SOMEWHERE OVER GUSTAVIA, SAINT-BARTHÉLEMY

“First time?” the affable pilot asks, grinning. You nod imperceptibly, not yet ready to ease your white-knuckle death grip on the tiny prop plane’s seat cushion. “Just a moment,” the pilot says knowingly, having seen your kind a thousand times before. Suddenly, he banks slight right, cresting over sun-bleached sailboats and water so technicolor turquoise, it burns your eyes. You lean forward, involuntarily drawn toward the plush emerald formation below, its sandstone cliffs and thatched red roofs as beautiful in life as they appeared in pictures. The rapid descent over Saint-Jean sunbathers to the postage stamp of runway is just long enough to let that St. Barth island feeling overcome you, your spirit taking flight even as you touch down.