Heading to the Caribbean in the dead of New York City's winter, it's hard to be objective, but even a full day of travel couldn't sour me to my arrival at the Bitter End Yacht Club.  Located near the north end of the island of Virgin Gorda and only accessible by sea, it's practically the last port of call until you get to Africa.  Yachts have been dropping anchor here for over 30 years and now can refuel at the resort's Shell gas station, go to the spa, or get social at the restaurants and English Pub.  Rich people and their yachts are sort of a mystery to me.  From what I'm told, it literally costs a million dollars a month to keep a super yacht staffed and fueled and, occasionally, docked. But I suppose a yacht is the ultimate mobile home if you like to decide on a whim that you'd rather be in Morocco, or Norway, or French Polynesia next week.

And I'm sorry to say, I have no more insight into the yacht owners who frequent Virgin Gorda then when I got there.  I saw the super yachts (they are hard to miss), but never met anyone from them.  I also didn't meet any of the private island owners, though Necker Island was in clear view from my suite, which was newly renovated in Bali-style chic by legendary BIBA designer Barbara Hulanicki.  I missed Google founder Larry Page's wedding on Necker by a whole month, though everyone in Virgin Gorda was still talking about it, and most of the guests did stay at the Bitter End.  And I saw Mosquito Island, newly purchased by Richard Branson, which he has announced will be a future nature reserve and private residence.

But I got some insight into the lifestyles of these folks from a fun source: the young people who work as crews on these boats, as guardians of the private islands, and as sailing and windsurfing staff at the resorts. These workers soon became much more interesting to me than their rich employers.  The staff are always the people I relate to best at the resorts I visit anyway, because they are kindred souls: They've found a way to live beyond their means and travel the world as a job too.

From day one, I noticed the young, good-looking guys working at the resort were extremely friendly, and I was soon told that unlike at most resorts, there are no rules against fraternizing with the guests.  In fact, the staff is encouraged to fraternize.  Free love still reigns in Virgin Gorda.  Thank stars, it still lives somewhere.

I got my first taste the night local star Heavy B was DJing at the English Pub.  "Belongers" (black islanders born and raised on Virgin Gorda) mixed with boat people (both sailors and staff), resort staff, and guests, all dancing un-self-consciously to everything from Rhianna to Madonna to salsa to Aerosmith.  Bitter End staffer Seb, a 6-foot-tall, lean, and muscular bleached-blond heartthrob who seemed like a surfer from the set of The O.C., was actually a sailor from Ireland.  He took a fancy to a 40-something married mother of two, gazing deep into her eyes and telling her she was beautiful and that she couldn't possibly be older than 28.  He seemed so innocent, fresh out of braces, but he was clearly an operator.

That same night we ended up sailing across the bay to the privately owned Eustacia Island with the rock's guardian, Nick.  This tall, wiry blond with a wicked sense of humor was from Australia.  He'd been working on the island for four years and spent most of his time alone with his two cats, named Fear and Loathing.  This background info provided some insight into Nick's psyche and perhaps explained why he was a man of so few words who drank so much.  We never got to see the houses on the island: Instead we hung out on the beach with our ice chest of beer, jumping on the trampoline and finally settling into a circle to pass a bottle of Mount Gay Rum, offering up ridiculous drunken toasts until we ran dry.

The next day, we raced in a Hobie Cat regatta.  The Bitter End has a US Sailing-accredited sailing and windsurfing school on the premises, which employs some of these fine young men.  My captain for the race, Jerome, was a modern-day hippie from Michigan.  We came in dead last in two out of three heats, but Jerome was a soul-sailor.  His concern was that we actually learn something about sailing, and I did. 

But saving the best for last, there was Scotty, the kiteboarding instructor.  Actually, Scotty was petite (he was a former professional gymnast), 31, a chain-smoker, and a native of the much less exotic Florida.  But he had a manner about him: diplomatic, wise, reassuring.  I should say that kiteboarding was invented in Hawaii and yet, I have never had the least bit of interest in the sport, until Scotty explained that its appeal lies in its relatively short learning curve.  His argument: It takes years to become good at surfing or windsurfing, but you can be good at kiteboarding in a single season (that would be a summer for us non-sailing folk).

Let's face a truth about travel.  All those people who go on and on about how much they love Brazil really find Brazilians sexy (no, it's not just the food, music, or beaches).  It's not a coincidence that people who fall in love with a country they visit have also fallen in love with the look and lifestyle of the people there.  It was no different for me when I traveled to Australia, New Zealand, and Virgin Gorda, now known in my mind as "the Lost Island of Available Hunks."

I'm encouraging the Bitter End to do an official calendar.