My favorite tropical-reef denizen is a triggerfish, an aptly named confection of nature whose geometric lines and color zones resemble a Joan Miró painting. The specimen before me right now is the largest I’ve ever seen, dinner-platter size. It and I are bobbing gently in the rhythmic swell of the south Caribbean in Tobago’s Buccoo Bay.

In fact, somewhat disconcertingly, the fish is gazing straight at me — I’m used to reef fish that dart away as I snorkel near. Perhaps this one has assimilated the Tobago ethos, which is as laid-back as Sunday morning pancakes. Tucked in the sea 50 miles (80 km) off the coast of Venezuela, Tobago is a lush garden of humid jungles, gay-songed birds, rich foods, equatorial weather and easeful life.

Its unique character is composed of equal parts tropical island, former British colony and Afro-Caribbean rhythm. It’s the antithesis of its better-known neighbor and national companion, Trinidad, a carnival of life. Tobago’s a place where visitors cannot evade midday naps, and equally cannot sleep the afternoon away beneath the symphonic drumbeat of rain torrents on tin roofs.

The hilltop villas are surrounded by beautifully manicured grounds filled with tropical plants; guests can pick their own papayas and bananas.

The squalls roll through on what seems like a schedule: An hour of bright sun followed by quickening skies, sudden dark, big-drop tattoos on the patio, then a tempest of rain. Summoned forth from the bedroom of our villa, my wife, Leslie, and I stand at the edge of the veranda and watch water descend in sheets.

Ten minutes later it subsides; the westering sun returns; steam spirals up from the poolside tiles. Into the pool we tumble, chasing the fresh rainwater.

We’re at The Palms, the finest resort on Tobago (or Trinidad, for that matter), where each party gets its own deluxe villa complete with pool, wrap-around veranda, kitchen and bedrooms with king-size beds, and the tropics’ greatest spiritual amenity, ceiling fans.

Even though there’s A/C, we shun the contrivance of machine-cooled air for the calming swish of the fan, turn the slats of the louvers down and revive our naps. An hour later, the next squall calls us to the kitchen to cook dinner: fresh spiny lobster tonight, with a side of curried rice.

The Palms is not bargain lodging, but at US$ 500 a night for villas that match those you’ll find at twice-the-price resorts, it has its own economy. We’re here to splurge on relaxation and warmth, and Tobago’s a peach of a place for that.

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Maybe “papaya” would be a better analogy: The fresh one we pick off a tree about 30 feet (9 m) from our patio is the best either of us has ever had. It matches the watermelon, red bananas and pineapple we’d bought that morning at a beachside fruit stand, all fresh as the rain that grows them.

After that, we cruise out on a tour boat to snorkel the Buccoo Reef, possibly the most-visited single spot on the whole island: Our guide pleads with the passengers not to let their feet touch the coral, which is dying from over-use as a sidewalk.

A wide spiral that holds off the Caribbean swells, the reef is a maze of star-brain coral; potato coral, which looks ever so much like its namesake, baked; sea whips, jocularly called “dead man’s fingers” in local parlance; and a floating zoo of parrotfish, wrasses and angelfish.