Connoisseurs of sand revere Caribbean shores, so where better to ask why we treasure beaches? Mike Di Paola reflects on universal desires in the British Virgin Islands

I'm on Anegada, an island thirteen miles long and with sixteen miles of beaches, most of them empty. Alone among the volcanic Virgin Islands, Anegada is a limestone and coral atoll, which makes for spectacular sand—grains of pulverized shells, skeletons of tiny planktonic organisms, odd bits of bleached, long dead coral, and a powdering of seashell red. I happen to be near Pomato Point on the Caribbean side, where the sand is fine, soft, soothing on the soles—like butter. Typical.

A couple hundred yards out, two plumes of water spray straight out of the sea, as if a whale with two blowholes were exhaling in the surf. I assume it's coral that has been carved out with internal piping just so, but I later learn that it's what's left of a sunken barge. The barge owner promised to remove it, but he never returned to do the job, so thar she blows.

The sun is starting to pull its shade for the night, and I sit awhile in the silky sand, watching the crescent moon and Venus take on the faintest hint of red. Is this the finest beach on Anegada? I wonder. Incredibly, the answer is no.

My search for a perfect beach began on Tortola, the largest of the British Virgin Islands, a Caribbean cluster known for great beaches and few inhabitants. Visitors tend to arrive on boats, which is one of the reasons most beaches are relatively undeveloped. That can make finding a night's lodging a challenge, but it also keeps the shoreline closer to its natural state. And there is no improving on Nature.

In Road Town, I drop in on Bertrand Lettsome, the chief conservation and fisheries officer of the BVI. Wearing prodigious dreadlocks and bolo tie, Lettsome has a way of swaggering without ever leaving his seat that manages to be charming.

I ask him, So where's the best beach?

He cites a number of them on Tortola: Brewer's Bay, Josiah's Bay, Long Bay (which is actually on Beef Island, but close enough). I sense that he's just naming names, so I press him. What beach should I absolutely visit? I have only a few days on Tortola, then Jost Van Dyke, and then Anegada.

His eyes light up. "You're going to Anegada?" He smiles broadly. Before him is an innocent who has not yet experienced something beautiful, but is about to. "Man, you're going to be irie," he says, invoking the all-purpose island term for sublime well-being.

Oh yeah? Well, specifically, which beaches on Anegada should I—

"You're going to be irie, man." Discussion over.

I'm not even sure what the characteristics of a perfect beach are, but I'm drawn to Cane Garden Bay. Lettsome suggested that it was perhaps overtaxed by visitors to Tortola, and I figure any beach that popular has to have something going for it. It does. Nature did her part to draw the sunblocked multitudes. Cradled by steep, lush hills is a beachscape of sea grape trees and tall, arching palms, a surf that breaks lightly on the shore. The sand is fine and tawny, a harmonious mix of crushed coral and sedimentary rock, pleasing to the eye and foot.