Share on facebook
Share on twitter
Share on pinterest
Share on email
Share on facebook
Share on twitter
Share on pinterest
Share on email

Young Island

At some point 15 years ago when I first stayed here, Young Island became my fountain of youth, a good-luck stop whenever I found myself in St. Vincent and the Grenadines (which was often). As I swing in a hammock beneath a thatched palm overhang, getting sleepy, I trick myself once again into thinking that, when in reality I’m actually losing years. Or rather, perhaps I just lose track of time. Days move so slowly that I do silly things to fill them, like make a sport of going to the end of the road in St. Vincent to a town called Fancy. But that’s tomorrow. Now I’m keeping myself young on this 35-acre private-island playground of hibiscuses, palm trees and frangipanis by swimming out to Coconuts, a bamboo floating bar just offshore. I dip into the warm Caribbean sea and make it to the bar stool, where I order a Coconut Delight, an elixir served in a coconut shell. I sip and float.

The next morning I catch the resort’s water taxi from Young Island to the mainland of St. Vincent, perhaps a three-minute shuttle.

On the other side, a driver waits to take me to the end of the road. It’s a long ride, but the journey keeps me entertained: Buried in a green tangle of foliage is a spring where, during the full moon, the driver says, water is effervescent and is drunk for its youth-inducing qualities. We pass by banana fi elds and mango, guava and papaya trees; we stop for a dip in the Owia Salt Ponds and then bump off the paved road to dirt, and to Fancy, where it’s wild Caribbean: A goat and a donkey are taking a siesta in the road.

Advertisement

When the driver drops me at the St. Vincent dock, it’s past dark. I pick up a phone at a booth, and it starts to ring immediately. Security picks up and dispatches a water taxi to come for me. I see the boat, with its single light bulb, speed toward me. There’s something romantically outdated about this method. When I reach Young Island again, I climb the more than 60 stone steps to my cottage perched on a hill. A couple minutes later, the lights on Young Island all seem to go out — as if now that I’m home safe, it’s bedtime. I fall asleep to the gentle chorus of tree frogs, feeling younger. Rates from $448. youngisland.com — Christine Richard Photo: Lori Barbely

Advertisement

More Uncategorized

Advertisement