This small green-coloured map offered up by the PSV Resort Website shows in quite clear detail the "115 acres to explore" on the Island known as PSV, however, given we are Cruisers and not Resort Guests... we had some distinct Lines we could not Cross.

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We splashed ourselves into the refreshingly clear waters at the bright and early morning hours for what was rapidly becoming habitual exercise routines. In quasi-perfect long-arm strokes we swam our way to the beach, followed it along to the point of the island but it wasn't long before the underwater world of floating seagrass and shallow corally bits made it quite impossible and murky to want to continue. Turning around we headed back the way we came and then followed the shoreline even further to the other docks, and then back again, eventually turning towards home.

Nothing much to rave about, except that fitness while swimming with the turtles makes for a great way to start the day.

A snack of a breakfast and before we knew it we were all ashore minding our Zone Privé signs,



while passing through the very impressively ornate doors of Goaties' Bar where I'm sure we were somehow invisibly photographed, X-rayed and our skeletal imprints documented for future reference (wink wink) before the Security Guard greeted us with a smiling Good Morning type of Welcome.



Of the 115 available acres to explore we were only availed "two miles of white powdered sand beaches" and gosh-darn-it-all we were planning to hike every single allowable step of them,



our toes sinking and melding (in a barefoot elegance type of way, of course) as we walked ahead and breathed in the saltwater haze of the hot humid day surrounded by "softly rolling hills and natural tropical woodlands", yet all the while very consciously aware of these



constantly and consistently reminding us not to Cross The Line.

Many thatched roof huts were placed here and there, along the way,



offering up shaded privacy and a cozy hammock billowing in the warm winds. Off to the side were large red jugs and two upside-down glasses just beckoning to be used.



We walked below the steep sandy embankments and couldn't help but notice that each and every thatched roof huts held one of these red jugs.



How perfect a moment in time would it be to lay in the hammock, sipping on a glass of something... perhaps whatever's in that red jug?



However, those signs, always and forever placed just in case we might be tempted to cross the line and open one of those reg jugs in an effort to discover its contents. How far would you go ?? How curious are you?

The naturally windswept branches and leaves sometimes hid the upcoming landscape,



not to mention the various fitness circuit types of stops,



yet just like the red jugs, they remained elusive and out of reach for us, since we were not willing to Cross that Line to explore further.

The mounds of yellow Sargassum Seaweed collected in piles on the unswept portions of the beach,



the driftwood laying in perfect Photo-Op opportunities,



yet nowhere could we find evidence of any of the "22 ocean view cottages; half are elevated on various bluffs around the island", however, given that they were all "delicately positioned around the island to offer guests' the upmost in seclusion and privacy" we weren't all that surprised that we couldn't spot not-even-a-one.



I'm sure any guests on the island were probably inside enjoying their "Italian 300 thread linens", and "Soft Mascioni towels" and "Bvlgari bathroom amenities", I mean, wouldn't you be?

We were also keeping our eyes open for any flying flags, "The luxury beach villas also have the flagpole system, unique to Petit St. Vincent - raise a red flag for 'Do Not Disturb' and a yellow one for service and a butler will soon be at your villa in no time to look after your every whim."

At the Northern Tip of the Island, the beach came to a sudden stop in Conch Bay at this very perfect and quite ideal Yoga Location,



which immediately called out to us. Quite loudly I must admit. This was the moment of Crossing that Line, and I quickly dared an Illegal Downward Facing Dog Photo-Op,



and only when I was upside down did I notice the Sign.



Since I wasn't instantly vaporized into nothingness at having trespassed, I thanked my lucky stars and we all turned around and made our way back,



where I'm sure the security guard was relieved that he didn't have to follow us anymore,



not that he was, know what I'm saying?



We continued on through the doors of Goatie's Restaurant on the Beach,



where we found another Best.(Thatched Roof with Wooden Floor).Morning.Yoga. Spot.Ever !! and a query to the Security Guard (who had quickly materialized as soon as our Toes had Crossed the Line), sent us with a curious look yet friendly smile and pointed finger, up to the Main Office.

We told him we weren't quite dressed for a visit like that. He shrugged, and said, "No Problem".

Since I had already Crossed The Line, and had survived to tell the tale, I was somehow voted to Do.It.Again. There were vehement promises to come rescue me, should I not reappear in ten minutes or so, so head held bravely high and walking with a purpose, I marched quite bravely up the stone walkway (and realized with a sinking stomach type of feeling that none of us was wearing a watch),



wondering what kind of Chances lay waiting for me at the top of the stairs. I found the large glass doors and opened them into a blast of Air Conditioned Coldness that was the Main Office (just by the Restaurant),



where the immaculately dressed and well coiffed lady sitting behind the large wooden desk looked up at my Barefoot Sandy Elegance in curious wonderment as I greeted her with my warmest smile and cheerful "Good Morning".

"You want to what?" she looked at me quizzically as I repeated my request to her.
"Yoga, in the hut that's right there on the beach".
"Yoga?" she queried.
"Yes" I responded, wondering just what type of 4 letter word I was saying.

"When" she asked.
"Tomorrow morning, at 07:30" I nodded my heard in positive affirmation as I recited our schedule.

"Are you on the Cat?" she asked as she peppered me with questions.
"No, we're the two monohulls that are anchored by Goatie's Bar " I answered, and quickly added, just to clarify, "We're the Canadian flagged boats"
"Mm-hmm..."

She glanced around her perfectly decorated office space, the understated elegance of Earthy Tones meant to inspire subdued accordance with the rules, and picked up the old-fashioned phone handset. She held a very quiet and very private discussion with the person on the other end of the line, and it was all I could do not to whistle and dare I even breathe as I pretended to look at the artwork on the walls.

"Okay", she said after what seemed like an eternity "No problem".

I said, "Why thank you very much" as I backed out of the office while simultaneously trying to keep an air of nonchalance. An air of "I knew it!" intermingled with just a hint of "Jump for Joy and Wow".

I hopped skipped and jumped my way down the stairs,



crossing the legal-illegal line once again, and rejoined my companions in crime,



who were probably quite relieved that they didn't have to organize and send a search party after me.

Sitting on the dock of the wharf,



we hatched more plans that had us on another type of Legal Illegal Beach that afternoon,



watching the many Regatta boats get ready,



for an afternoon of racing fun.



It certainly pays to respect the Signs. Sometimes, just for fun, you might need to Cross the Line (if only for a moment). But most certainly it pays to ask permission first, you know you have a 50-50 chance, right?

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