When I happened to come upon Palm Island Resort while surfing the Web, I have to
admit, I was a little suspicious. It seemed like just the romantic getaway I
was hoping to find: A quiet weekend with my finance, isolated beachfront rooms,
a secluded stretch of sand, loads of activities.

The problem was, I couldn’t find anyone who’d heard of it. How could that be? It
was less than an hour from my Sarasota home. A nice resort that close should be
a household name. I decided to trust my instincts and go anyway. And I’m so
glad I did.

When I booked the trip to Palm Island, I was told I’d have to take a car ferry to
get there. I was picturing a scene from the Pacific Northwest. Driving onto a
massive barge. Joining dozens of other cars on two decks. Getting out of the
car and strolling to the waiting area above, where everyone would settle in for
a long ride. Watching rugged tree-lined islands float by. The crew, of course,
sounding a blaring horn as we shove off. Maybe there’d even be a snack bar.

What we got was a small flat boat, only big enough to fit eight cars in two
side-by-side rows. The captain sat about 10 feet in the air in his one-man
cabin. He did toot what sounded like a bicycle horn, though.

The boat gently moved away from shore, and about 30 seconds later we stopped.
Looking at each other, my fiancée and I asked in disbelief, “Was that it? Are
we there already?” We were. If we were in a canoe, we could have coasted from
one shoreline to the other with one swift push of a paddle. Pulling off the
barge, it’s a mile-and-a-half drive down a beachfront road to the gates of the
resort. There are beachfront homes, some of them pretty nice, but Palm Island
looks like it’s escaped the building boom that has covered every inch of
coastline from Clearwater to Naples. There are an unusually high number of
empty lots with spectacular views. It’s only a matter of time before those
spaces are filled with rising 2-by-4’s and Spanish tile.

There’s no driving allowed past the parking lot at the Palm Island Resort — driving in
cars that is. Golf carts seem to be the favored mode of transportation, even
though a quick stroll takes you everywhere you need to go. The registration
building looked little more than a mobile home, and the décor inside was
non-existent. But after check-in, walking out the door seemed like walking
through a magic portal. We had just stepped onto a Caribbean island — one that
was right in our own backyard.

Palm Island is also known as Little Gasparilla Island and Don Pedro Island. It’s a
barrier island that floats just off Florida’s west coast midway between Venice
and Fort Myers. The resort takes up the northern tip of the island. Its
property is split in half by a northward pointing finger of water called Rum
Bay. The east side backs up to the Intracoastal Waterway and is undeveloped.
The west side hugs the Gulf of Mexico and is one-quarter guest villas and
three-quarters private homes.

The villas are built on stilts. Six units divided between two floors. The 160 one-,
two- and three-bedroom suites each come with a fully equipped kitchen, washer,
dryer and most important, spacious screened terraces overlooking either the
gulf or the island’s marina.

We had the gulf view, and as soon as we opened the door, we saw straight through
the hallway, past the living room and through the terrace to the beach below
and spotted a quickly sinking sun. We threw our bags down, and without much
more than a cursory glance around our home for the next two nights, hurried to
the beach for what we expected to be a spectacular sunset.

The beach is a little further from the villas than it appears on the Web site,
maybe 200 yards or so, but it’s a great walk. The sand is not quite the
brilliant, bleached white of Sarasota’s Siesta Key Beach, but it’s nearly as
powdery soft. Chaise lounges speckle the beach. We both climbed onto one of
them to watch the sun continue its sprint over the horizon. As it sank beneath
a faraway bank of clouds, shafts of light shot up into the sky, trying to keep
a hold on the day. But as it always does, the night slowly took over. A single,
brave star was the first to show itself. Millions would follow, one after the
other. Glancing up the beach, a very fine mist spread onshore, looking like a
scene from Cape Cod, minus the lighthouses. Small flocks of gulls floated over
the gulf, going nowhere in particular.

With the distraction of the sunset gone, we started to notice the grumbling in our
stomachs. It was time to go to the resort’s one-and-only restaurant. This was
the only disappointment on Palm Island. I figured there would be at least a
couple of different dining options.

The Rum Bay Restaurant isn’t exactly what you’d call fine dining. It was made up of
a mix of styles. The tables and chairs were “Bob Evans.” The ambiance was
“Sizzler.” The food presentation, “Red Lobster.”

The menu is an odd combination of dishes. Appetizers include the strictly American
chicken wings and the hoity-toity French escargot. For main entrees, you can
choose between Italian chicken marsala, Asian crispy fried duck, or a filet
mignon. That’s not to say the food was awful. It was tasty, but unspectacular.
And the service was so-so. Nothing special. The waitresses were nice enough,
but didn’t dazzle. Most of the resort’s service was just serviceable. Young
people make up most of the staff. More the fast food-type worker, than the
knowledgeable and effusive employee you’d find at upscale retreats.

Half of Rum Bay Restaurant’s lunch and dinner tables sit right next to the bar. On
the night we were there, a Florida Gators football game had several cheering
fans huddled around a TV, swigging beers. It made for a loud meal. The walls
didn’t help much either. Instead of absorbing the sound, they seemed to bat it
back and forth like two tennis players, serving and volleying. As we sat there,
we noticed a lot of other guests were getting their food to go. We decided
that’s what we’d do for the rest of the weekend.

It was back to the villa for the night. We took our first extended look around the
place. The bedroom is right off the foyer. A comfortable king-size bed
dominates the room. The living room holds a loveseat and two chairs with
matching floral prints. The full kitchen would allow you to bring your own food
and skip the restaurant.

Day two was dedicated mostly to sitting on the beach. Even at peak tanning times, you
feel pretty isolated on Palm Island’s private spit of sand. It’s large enough
for everyone to spread out and enjoy their own personal space. The relaxation
that day offered was priceless. In the afternoon, we took a stroll along the
resort’s main sand-and-shell road. You could call it a pedestrian road if it
weren’t for all the golf carts. Understand that everything is within easy
walking distance. It takes just a minute or two to walk from the villa to the
restaurant, to the little general store, or to the beach. But for some reason,
nearly every guest there paid the extra fee for a golf cart. And the carts were
everywhere. It was hard to fully enjoy a walk down the road, because of the
“traffic”, the noise and the dust the carts would stir up.

We walked to the very northern tip of the island, where it’s just sand and a
small, shallow cove. For some reason, that area was a shell paradise. The
shells were everywhere. I’ve never seen anything like it on any other beach. Shells
of all kind. And nearly all of them were perfectly intact. Conch shells, ark
shells, frog shells, triton shells. The list goes on. This shell graveyard
rivaled, and most likely surpassed, the more well-known shelling destinations
of Captiva and Sanibel islands. We scoured the area, picking up the ones that
met some unknown criteria and leaving the rest for future guests.

There’s more to do at Palm Island Resort than beach combing and beach lazing. Lunch and
dinner cruises circle the island while you eat. There’s also a nature tour, in
which a guide provides information on the island’s flora and fauna. If you’d
rather explore Palm Island on your own, the recreation center rents canoes,
kayaks, bikes and more. Not fond of salt water? Five heated pools are spread
out at the resort. Eleven tennis courts and a workout room allow guests to get
plenty of exercise.

One thing noticeable from the start at Palm Island Resort is that there are lots of
children. It’s family-friendly place. One of the more entertaining activities
for the younger kids comes after the sun goes down. That’s when Red Beard the
pirate comes out of his wooden, fishing-net laden fort.

Flaming-red hair flows out from under his traditional three-point pirate hat. He’s sports
the whole getup — black, calf-high boots, baggy shirt with the sleeves rolled
up and shark-tooth necklaces. Red Beard delights kids with spooky stories,
sing-a-longs and pirate jokes. Under the stars, the children hang on every one
of his words. And although there were bench seats at Red Beard’s hangout, it
was a full house and some people sat and listened in their golf carts, giving
it a drive-in movie theater feel. Red Beard occasionally drifted from his
pirate accent to a thick Irish dialect, but the kids didn’t seem to mind.

The next morning was spent taking one last stroll on the beach, picking up more
shells and sealing memories of a fantastic weekend on Southwest Florida’s own
Caribbean island.