ISLAND LIVING IS SLIGHTLY ODD

I have tried for a long time to put my finger on what makes island living slightly odd. Even unsettling.

I thought bringing my computer to the terrace overlooking the turquoise water in my pool would help, but all it does is make me want to pull out another ice-cold beer and go for a swim. Fortunately, there is a torrential downpour and lightning, so I will have to settle for the beer minus the swim, watch the hibiscus take a beating and wait to walk up to the local roastery to get my spit-turned chicken, scented beautifully with the perfumes of charcoal, fire-dried chilies and the local wild marjoram.

It's one thing if one is born on the island, and another if one chooses to move to, and live, on one. No one in New York will ask you, when you pack the Range Rover with the poodles and champagne, on the way to Nantucket or Martha's Vineyard, "But what will you do there?" But when one stuffs snorkels and Lomotil into one's monogrammed L. L. Bean "Boat and Tote," that question is raised loudly and clearly. They know one has gone off the deep end, and I don't mean the pool.

Staying away from the deep end I will go out on a limb instead, and say it’s the lobsters. And the tropical light reflected off white sands and azure waters in front of me.