I needed a clear blue break, and it looked as if cabana No. 55 at 9 Beaches, a new resort on Bermuda, might be it. Occupying what is arguably the best position of any hotel room on the island—at the very far end of a wooden pier that feeds six cabanas—it stood almost by itself, facing due west over a narrow, quiet channel between Daniel's Head, a crab-shaped peninsula at Bermuda's westernmost point, and tiny, uninhabited Daniel's Island. From its terrace, I had to crane my neck to see the neighboring cabanas. Fish darted in the shallows below. I felt like a ship at sea, anchored in my own private paradise of water.
My pulse has always quickened when I see photos of resorts in Tahiti and the Maldives, where rooms sitting on stilts over blue lagoons promise Robinson Crusoestyle solitude and five-star solicitude. When I heard that 9 Beaches was offering such cabanas much closer to home—Bermuda is only a two-hour flight from New York—I figured it was my time for a similar experience. No. 55 wasn't the sybaritic teak-and-mahogany haven of my fantasies, but it was close enough: not just near the water but suspended right over it, a tent-cabin hybrid, vinyl and canvas on an aluminum frame, with a Plexiglas fish-viewing panel set into the floor.
Credit for the first overwater hotel rooms goes to French Polynesia's legendary Bali Hai Boys, who, in the 1960's, turned a vanilla plantation on reef-encircled Moorea into a tourist village called Bali Hai. They "saw the calm water and realized it [would be] perfect to extend the hotel into the lagoon," says Monty Brown, now area manager for Amanresorts Indonesia. Brown was part of the team that was about to build what is now Aman's Hotel Bora Bora, which, inspired by Bali Hai, offered overwater rooms on that island: 15 pandanus leafroofed bungalows. They were soon booked solid virtually year-round.
Although the concept of overwater rooms did spread to other Polynesian islands, they remained a local phenomenon until the late 1980's, when the idea traveled halfway around the world to the 1,190 low-lying islands of the Maldives, an archipelago that is similarly protected by reefs. More than a decade later, both Polynesia and the Maldives have become their own floating fantasy worlds. The appeal is obvious. "It's the wow factor of living over water," Brown says. "Waves lapping against the pilings. You can swim anytime you want or hand-feed the fish. Dangle your feet and they nibble on your toes. Watch a manta ray ballet off your deck. We very rarely saw our guests after they checked in."
As overwater rooms have gone from unusual to explosively popular, hoteliers have refined them to avoid what Jean-Michel Gathy, designer of celebrity-favorite One & Only Maldives at Reethi Rah, frets is the overpopulation of some of the world's most beautiful lagoons. Sonu Shivdasani, who founded the company that owns the Six Senses Soneva Gili Resort & Spa in the Maldives, where all 45 rooms and suites sit over the Indian Ocean, achieved his desired effect—"the dream-like experience of feeling as though you are on a boat, while being spoiled by the utmost privacy and creature comforts in harmony with the environment"—by lengthening the walkways that lead to the rooms and spacing them 65 feet apart.
At 9 Beaches, the very best overwater rooms rent for about a third the price of those in more glamorous, but far less accessible, climes. The Bermuda resort has many charms—those nine beaches, in particular—and the incomparable views and closeness to nature that so attracted me. At night, rows of tiny pixie lights along the boardwalk pointed the way to my cabana. It was somewhat spartan compared to a $2,000-per-night villa, but the chic and simple sea-blue-and-white décor was charming, and the all-important basics were there: hot water flowed in an instant in the bathroom; the mini-fridge was cold; there were electrical outlets to charge my computer and the complimentary cell phone the resort lends to each guest; and the queen-size bed was comfortable. Every evening, I sat on the terrace, enjoying a glass of red wine and savoring the thick, luxurious silence. Gazing out at the night, I almost fell asleep right there, lulled by the quiet rhythm of gentle wavelets beneath me. I returned to that terrace often over the next few days to read or watch the fish swim a few feet below, but mostly, just to stare out to sea.
The food was good at Hi Tide, the resort restaurant where full breakfasts and dinners are served on an open terrace overlooking the sea. It was even better at Dark N' Stormy, an informal beach bar and grill on a big wooden dock. Next door, the Surf Shack was stuffed with water-sports equipment. I spent my days wandering from beach to even prettier beach—most of them nearly empty, though the hotel was full—swimming, kayaking, and snorkeling (there is even a low-lying wreck a short distance away). I only left the property twice: once to take a resort bicycle to the nearby village, and once for dinner. Neither trip was worth the effort; all I really needed were those beaches, the view from my terrace, the breeze, and the sea.