I washed my crusty face, combed my tangled mop, and still looked every bit as windswept as the island, but there was no time for fussing. My husband, Robb, was eager for a juicy steak and had already hailed the water taxi. It was fast approaching. We jumped aboard the little tug and headed for the quay. The landing here is precarious: A huge swell surges toward the dock, smacking it hard and sending water showering over the quay; then the water drops suddenly, taking the boat with it. As we rode the swell toward the dock, eyes fixed on the lines dangling from a metal bar, I planned my launch—a successful swing would be all about the timing. The boat rose above the quay, and just before it plunged, I grabbed a line and swung like Tarzan. I found my feet, barely, and veered off to embrace two surprised spectators, much to their delight, then staggered up the wharf.