The opposite of boring, this ritual is wildly comforting. Memories of Virgin Gorda are conflated in our minds: all the fun we have had there, all the natural beauty, all the good times with other vacationers who have become friends. It all melds into one happy glow.
Which year was it that we saw a school of barracuda snorkeling off Great Dog? Or what about the countless trips to Anegada to swim and eat grilled lobsters on the beach? I remember hiking to Copper Mine Point and looking out over all that part of the Caribbean Sea -- the faraway islands of St. John and St. Croix and Tortola. And I cannot forget the Easter egg hunt we set up one year on the lawn when all the chocolate eggs melted in the tropical sun. I remember flashlight tag and all those crazy trips -- up and over the mountain -- no guardrails, no paved roads, no doors or roof on the Jeep.
The house we rent is built on stilts and set amid giant boulders and tropical gardens. Small and hexagonal-shaped, it has slatted wooden hurricane shutters and a wraparound porch where we drink gin and tonics as the sun sets over the sea. In these latitudes in March, Venus appears suddenly just after 7 o'clock -- a big, bright, blowsy planet in the night sky. Fifteen minutes later, comes the Milky Way -- a dome of shimmering stars over palm trees, purplish sea, and mountainous islands. In an uncertain world, here we are safe; we feel we are home.
I never thought I would go to the same place over and over again. It seems boring for a family like ours that so loves to travel, but Virgin Gorda has become a talisman for us. Years ago, my younger daughter's third-grade teacher asked me if Virgin Gorda was a real place. The teachers had become fascinated with the pictures, stories, and magical creatures that burst from my child's imagination every time she got an assignment to write or draw. Virgin Gorda, it seemed, was often on her mind.
