Slow down. Reset your body clock. It's how things used to be in the Caribbean. Alison Humes explores a world of villages, islands, and hideaways that are still under the radar—the barefoot life at its best

To be overly dramatic, I could say that we were marooned in the Sapodilla Cayes, a small group of Caribbean islands belonging to Belize that sit in the coral-riddled crotch of Guatemala, between the legs of Belize and Honduras. A few of the cays are privately owned, a few so small as to have room for only a couple of coconut palms, and others—among them, Ragged, Lime, Hunting, Frank's, and Northeast—are loosely confederated within the fifty square miles of the Sapodilla Cayes Marine Reserve.

We had set out from Punta Gorda, a town in the south of Belize, in the Long Gone, a thirty-foot sailboat captained, crewed, and slopped by Mark Leslie, a charming Belizean who put me in mind of the young Giancarlo Giannini—handsome and muscular, but English- and Creole-speaking, with a soft spot for the yearning ballads of classic rock. He has pirate blood, he told us, being descended from the European buccaneers of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, who knew well the ins and outs of Belize's treacherous reef and who eventually settled along the coast, cutting logwood. The water was as blue as the sea in Swept Away, but unfortunately for Mark, his passengers—my friend Cynthia and I—did not add up (our exacting standards and not insignificant allure notwithstanding) to Mariangela Melato.

About halfway out on our first day (the islands are forty miles offshore), we started to notice the smell of the engine when we were under power. Smelled a bit like smoke. Mark checked the water, checked the antifreeze and the gas—all looked good. Oh, well, we were moving, the day was beautiful, nothing for it but to keep going…

Like a sailor, the traveler exploring the Caribbean coast of Central America quickly discovers that enjoying unanticipated opportunities to rest, refresh, and repair is the only way to get in the groove. Railing against the gods, bureaucracy, the climate, missed connections, or broken engines is frankly childish; it spoils not only your own pleasure in paradise but that of everyone else around you. If you forget this lesson, the gods, etc.—perhaps particularly in Central America—will generously give you the opportunity to revisit it. I was able to profit from this teaching numerous times.

South of Mexico, the coast of the western Caribbean meanders to South America over 1,900 miles like a lazily drawn reclining S. I was able to trace aspects of this sinuous line in three trips: to Belize and Honduras with brief stops in Guatemala; to Nicaragua and Costa Rica; and to Panama. Only bits of this coast are well traveled—notably, along Belize, the Bay Islands of Honduras, and the southeast of Costa Rica.

I have been in love with the Caribbean Sea since 1959. When I was four, my father upped and moved to St. Martin—he thought it was a good place to write, perhaps even to create a floating university, one that would move from place to place via the trade winds in perpetual pursuit of the accretion and exchange of knowledge—and the rest of the family followed him. There were only thirteen people on the island then for every hundred there are today. Tiny fig bananas grew in the backyard; fish was purchased on the main beach; people jabbered in Creole, French, English, and Dutch. I can't remember ever wearing anything but underpants. There were no cruise ships, no resorts, and few cars.