Photo: Dea Adria Mallin by Clio Mallin

“Good morning, Ms. Mallin. This is Michael at the Quarterdeck with your wake-up call. It’s 8:30 and it’s a beautiful day.”

In a final nod to my stress-filled life, I have leapt from my soft, white, tropical Mombasa-netted full body luxury bed and grabbed the receiver of the wall phone to get my wake-up call. Now, I place the receiver slowly, slowly back on the antique phone. With this gesture, I dedicate myself to two days on a five-acre island, a world apart, a little world, cunningly made.

I am ensconced on Little Palm Island, a timeless, private luxury retreat on a protected lagoon with white sand beach and endless ocean, three miles offshore in Florida’s Lower Keys. It is accessible only by boat or seaplane, and the night sky is pure. With just twenty-eight oceanfront bungalow suites and two grand suites, it was awarded Top Resort in Florida and #2 Resort in North America by Condé Nast Traveler on their 2003 Gold List and #25 of the Top Small Hotels in the World by Travel and Leisure.

Lying here in my cocoon where everything is of an ivory and beige stillness, I begin to take stock of my surroundings, the ones I missed after I turned left onto Pirates Road at Mile Marker 28.5 on US1, parked the car in the Welcome Station, and boarded their mahogany yacht, a launch service, late the night before. I look up and up and up at the layering of authentic thatch and bamboo, which even hurricane rain cannot penetrate, rising perhaps twenty feet to its peak. Bamboo beams. Wicker. Rattan. A bottle of fresh water with a drinking glass and a clip-on light for reading on the nightstand.

Now I cross the terra cotta tiles, noticing in one a small animal footprint, perhaps a remnant from the island’s former incarnation as a fishing camp for Harry Truman. I find a writing desk topped with a delicately scented candle, aglow, and postcards, already stamped, within. I peek at the private bamboo-screened outdoor shower, realizing that the dwelling is actually one storey above ground, and take in the dressing area  and softly lit bathroom with Jacuzzi tub for two, seating areas, white waffle-weave robes and coco mango lotions and soaps, and proceed to the living room. Pinch me. I’m in a hut, right? My British colonial living room is replete with carved mahogany, handsomely upholstered furniture, a sprawling glass-topped coffee table, a fine bar, a staunch stand for the oversized umbrellas by the door, and field glasses with a Florida birdwatcher’s guide perched on a carved wood stand. “It’s a four-star hut,” I smile to myself.

Curious to see the beautiful day announced to me by Michael, I open the wooden louvers of the many windows of my air-conditioned rooms with ceiling fans and exchange a cool darkness for a sense of the marvelous. Outside is thick, lush foliage – as if the forest primeval has come to me, without the high, closed canopy, without the rain. Here, the sunlight moves giddily among the fat, green fronds.

I open the door to a whoosh from the overhang of the thatched roof, and before me is Jamaican coconut palm and open ocean, stretching directly to Cuba. On the veranda, my newspaper has already been delivered. Fuchsia hibiscus and pink powderpuff overhang my terrace where, last night, an endangered Key Deer foraged. I sit in one of the upholstered wicker chairs to take my morning coffee while an invisible gardener prunes and sculpts paradise. Perhaps I will lie in the hammock this morning and stare at the soundless sea. The day has barely begun and I am already beguiled by the elegant simplicity, by the reduction to the elemental, by the gentle, repetitive coo of a pair of mourning doves.

Splendid Isolation

A walk around the five acres, enhanced by $10 million of recent renovation, reveals the island’s rich interior life – all the labyrinthine foliage and delicately perfumed trees and flowers that a head gardener conjures in dreams. The Chanel No. 5 flower, Ylang-Ylang, blooms near the Zen Garden; there are 28 varieties of palm tree; a life-sized chess game suddenly appears; the migratory bird path above provides exotic species; and Palapa Point reveals itself as the choice for wedding ceremonies and ocean-front massages. Always, the ingenious landscaping preserves privacy. And then everything opens onto ocean. Private docks extend, punctuated by two chaises, one umbrella, and a table for piña coladas. A million motionless birds pose on the mud flats at low tide. The sun descends in splendid isolation. Terrific photo ops, but who could even think about an intrusive camera.

Food and Wine

One does, however, think about food. Cuisine is a sufficient reason to come to Little Palm Island -- named in 2003 by Condé Nast Traveler as #2 in the United States for Best Food -- and the yachting crowd regularly slips into the marina for an inspired lunch, Sunday brunch, or dinner. Ocean vistas and atmospheric light suffuse the dining experience -- elegant inside, on the terrace, at the Monkey Bar, or at the water’s edge, lit by tiki torches, so that every seat really is the best seat in the house.

From its inception in 1988, the kitchen was the preserve of Swiss-born chef Michel Reymond, who melded classic French with island style. In 1999, Adam Votaw came from five-star hotels in Palm Beach and Boca and from the edgier China Grill to add a pan-Asian element and to concentrate on “everything fresh and local,” including the Key limes and herbs grown on the property. When Votaw opened his own restaurant in Coral Gables this fall, Anthony Keene, who has opened Ritz-Carltons across the world, was brought in as Executive Chef, creating his own succulent originals.

If you talk to Chef Tony, and every guest can, you will find him absolutely winning, original, and just a little bit elusive – like his cuisine. Though his menu descriptions tend towards the perfunctory, his creations titillate the senses, and by the second day, you want to stay for a third day just to experience the seared duck foie gras and jumbo sea scallop with the carrot ginger sauce one more time. Or the curried shrimp in rice paper in a grilled pineapple tamarind sauce. Or the deliriously addictive gargantuan spicy shrimp martini. And these are merely the appetizers.

Fine wines, 198 références altogether, are the norm here, and the wine cellar of 2,500 bottles is rich in very good mid-90’s California and French vintages, with a strong showing of Italian reds and whites, ranging from $35-$300. Oh, and you can get a bottle of the priceless, as it were, 1982 Chateau Margaux.

On the first night, with an unimpeded view of water and starry sky, as I peruse the menu, I overhear someone exclaim, “I could eat this every day for the rest of my life!” “What?  What?” I beseech her, and the woman, no novice to haute cuisine, points to the substantial crab cake before her. Jumbo lump crabmeat, held together by magic (well, the scantiest bit of panko) and barely but exquisitely enhanced with warm lime, buerre blanc, and white wine cream sauce, is so redolent of the sea’s bounty that I choose the crab cake both this night and the next.

To Do or To Be?

After a European-paced dinner, we meander into the room where jazz singer Raven performs on Mondays and  past pianist Phil Simpson’s gentle strains, exchanging them for the watery echoes of the pool fountains, and into the Great Room, also known as the Library. Still open, it offers two floor-to-ceiling walls of books with a serious cultural bent, in English, French, and German. Hardbacks by Thomas Pynchon and Harold Bloomarold Bloo join with such local literary lights as Edna Buchanan, Zora Neale Hurston, and Ernest Hemingway, who, even from the grave, commands shelf space. The Great Room has the island’s only television, a large flat-screen plasma TV. Elegant board games are already set up between two gaming chairs, but for me, an island is not conducive to contests of wit, and I mindlessly spin the handsome world globe whose crushed raw lapis lazuli marks the planet’s oceans. Overseers of the library are twin portraits, from Little Palm’s early years, of former president Harry Truman and his wife, Bess. The whimsy of these portraits may or may not have been intentional, but a naughty gleam around the Truman eyes speaks library volumes. An aside: Harry Truman’s original outhouse remains, now host to the single on-isle telephone.

When the second morning dawns, I settle into a less-is-more, a stay-and-play philosophy.  But if even Eden can’t subdue a Type A personality, there is activity and adventure within reach. For shopping, sightseeing, and nightlife, historic Key West is a mere 28 miles away, at the end of US 1.

On the property itself, at the docks, there is every sort of boat rental for backcountry and flats fishing as well as deep sea fishing. Knowing that the Keys are home to the finest saltwater fishing in North America, Harry Truman used to relocate the White House here at Little Palm Island so he could mix affairs of state and snook. In fact, four United States presidents have fished here, PT 109, the movie about Kennedy’s wartime experiences, was filmed here, and counted among the guests have been Al Gore, Marvin Hamlisch, Katie Couric, Paul Newman, and Michael J. Fox, who spent a solitary week working on his book.

If you decide to fish, the concierge will take care of all the details of chartering a boat or hiring a guide. If you want to learn to sail, the resort has teamed up with the American Sailing Association to offer packages in Basic Keel Boat Sailing, Basic Coastal Cruising, Barefoot Charter Certification, and Coastal Navigation Certification. This way, when you come back the next time, you can find your slip in the marina as captain not only of your soul, but of a sailing vessel.

There are also complimentary pontoon boats, whalers, canoes, windsurfers, angler boats, Hobie Day Sailers, and my favorite, the quiet kayak. Eco-tours can be arranged with a guide to explore the backcountry of Great White Heron National Wildlife Refuge, but it is equally fulfilling to take one of the resort’s kayaks into the wilderness of mangrove swamps adjacent to the property.

Here is an inkling of the Keys as they really are, all intricacy of land and water, wild and full of secrets. In the kayak, being careful not to get into the currents of the Atlantic, we navigate the mangroves for about two hours. It would have been one, but there was something moving deep into the mangrove that begged to be followed, and we got stuck in the mud and had to drag the kayak back out on foot. A few times. We tuck into nooks with only the fish and tangles of arching air roots and the dappled sunlight for company – and floppy yellow butterflies and herons and egrets on their wire legs, plus one giant, silent ibis. Our approach is very slow, in commensurate and respectful silence. Suddenly, the ibis erupts, a hellion of squawks and hurly-burly flapping of wings. We paddle out of his space, and back he comes to claim the territory so rightfully his.

If you prefer to be in the crystal Atlantic water instead of on it, take note that Little Palm’s location puts it in kissing distance of Looe Key National Marine Sanctuary. This is significant to me as a practiced snorkeler and sometime diver because not only is Looe Key rated as one of the top ten reefs in the world, but Looe Key is the only living reef in North America! The color of the crystalline water? A Bahamian azure, a Caribbean turquoise, only you don’t have to travel so far to revel in these hues. There’s a one-day resort course in scuba diving and a 3-day PADI certification course, and snorkelers and divers alike keep company with stoplight parrotfish, the queen angel, jack, trumpetfish, barracuda, needlenose, spiny lobster, even the comical black and white spotted cowfish. Just remember to ask whether there are any three-foot swells on the reef.

Spa--ah

After lunch on the beach, where raising a pink logo flag on a pole signals a waiter, I glance at the new 24-hour Fitness Center and opt instead for the indulgence of the new SpaTerre, a gentle place, an intimate space. Situated on the second level, with an Indonesian decor, the spa somehow resolves the paradox of the exquisite crystal chandelier in each of the four treatment rooms with the thatched roof! The ambiance, the expertise, and the full range of deluxe services got SpaTerre voted #2 for Best Hotel Spa for Service in North America by Travel and Leisure. Massage therapies include Swedish, Balinese, aromatherapy, and hot volcanic stone massage. Treatments go from seaside salt glow and Caribbean seaweed body mask to milk and honey or cucumber aloe wrap.

I opt for one of the Indonesian and Thai rituals use healing spices and flowers: the Javanese Lulur Royal Treatment, originally a 40-day ritual designed to make a royal bride all silken of skin and sweet, begins with a jasmine and frangipani-scented flower oil massage. One whiff and I am already a royal. The pampering moves to a mild scrub of turmeric, rice, sandalwood, and jasmine, followed by a cool yogurt massage. Next, on the terrace beyond, comes a shower rinse and then a soak in a deep wooden tub, scattered with rose petals. Here, I choose to open the gauze drapery and become part of the canopy of sunlit palm and serene blue sky. For the finale of jasmine and frangipani lotions, I return to the chandeliered room. And when I leave the spa, I pause at the entrance to lie on the high Indonesian “resting bed,” in partnership with the symphony of sound from songbirds and rustling fronds.

All massages, including couples’ massages, can take place in the spa, in the suite, in the Zen Garden, or by the sea. And unlike the real world, where there is always a post-massage assault of fast-moving people, traffic, and thoughts, here the outside world is dulcet-toned, with the winding paths and reflection pool of the Zen garden or the umbrella-shaded double chaises of the private docks to stretch out and prolong the serenity

All Things Considered

At Little Palm Island, there is not a single discordant note. It is paradise – a word claimed by every ad for a resort these days. Only this is the real thing. Biblical terrain. Honest. No pollution. No city lights. Not a loud voice. No outside phones in the rooms, and cell phones restricted to the bedroom. No money seen exchanging hands, ever. Herons and ibis and egrets calling. Hammocks calling. Sea lapping. The drip and drape of leaf and tree. The sunset orb bedazzling, then falling off the horizon in mauve tumescence. Ylang-ylang sweetening the air. Planets shining and stars scintillating. All movement effortless and suspended in time. This is not Bali or Tonga in the South Pacific, not Lamu in Africa, not Mauritius in the middle of the Indian Ocean. This is Little Palm Island, unique in all of North America for its ability to conjoin nature on a remote island with fairytale luxe.

On my last night, a prominent Swiss banker and his young wife were dining at a table for two, nearly touching the water. Because we were the last guests still at table, we conferred over dessert choices, then exchanged a few notions about Sardinia, Switzerland, and South Beach. I asked what they thought of Little Palm. Said the world traveler, his eyes suddenly incandescent, “Until I came to Little Palm Island, I thought I was blasé…”

Little Palm Island Resort and Spa. 28500 Overseas Hwy. Little Torch Key, FL 33042. 800-3-GET LOST.