Bermuda: Offshore haven where your vacationing tax dollars can go a long—or short—way (Corel)
In recent summers we have rented a cottage in the tiny village of Siasconset for our annual two-week stay on the southeastern shore of Nantucket. We always book the nicest one we can afford—even if it means sacrificing proximity to the beach. We began this practice after barely surviving two weeks of nearly nonstop rain while staying in what was basically a shack, albeit with a fabulous ocean view. But when the rains came and the fog closed in, it was just a shack—with sand on the floor and ticks on the worn bedspread and nowhere to go. We've also learned to start hunting for next summer's cottage while we are in the middle of the current vacation. On forays around the island we fantasize about getting that architectural gem that sits alone on the point—with its turrets and climbing roses and private steps to the beach—for less than $3,000 a week. A resort hotel is a good option when you crave parasailing excursions, room service, and counselors with craft projects for your offspring that allow you to hit the tiki bar. You may have to squeeze the whole family into a double room in order to afford it—but it may well be worthwhile. We once spent a perfect long weekend with my parents at the sprawling and quite formal 600-room Fairmont Southampton Hotel in Bermuda—soaking up the faultless service, lunching alfresco, switching from pool to beach and back to pool again. Our kids still talk about playing on the elevators and the tuxedoed waiters who good-naturedly tucked their napkins into the collars of their sundresses.
Though much of our vacation time is spent on the beach (weather permitting), we periodically drag ourselves off the sand to do something that requires a little more effort. On Nantucket, we cycle the paved bike paths and occasionally rent a small sailboat or borrow a friend's Boston Whaler for tubing. We tie raw chicken legs on a length of string and fish for giant snapping turtles—just to look at them, then send them off—in the brackish ponds off Madaket. We four-wheel out to remote Great Point to cast for the phantom bluefish and stripers feeding in the fierce-looking rips.
In Florida, we always try to rent a skiff to buzz through the channel markers and weave around the low, house-free cays that dot the Gulf. We paddle sea kayaks through the maze of mangroves and, at least once a trip, end up pedaling like maniacs into a stiff breeze—hopelessly far from shore—in one of those torturous bicycle boats.
Mostly, though, our beach vacations are about hanging out together, about not having a plan. It always takes us a few days to get into the rhythm of it—or, more accurately, to learn how to live with no particular rhythm at all. Sometimes I feel pangs of guilt for not planning something more productive or enriching or challenging, or at least better for our skin. But then I remind myself, as I watch the kids play in the sand utterly need-free, that there is plenty of time for that. After all, isn't that why they invented Elderhostel?
