Would “Black Sam” Bellamy have done the downward dog? The thought floats into my head during a 7 a.m. yoga class at Baraka Point villa in the British Virgin Islands. Facing out toward Bellamy Cay, off Beef Island, where the so-called Prince of Pirates founded a roughshod settlement in the early 1700s, the clifftop yoga platform takes full advantage of the area’s best asset: panoramic views of emerald islets punctuating a turquoise horizon where ocean blends seamlessly into sky. Kim Takeuchi, the property’s Vancouver-born manager (and massage therapist and cook and yoga instructor), asks us to inhale deeply. Taking up the corpse pose, I can’t help but think of all the salty dogs who met their watery end among these islands.
Resort developers and second (or third) home buyers have replaced the buccaneers and scalawags who once roamed this scattering of 60-odd islands and cays, but the aim remains the same: to carve out your own private slice of paradise. Here at Baraka Point on Virgin Gorda (or Fat Virgin, so named by Christopher Columbus in 1493 because its distant shape reminded him of a rotund, reclining female), all the luxury boxes are ticked: infinity pool, gym, media room, open-air oceanside spa pavilion. Kim’s New Zealand-born hubby, Aaron Seddon, works wonders in the kitchen, like the seven-course, torchlit poolside extravaganza that includes such minor miracles as a succulent lamb chop topped with horseradish sorbet, and homemade fettuccini with lobster from Anegada, the BVI’s northernmost island.
At the Baths, a snorkeller’s haven on Virgin Gorda, I don my mask and hover around the reef, spotting electric-blue tang fish and black and yellow striped juveniles until my fingertips wrinkle like bits of brain coral. Much of the BVI’s pirate lore has at least some truth to it, but it’s tricky to sort fact from fiction. Take the legend of Dead Man’s Chest: Blackbeard supposedly marooned 15 of his men on this barren bit of rock with only a bottle of rum. (In other versions, he also left them with a goat and a pistol.)
At White Bay beach on Jost Van Dyke island, named after 17th-century Dutch pirate Joost van Dyk, we’re armed with something much sweeter: the BVI’s signature cocktail, the Painkiller. It’s made with rum, cream of coconut, pineapple juice, orange juice and grated Grenadian nutmeg and was invented here at the Soggy Dollar Bar, a beach shack where wet dollar bills dry on a miniature clothesline behind the bar. Painkiller in hand, I wander into a ring game with Kurt from Antigua. Depending on who you ask, the game was either invented in a local bar or by 18th-century pirates who played it with human bones on board their ships. Basically, you swing a ring on a string toward a hook on a tree. Kurt watches me launch the ring in all directions, then steps in, giving me two key pointers. “Just relaaaax,” he says. “And get a little curve in your swing.” I take another hit of Painkiller and gently release the ring. It curves a bit to the left, then miraculously latches on. I jump up and down, feeling like I’ve found buried treasure.
A large photo of Queen Elizabeth II hangs at the entrance to the Old Government House in the capital, Road Town, on Tortola island, Her Majesty’s lustrous white hair and crown twinkling in the direction of the gift shop. Ermin Penn, resident historian, is walking me through the BVI’s history. “For nearly 200 years after Columbus came by in 1493, we had up to five or six European nations warring for control of the region – Denmark, Holland, England, Spain, Norway. And because of our bays and coves, we had the most pirates in the Caribbean.” Then, betraying a hint of pride, she adds, “They were certainly the most esteemed.”
That night, I settle into Falcon’s Nest, a palatial villa at Peter Island Resort. Even here, amid the oversize contemporary design objects and the infinity pool fed by a fake waterfall, there are remnants of privateers from the past. It’s said that some of Blackbeard’s men attempted to swim to Peter Island but died trying, hence the names Deadman’s Beach and Deadman’s Bay. Norman Island, immediately southwest of Peter Island, has long been rumoured to be the inspiration for Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island. I’ve brought my own copy along, and can just make out Norman (Treasure) Island in the distance from my private terrace.
In the morning, it’s time to head for the sprawling spa complex for a rendezvous with massage therapist Nir. A sturdy young Israeli who came here via New York, he administers a deep-tissue massage that slips me into a trancelike state of relaxation. “I’m never going back,” he tells me. “Here all I have to do is sit and read a book and look out at the scenery to be happy.” I nod knowingly, grinning and dazed. Dozing off in the sun by yet another infinity pool, I daydream of retiring here and now, at 31. I picture myself sporting a black eye patch, parrot sidekick on my shoulder, nimbly scaling palm trees in search of ripe coconuts and doing whatever else wannabe sea dogs do in their never-ending spare time. Perhaps a spot of clifftop yoga?
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