An unpretentious coastal town off US Route I-95, in the southwest corner of the smallest state in the country, with a year-round population of about 20,000—it’s not likely that you’ve heard of the place unless you’re a New Englander.

My first visit to Palm Island was forty years ago – in November of 1979. The trip was memorable for all the right reasons, not the least of which was nearly primitive nature of the place – a 135-acre island resort, devoid of a hotel, but bespeckled with “villas”.

Without an airfield or even a makeshift runway, Palm Island was accessible only by water. The sole restaurant on the island was the open-air dining room which played second fiddle to the glorious old bar where rum punch was available for breakfast, lunch and dinner.