It's been a stressful year. The whole world needs a vacation. Which means not just any escape will do. You want small, you want secluded, and you want sand???you want what Jason Harper found on three little islands

It starts immediately. The Caribbean has a tendency to announce itself as soon as you exit the airplane. In the British Virgins, I'm greeted by riots of greenery, the smells of cooking meat, and the warm hug of wet heat. Here it is impossible to live in more than a single state of mind. Al Qaeda who?

Yes, I am escaping—a temporary solution, since escapes can't last forever and bad news seems to. But sometime last year, the zeitgeist got to me and I decided that it was time to get lost. Real lost. Someplace with daily papers and satellite dishes, but where I could seek news out rather than be swamped by it. I needed to be cut off just long enough for some soul rejuvenation.

So I headed to the Caribbean. It is backyard-close and I had only eight days to spare. The islands are ideal for another reason as well. With lots of boutique hotels on lots of pretty little beaches, the Caribbean delivers privacy and more. Its people share in that rare and wonderful careless use of time that comes with life lived in the sun.

While I'm at the Beef Island airport, I am invited to get some 'knickknacks' at a free outdoor buffet. It's a party for the opening of the post office in the terminal. Sitting on the curb with my legs in the empty street, I eat delicious chicken wings and sweetbreads served by a woman in her Sunday best (it's Monday). She tells me that I've missed the other party today, the one for the 'opening' of a new traffic light in town. A big day on Beef Island.

I'm headed for Peter Island, a posh private getaway for moneyed Americans and Brits. The resort's yacht picks me up—along with two couples, one from Britain and one from Arkansas—and soon we're crashing through ocean spray while drinking Carib beer on the top deck. As the sun tumbles behind the backbone of steep hills, we make land on Peter Island, where the resort's fifty-four rooms are the only game in—well, there is no town. The assorted cottages, buildings, restaurants, and pool are spread between Great Harbour and a curled slice of beach on Deadman's Bay, all on the leeward side.

I'm shown to a room in a series of two-story A-frames that do not offer beach access but are 'ocean view'—a subtle invitation to get out and enjoy the island. Which I do the next morning with an early run. If you want to break a sweat exercising in the Caribbean, do it well before 9 a.m. The large hill behind the resort is deceptively steep, and as I follow the narrow switchback road that is mostly the domain of employee golf carts, the sun becomes my tormentor, not my friend. When I finally reach the crest—victory!—it affords a brilliant view of the entire island. As I stop to breathe, a dozen wild goats break out from the thick underbrush. One character, the leader, assesses me for a moment, standing aggressively over his harem. No worries, old man. I point my sneakers downhill toward White Bay Beach. Peter Island is eight miles long and a mere half mile wide, so White Bay isn't far, if you can get over that cursed hill. The green-swathed slopes of St. John are visible on the horizon as I collapse onto the deserted beach and dunk my head in the water.