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 My husband, Lary, and I were heading for St. Vincent and the Grenadines, a group of small islands in the far southern reaches of the Caribbean, looking forward to a much-needed romantic escape at the ultra-private resort on Petit St. Vincent island. I gazed at the brochure and imagined what it would be like to be tucked away in one of 22 cottages on exotic PSV.
But there was still the matter of getting there, and accustomed to traveling on my own, I would soon discover that the key to romance -- perhaps the key to all things meaningful -- hides just beyond the point where I surrender control.
First lesson: Do not resist the irresistible force that is my husband as he leads the way through an unfamiliar airport. How difficult could it be, after all, to let him make the myriad small decisions faced by stressed-out travelers everywhere: "Should we turn here?" "Do we need to stand in that line?"
Ask any long-married couple just how difficult it can be. Since he seemed willing to defend his ground as leader of the expedition -- and since it was romance we were after -- I surrendered, achieving the peace of one who follows.
 That peace was quickly disturbed, however, as we departed Miami and began the inscrutable process of clearing customs.
"Didn't we just turn in our customs form?" I asked the agent in Barbados.
"That was an arrival form," she said. "This is a departure form."
My brain itched to analyze this policy, but I caught the look in her eyes just in time. It was not an unkind look, but it begged, "Please, just surrender and fill out the form."
So I did.
And it was in this state of existential acceptance that I let out a delighted "Whoop!" as our Grenadine Airways 15-seater made its thrilling descent onto the airstrip at Union Island, landing like a mosquito on a leaf in a gigantic turquoise pool.
 Like all PSV guests, we were greeted at the airport by Captain Maurice Roache, who whisked us to PSV on the impressive motor yacht, Hera. Once again I worked on letting go of the man I married, a man who fearlessly saunters around the open decks of speeding boats with the nonchalance of one who lived on a lake and swam his way to a college scholarship.
I released him on the Hera, and I would let go again a few days later as he toddled around the deck of the 73-foot sailing schooner, Jambalya, as it flew across the water on a day trip to the Tobago Cays.
Releasing him wasn't easy, knowing what had just befallen PSV. Two months earlier, the island's famous owner and resort founder, Haze Richardson, died in a swimming accident off Costa Rica. When we first encountered his tightly knit resort family, many of whom have worked with Haze and his wife, Lynn, for decades, we marveled at how they carried on under such a loss.
Their grief well hidden, they pursued the resort's mission: pampering guests to the point of embarrassment.
 Lynn, a charming and accessible woman with an electric smile, greeted us for cocktails in her stunning hillside home, worked in the office and could be seen walking on the beach with the couple's yellow Labrador retrievers. "This is the first time in months I've been able to smile," she told a fellow guest.
On our final day, waiting to go back to Union Island, we overheard another guest questioning a sweet-faced resort employee.
"You're always smiling," she said. "Are you really happy?"
"You will not know," he said. "You will not ever know."
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