At day's end, I go for a swim. Lying on the dock afterward, I roll over and see a turtle swimming toward me, its elongated neck protruding above the placid surface. I wonder if it too is returning from a day-trip, or whether it's just back from having seen something of the world.

The MV Barracuda was once the Grenadines' mail boat. Correspondence is delivered by air these days, but the Barracuda still works the islands, carrying passengers and small goods. My folding kayak has finally arrived, and in order to make up for lost time, I board the Barracuda for the three-and-a-half-hour trip south to Union Island.

Originally one giant cotton plantation, the island rises to two peaks: Mount Olympus and Mount Parnassus, whose audacious names belie their relatively modest size. I book a room on the far side of the island at the Big Sand Hotel, on Belmont Bay, a mile from the rustic main town of Clifton.

I quickly scout the island by pickup truck and on foot. From its shores, I can see several of the chain's other islands: Mayreau and Palm, Petit St. Vincent and the Tobago Cays. I make the executive decision, simple when traveling solo, to use Big Sand—with its large air-conditioned rooms (necessary in the late-summer heat) and excellent restaurant—as my base, paddling to a different island each day.

Finally, I'm ready to let the boat out of the bag. The folding Feathercraft K1 Expedition is brand-new, and assembling its aluminum frame and Duratek skin is a bit of a wrestling match. Even in the shade of the veranda outside my room, I'm sweating profusely as I struggle with the seventeen-foot vessel.

After ninety minutes, I carry the teal blue kayak down to the curve of beach for my first paddle—a circumnavigation of Union Island that should take about four hours. As I push off into the clear green Caribbean, I notice roiling whitecaps separating Union from nearby Mayreau. The winds typically hold off until after noon, but this morning they are up and blowing early.

The lure of kayaking is powerful, especially when traveling alone. You can go where you want, when you want. Of course, paddling solo also comes with risks: If you get into trouble, there's no one to help you. But for me the privilege of cruising along at sea level under my own steam makes it all worthwhile, especially when the occasional manta ray swims alongside as I stroke half a mile off Union's coast.

There is a long history of exploration by small boat in these islands. The Ciboney people were the first to journey from South America to St. Vincent, which they named Hairoun ("Land of the Blessed"). They would eventually continue on to Cuba and Haiti, leaving these islands to the agrarian Arawak, who had also arrived by small boat. (Columbus sailed by in 1492, although there is no record that he even saw the island, much less stopped.)

It grows windier as I slowly circle Union. Though I've been in the kayak less than an hour, my legs are cramped, so I come ashore on a deserted beach at Bloody Bay and swim in the shallow cove. Another hour's paddle along the western edge of the island brings me to the small village of Ashton, where I duck under a low bridge and follow a man-made channel to the main town of Clifton. A big thunderhead is growing to the north, toward Mayreau, and heading in my direction. Within half an hour, big drops are splattering off the sea, the kayak, and my head. When I finally return to the beach fronting Big Sand, the restaurant's boss, a slight man named Geoffrey, in pressed shirt and pants, is there to greet me with a cold beer as I step creakily out of my kayak.