How did I find myself here? I remember thinking.

Surely water cannot be this green and this clear at the same time.

I stumbled onto pristine white sand and went looking for the shade of a palm tree. It was 35 degrees with 90% humidity. Every unnecessary movement seemed foolish. It was autumn. I could only just stand it.

Steel pan drums drifted through the breeze from the bar. A crooked, one-walled tin shed with eight seats, forty metres from the sea. No aircon. No queue. No fuss. One-dollar rum cocktails and kind, curious smiles.

There weren't many gulls. We were too remote.

There were no taxis and no buses. You walked, or you hitched a ride with whoever happened to be going your way. But that's a story for another day.

There were hardly any foreigners ... besides myself and a handful of American millionaires who had abandoned the comfort of their superyacht in search of fresh fruit and alcohol.

The town itself was wonderfully unpolished. Lively, musical, friendly. It felt free, harmonious and not terribly interested in rules or regulations.

Tradition, however, had survived the heat. The men wore long trousers. Always. How they managed this without expiring remains a mystery to me.

But for all its quirks, goats, doorless cars and little marvels, it was the ocean that kept stealing my attention. That postcard-picture water.

I was miles from everything familiar, standing on the most northerly island of the Lesser Antilles, sweaty, slightly bewildered and wondering how the hell I'd managed to get so lucky.

We often take pictures because something is beautiful. I took one so that, years later, I'd believe myself.