Petit St. Vincent Resort

Shortly after we had buried Mac and Dad, my friend John Corbett asked if we would like to have a few quiet days at Petit St. Vincent. John was taking care of the resort for the owner, Haze Richardson, and was living on the tiny Island with his three young children. The thought of getting away from Bequia for a short time was appealing; we were still pretty bewildered by the extent of our loss, and a chance to have a rest without being surrounded by people attempting to cheer us up sounded wonderful. It would also be an opportunity to recharge my very drained batteries before the onslaught of the Christmas season, and I accepted John’s offer gratefully.

I had not taken into account the fact that we would have to FLY to Union Island, then take a launch over to Petit St. Vincent.  That trip to the southern Grenadines was a titch traumatic, and the four of us were a bundle of nerves as we checked in for our flight. We had to depart from Arnos Vale, and as the plane rolled down the run-way I couldn’t help but think of Mac rolling down the same run-way just a few weeks before in the little Cherokee. I held my breath as the aircraft lifted, slowly releasing it as we climbed and leveled out over the sea. Looking down, I could see Bequia, Balliceaux and Battowia, then Mustique and Canouan as the plane headed south. The colour of the water as we flew past Mayreau and over the Tobago Cays was stunning, beautiful shades of Aqua, tourmaline and turquoise glistened as we approached the Union Island run-way.

What an approach!  It seemed especially dramatic that day, perhaps because the passengers were more than a little uneasy; the plane swooped over the top of a mountain, then descended with gut-wrenching swiftness to land. I could see the end of the run-way clearly, and was sure we were going to land in the sea. It was a bouncy arrival to Union Island, and I for one was trembling as we disembarked.

The launch to the resort was waiting for us, and we were whisked quickly across the water to the private and very exclusive Island.      John met us at the jetty along with a pretty staff member, who offered refreshing iced drinks to the new arrivals, fruit punch for the girls, rum punch for the adults. Mom and I later agreed that rum had never tasted so good, the short flight from the mainland had unsettled us, and the potent punch had provided a welcome antidote!

I had been to the resort just once before, when the island had hosted its annual P.S.V. Regatta. I had been new to the Caribbean then, and had not ventured past the beach bar during the course of the weekend. I was amazed by the understated luxury of the private dwelling we were driven to in a golf cart; the building and its furnishings were simple yet elegant, blending perfectly with the pristine beaches and palm trees. There was no T.V., no phone, not even a radio, just the sound of the waves as they rolled ashore, and the wind whispering through the tropical foliage. It was utterly perfect.

We were told that if we needed anything, all we had to do was raise the flag on the little box at the entrance to the drive. A golf cart would come immediately to find out what the guests wanted, a quaint system that actually worked quite well!  Vanessa and Rachel had gone to school with Joseph and Andreas Corbett, and spent time playing with them while Mom and I relaxed on the patio. We needed this time alone together, and for the next few days we gratefully enjoyed the privacy the resort afforded us.  We had delicious meals in the dining room with the Corbett family, but were otherwise left on our own to begin the healing process. It was perfect, exactly what we needed. Thanks John!