Island Therapy (Or What I Learned From Debbie Reynolds)

DAY ONE

The sun has set and a spattering of rain greets our motley group as the motorboat churns its way toward Petit St. Vincent's dock. We're greeted with freshly blended pi�a coladas, which makes me very happy. One of the other guests chirps that she feels as though she's arrived on "Fantasy Island." Ricardo Montalban is nowhere in sight, but general manager Matt Semark is a charming substitute, sporting a linen shirt and an effervescent smile that implies that he's working in paradise.

A quick assessment of my surroundings proves he's right as I'm whisked away to my cottage -- one of twenty-two 1960s-style stone and wood structures that offer private beach access, seaside hammocks, palapas and lounge chairs. It's the kind of place I imagine Brad and Angelina would hang out at if they were still together, with their gaggle of kids frolicking in the undulating waters. But it's just me and a chilled bottle of chardonnay. Jill is ensconced on the opposite side of the 115-acre island and Debbie Reynolds is still in my bag.

I move among the various seating arrangements for a half-hour or so, like a 21st-century Goldilocks looking for the perfect fit. I've lived in a big city for more than two decades and the sound of nothing is more daunting to me than rush hour.

Matt joins Jill and me for an el fresco dinner prepared under the watchful eye of Executive Chef Andi Cahyono, who has the challenge of constantly reinventing the menu to offer variety for guests who often stay for a week or longer.

The impressive wine cellar holds hundreds of globally sourced bottles and Matt has recommended Dutton Goldfield Chardonnay from Russian River Valley. It goes down easy with the seafood curry - beautifully spiced lobster and eggplant spiked with a turmeric and coconut milk broth. I slowly (and solely) deplete the bottle. Matt is technically on duty and Jill is diving in the morning, while I've chosen the hard labor of breakfast delivered to my cottage, followed by a Balinese massage.

Back at my cottage, I raid the cookie jar (which miraculously refills itself every day during my stay) and snuggle into my king-size bed with Debbie. I momentarily bemoan my gay single life, wishing there was a warm body instead of a discounted paperback. But Debbie's three defunct marriages (Eddie Fisher, Harry Karl, and Richard Hamlett respectively) remind me that a relationship by no means guarantees happiness. Fisher was an alcoholic, Karl was a gambling addict, and Hamlett's erratic and confrontational business dealings nearly ruined her.

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From our first on-the-page encounter, I can tell that Debbie and I have kindred spirits. I had forgotten about the boyfriend who broke into my apartment while I was sleeping because he just wanted to "see me" and the ex who created a fake identity after we broke up and hacked my email account.

I relegate Debbie to the nightstand and cocoon in the crisp, white sheets. I sleep deep and hard when I'm traveling, and my first night at Petit St. Vincent is no exception. I'm also prone to vivid dreams. I jolt out of bed at 4 a.m., convinced that some critter has crawled into my bed. To be more specific: a sloth. It's the kind of meta-dream from which I awake, only to realize I'm still in it. And it's not lost on me that my subconscious has conjured up the laziest of animals, known for their sluggish inactivity. My brain is telling me that I feel guilty for doing nothing, while my body encourages me to go back to bed for a few hours.

DAY TWO

I wake up to see the full impact of my westward-facing cottage. The waves crash against the shoreline, which is just a quick jaunt from my floor-to-ceiling windows. I walk down to the water and dip my toes - a refreshing shock that within minutes feels bath warm.

I can see why Air Force veterans Hazen K. Richardson II and Doug Terman became infatuated with the southern Grenadine island back in 1963. They had just begun chartering their 77-foot schooner and their first customer, H.W. Nichols, expressed interested in purchasing an island. The trio laid eyes on Petit St. Vincent and eventually struck a deal, opening their boutique island hotel in December 1968.

Nearly 40 years later, Robin Paterson discovered the enclave, and by coincidence on a separate sailing, his friend Philip Stephenson also set eyes on the Caribbean gem. These two new partners bought the property in 2010 and set about elevating the natural wonder to cater to a modern clientele but without an influx of advanced technology.

While still maintaining the cottages' original integrity, which feature a traditional West Indian style, bluebitch stone, arched doorways and peaked roofs, upgrades included new soft furnishings, Balinese treetop spa, wine cellar, chef's garden, and the opening of the highly acclaimed Jean-Michel Cousteau Dive Center. Televisions and island-wide Wi-Fi were intentionally left off the master plan.

Over an al fresco breakfast and a chapter titled "The Star Theater," I come to learn that Debbie's real estate ventures weren't quite as successful. Purchasing the old Paddlewheel hotel and casino in Las Vegas for just over $2 million in 1992, the venture (in collaboration with narcissistic husband #3) went sour from the beginning. Hamlett's controlling management style, construction issues, and lack of a gaming license, all contributed to the venue's demise, though Debbie never missed a beat in the custom-built theatre (designed by her son, Todd), throwing zingers to the audience: "Some say sex is like air. It doesn't seem important until you aren't getting any."

I wander along Petit St. Vincent's periphery toward the spa. It's easy to get swept away by the beautifully groomed grounds dotted with lush foliage and the occasional rustling of wildlife. As I ascend the stairs to the open-air reception, Suci, my Balinese massage therapist, greets me with a chilled glass of cucumber water and leaves me to "relax" for a few minutes before beginning the treatment.

I sit. I stare. I wait for something to happen.

Out of the clear blue sky, a yellow-bellied bird (a warbler?) flutters by, sits on the balcony ledge then darts off. I gasp and blurt out, "Oh, my!" in an aristocratic tone. I half expect Dame Judi Dench to appear from behind a corner, but instead, Suci returns and accompanies me to my massage suite, one of three that overlooks the channel with Petit St. Martinique in the distance.

In spite of her small stature, Suci digs deep into my sore muscles and while my body melts under her fluid pressure, my mind won't turn off. All of life's responsibilities bubble to the surface. I ponder deadlines and annoying emails I wished I had answered differently. I practice conscious breathing like I've been taught in yoga class. I relax my facial muscles. Still my Inbox prevails.

I spend most of the afternoon reading on the beach, where Debbie reveals that Milton Berle and Bob Fosse had some of the biggest schlongs of their time. I marvel at what life must have been like as a contract player for MGM and how many people of yesteryear (and today) get away with being completely inebriated on the job. Debbie, a small town girl from rural Texas, kept clean through most of the antics, which is probably why she lived to write a book about everyone else's drunken stupors.

I opt to have dinner delivered to my cottage. I unscrew a bottle of wine and settle in for an evening with a lamb shank and a dead Hollywood star. I wish that the mirepoix had been strained and the braising liquid further reduced. But it's an honest attempt and I realize that I have nobody to confer with about these minute culinary details. No wonder in her later years Debbie bought the home adjacent to her daughter, Carrie Fisher, in
Los Angeles's swanky Coldwater Canyon neighborhood. They bantered back and forth for 15 years before Fisher died on December 27, 2016.

The relationship was complicated, but ultimately full of love. In a sense, Debbie forecasted the effect of her daughter's death:

"If love alone could cure our children, they would always be well," she writes. "Since it can't I will do whatever I can to make her life less difficult. Too many mothers have lost their children, for thousands of different reasons. I don't know if I could survive that."

I open the screened sliding doors and let the Caribbean breeze blow through the room. As I drift off to sleep, I remember my own mother from years ago, sitting at the foot of my hospital bed as I recovered from cancer surgery. I had just undergone an abdominal lymph node dissection and was in excruciating pain, so much so that I couldn't even cry.

"Let me cry for you," she said.

We spend many a day skirting death -- often chasing dreams of various degrees of accessibility. Tomorrow will be one of those days.

DAY THREE

I've been told that I'll be participating in one of the "1,000 things to do before you die." Jill is still on an endorphin high from her dive yesterday, touting the PADI 5-star experience and relishing in her close encounters of the underwater kind.

The dive center is part of Petit St. Vincent's larger mission to preserve and protect the region's coral reefs. The Philip Stephenson Foundation partnered with Coral Caribbean to build its first coral nursery, which launched in June 2017. A combination of natural causes and overfishing decimated the area in the 1980s and 90s, but the hope is to repopulate the coral and restore the delicate marine ecosystem.

We meet at the dock to board Beauty, a 49-foot handmade sloop captained by Jeff Stevens and his first mate Simba. It'll be an hour's trip by sail to reach Tobago Cays Marine Park, an official wildlife reserve. We're an intimate group of eight and even closer after I vomit my breakfast over the side of the boat. A fellow passenger hands me a tissue to mop my sweaty brow and I catch a glimpse of Jill, who seems to have gone into a meditative state to keep the same fate at bay.

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We eventually reach our destination, hop into a dinghy, and motor our way to an uninhabited island where we gear up and waddle our way into the warm waters. I'm reluctant to go too far from shore. My decades-old swimming lessons are but a distant memory and a summer of boozing has left me ill-equipped for my surroundings. Simba takes us to a second locale, this time far from shore where we're to keep an eye on the boat and signal with a hand wave to be plucked from the water. My companions flipper in every direction, but I've got a keen eye on that boat, like Debbie's famous role in "The Unsinkable Molly Brown," based on RMS Titanic survivor Margaret Brown.

Back on deck, Jeff has been grilling locally caught lobsters and tender steaks. I'll be damned if I'm going to pass up this meal, and much to everyone's surprise, eat a sturdy lunch.

"I've never seen anyone vomit with such panache," Jill says when we're back on dry land.

"I ain't down yet!" I retort. But it's not my line. It was Debbie's from "The Unsinkable Molly Brown."

By late afternoon my sea legs have worn off and Jill and I hike to the island's highest peak, Marni's Hill (elevation: 274 feet). Jill has been training for her next summit, Aconcagua (elevation: 22,841 feet) and I wonder what I'm destined to conquer next.

My time with Debbie concludes during the long commute home. From boat to charter plane to commercial jet, she recounts her storied film career from an uncredited appearance in "June Bride" (1948) to playing Liberace's mother in "Behind the Candelabra" (2013). The two had been longtime friends and it came as no surprise to her that he was gay.

A 55-year career in the entertainment industry, three husbands, two children, bankruptcies and triumphs, not to mention decades of trying to establish a permanent home for her Hollywood memorabilia collection. It was a life fully lived.

I suppose catching the glimpse of an elusive bird, vomiting in Tobago Cays, and hiking the equivalent of a San Francisco hill are benchmarks, too. I'm too old to keep score anymore. But if there's anywhere on earth to put even a small notch in my belt, Petit St. Vincent is the spot to be "Singin' in the Rain" - or in this case, the sun.