9 am
I wake up and decide to climb part of the steep five-mile trail through the scrubby green hills of Peter Island. I am utterly alone, and the 1,800-acre island – save a small portion occupied by the rest – seems to be all mine. Thirsty, I stop at Sunset Overlook, where a thermos of ice water awaits, placed there just for me. I pause to take in the view: a smattering of lush islands separated only by impossible blue. I spot Norman Island, said to be the inspiration for Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island.

1 pm
I take the resort's shuttle to White Bay Beach – one of five secluded Caribbean beaches exclusively used by resort guests and about half a mile from my suite – where I dip into the peacock-blue water. Beneath me slithers a spotted eel, and I watch a rainbow-colored parrotfish peck at the seafloor. This may be snorkel-bliss, but one day I'll go deeper, diving the nearby wreck of the HMS Rhone a la Jacqueline Bisset in The Deep. I emerge to find a staff member delivering my idea of the perfect picnic: brie, fruit and chocolate-chip cookies, served on a silver platter.

5 pm
Undone by a frangipani-and-coconut moisturizing treatment at the resort's new seaside spa, I indulge in a bubble bath in my hot tub. Steam rising around me, I look out the picture window to a slice of sea. In the distance is Dead Chest Island, where Blackbeard marooned 15 mutinous men, leaving them with just a cask of rum; hence the pirate ditty "Fifteen men on the Dead Men's Chest, yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum." Perhaps it's time for a Painkiller, the fruit-juice-and-rum-filled drink of the BVIs topped with freshly grated nutmeg.

6 pm
I watch dusk unfold from the beach outside my suite and see mega-yachts cross the horizon. In the harbor is the Silmaril, the resort's own yacht. She's at my disposal, and tomorrow the crew will sail me wherever I wish – perhaps Charlotte Amalie on St. Thomas for some shopping, or maybe we'll anchor in a lovely bay where I can picnic in the salt breeze and dive into the sea.