A lot of my single friends say I’m crazy for being in a relationship. You’re 22, they say. You should be out doing the “single & mingle” scene. You’re only seeing one guy? Life is too short!

Ok, so maybe they have some points. But, then again, none of them have ever dated a travel writer – and one who just so happens to whisk me off to exotic locations whenever he can. We just got back from a three day tryst to the British Virgin Islands, where we stayed at Scrub Island Resort, a brand new luxury property on a private island. The bill was comped, the booze was flowing and the sun was oh-so-hot. Relationships don’t look so bad now, do they?

This is a shot of our one-bedroom suite. The resort wasn’t completely finished when we were there (the fella was sent on assignment for the pre-opening to review the property) but all of the guest rooms were complete. Ours was equipped with a full kitchen, living room, two flatscreen televisions and two bathrooms.

 

 

 

Me posing Sports Illustrated-style outside The Baths, huge rock formations that are a major draw of the British Virgin Islands. I’m no 10 out of 10 but come on…now that’s a picture. Well done, boyfriend. Well done.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Spelunking through The Baths, snorkeling in the crystal clear Caribbean water (swimming so close to neon-colored fish that they practically copped a feel), dining on fresh mahi mahi, seared tuna, conch fritters and endless glasses of wine and spending each day cruising tiny islands on a private boat (with bottomless glasses of rum punch) were certainly highlights. But the part of the trip I’ll always remember didn’t happen at the resort. Hell, it happened at a seedy boat-house bar where everyone went barefoot and pictures of topless girls and bare man-ass plastered the walls: Willy T’s.

 

As part of the “true” British Virgin Island experience, we were taken to this popular Caribbean hotspot, where nudity (and I’m certain STDs) are as common as the Caribbean mosquitos. Here we downed the traditional BVI drink, a “painkiller,” composed of coconut milk, pineapple juice, orange juice and a lethal serving of rum. After several of these and a trip down the slopes with the shot ski (a contraption designed for four people to take a shot at once) I was ready to get a little crazy. Relax, there was no nudity. I still want to make Mom proud.

 

 

But I did get inspired to jump off the roof of the boat. Now, I’m no dare devil. I snuck out of the house when I was 16 once…and I walked to the end of the block, got scared and walked back. So this was a big deal for me. And I have to tell you, the rush for the four seconds that I was airborne was totally worth it. I felt invigorated. The fella and I decided to jump at the same time, “you jump, I jump, Jack”-style. We wasted no minutes. One, two, three….jump. That’s the memory I’ll take home with me.

So for all of you who have written off relationships, here is my word of advice: don’t rule them out completely. Just pick a travel writer. Oh…and make sure to fly separately. That way you can feel free to chat up the adorable surfer on his way home from Costa Rica at the Orlando Airport bar…not that I did that or anything.

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