Our tiny biplane skimmed low over the water as it came in to land. Garbled wreckage streamed past my window, hulls of luxury yachts and catamarans distinguishable here and there among the flotsam and jetsam littering the shore’s edge. What would greet us when we stepped foot on the island? We were three female volunteers, flown 20 hours from Ireland to the British Virgin Islands. Each subsequent plane shrank, until we found ourselves in a miniscule propeller biplane that held no more than 10 people, pilot included. It was barely 6 months since Hurricane Irma blasted her way through, her sister Maria trailing in her wake 2 weeks later. Eyes glued to the window, I began to comprehend the scale of the destruction. The most severe damage was on Tortola – at 20km long by 5km wide the largest island of the BVI archipelago, and home to capital of the territory, Road Town. Landrovers and motorbikes jostled together, bouncing over great cracks in the tarmac. As we drove towards the heart of the island, flat roads gave way to lush, vertiginous hills. * “Lots of our friends left. But this is our home. We want to rebuild.” With foreign nationals accounting for over half of the population, the hurricanes generated an exodus among those who could afford options. The solidarity among those who stayed was clear to see. Our project was sponsored by a finance company that wanted to help their community; small businesses donated paint to us, we ran into other volunteers on various community projects. Everywhere we stumbled across stories of altruism. On the seafront at Carrot Bay, D'CoalPot BVI Restaurant Bar & Grill helped distribute aid to the community while rebuilding. And they make the best conch fritters I’ve tasted. * “You ever seen a chicken hypnotised?” It was our first day off, and a day for the unexpected. We piled into the Landrover. Beyond swathes of flattened palm trees and a bumpy dirt track lay a beach of pristine white sand, deserted save for a small shack. Our host made a phone call, and our bartender for the afternoon rolled up a half hour later. If we were unsure of the setup at Smuggler’s Cove to begin with, we went with the flow once Nigel taught us a few Caribbean cocktails (e.g. the notorious “Painkiller” - a moniker apt in the short-term, not the next morning). We painted signs for Nigel’s Beach Bar – and in return, Nigel put on a show. He clucked while dancing a looping, swooping dance with a chicken tucked up under his armpit – and when he put the chicken down, it was still as a stone. “No way!” We all stared in disbelief. With an impish grin, Nigel clapped his hands – and in a flurry of feathers the bird scurried away, cackling. * “There’s always another island to explore.” It wasn’t the last time we let our hair down in Tortola. Caribbean tides carry rhythms of many cultures. Dancing in Stoutt's Lookout Bar, we were surrounded by lights in the hills and the stars in the sky. With the patience of patriots, newfound friends from the Dominican Republic helped us trip through the steps of the bachata. From the many cultures of the Caribbean, to the secluded beaches nestling in Tortola’s coastline, there was so much to discover. If you look to the horizon you’ll see why Christopher Columbus named the myriad rocks of the BVI after Saint Ursula and her 11,000 virgin followers. I fell in love with the “fat virgin” – Virgin Gorda. Columbus imagined the island as a large, reclining lady, and the pace of life there is just as laidback. With its fertile volcanic soil, Virgin Gorda is a verdant gem, though the most enchanting corner might be the Baths – a labyrinth of gigantic boulders sheltering turquoise lagoons. At a private luxury resort I found myself invited to, the Caribbean Sea far outshined the conversation by the chlorinated pool. I escaped to the ocean, snorkel in hand. I was rewarded with three sea turtles – a chill dude munching weed, a baby torpedo, and a jester playing peekaboo at the water’s surface. Like that turtle, the BVI is full of surprises.