Hayman Island, Great Barrier Reef, Australia

Posted on
May 7, 2013
Posted in: Hotels

The pools at Hayman Island resort.


In my continued efforts to keep it real, I would like to share yet another mortifying revelation about my younger years.

Are you ready to abandon whatever lingering sliver of respect for me you had? Because here we go: for a longer time than is reasonable, I’ve wanted to be a Bond girl.

Fear not: I am acutely aware of the fact that I would probably be the worst Bond girl, ever (rightfully stealing the crown from Denise Richards). I’m short, I look comically uncomfortable in a bikini, and I don’t do sexy all that well.

Wait, is neurotic sexy? No? Okay, then yeah: I don’t do it well at all.

Plus, I can tell you right now, I would not be down with Bond treating me like a gadget purchased from a late-night infomercial (you know, where it seems really great at first, and just look at all the things it can do! But then you lose your enthusiasm for it after ten minutes). After which he’ll probably get me killed somehow and not even taking time to FRIGGIN MOURN ME before bedding some other girl.

Seriously. What. In. The. Hell. James.

I can’t even think of a clever Bond girl name. The best I could come up with was Eatsa Lottacake. Plenty O’Thighs could work, too.

Lady Badonkadonk? No. Never mind. See? I told you I was bad at this.

But the thing is, for the short time that they’re actually on screen (before they are killed off or simply don’t appear again, because their storylines weren’t even interesting enough to merit closure) Bond girls seem to be having a really nice time. They get to travel to some pretty fantastic places, and do exciting things, while eating canapes and enjoying a nice drink or three in the company of someone dishy.

Hmmm. You know what I just realized? The same could be said of Bond.

So maybe I don’t actually want to be a Bond girl. They are all a little bit forgettable, often interchangeable, and frequently vapid (there are exceptions, of course).

Screw that. I don’t want to sleep with James Bond. I want to be James Bond. Except, you know, I don’t have nearly the same phobia of commitment or the proclivity towards promiscuity (and what I can only assume is a correlating risk of STDs) that 007 does.

Or maybe I could be a super villain. That might be nice, too.

The closest I will get to any of this is Hayman Island. It’s a privately owned island that’s home to a rather ridiculously opulent resort. It is part of the Whitsunday chain of islands, which run along the northern part of the Great Barrier Reef. It would be the perfect lair for an evil villain, or perhaps the sort of place where Bond would bring one of his expendable ladies.

Like all good lairs, it is remote. From Seattle, we first flew to Los Angeles, and then to Sydney, and then to Hamilton Island (one of the main islands in and the commercial hub of the Whitsundays). When we boarded the flight for the final leg of our journey, I had strange and momentary freak out. I did not want to be on another plane. I took a deep breath, and remembered that you can’t control the world’s petroleum reserves or block out the sun (or whatever it is that supervillains do) with an attitude like that.

The landing strip on Hamilton Island is straight out of a movie. It extends out like a sand spit into turquoise water.

After we landed, we stood, dazed, as people headed out towards their respective boats. Then we headed up the dock towards ours. It was … um …

Okay, I’m kind of embarrassed by the opulence of this, but WE HEADED OUT TOWARDS A FRIGGING YACHT.

I suppose a real supervillain would have come in by seaplane or helicopter, and, for the record, a lot of people do choose to arrive at Hayman Island via those modes of transportation (and also, one can safely assume, via some sort of stealth underwater submersible captained by international spies with chiseled jaws. But that’s not in the brochure).

During the hour long boat ride we drank fizzy water and ate snacks and watched the islands pass us by, until we came to ours.

Rand’s face really says it all:

I love it when he smiles like this.

We climbed aboard a tiny little tram, which took us to the main entrance of the resort where – I kid you not – the staff was waiting at attention for new guests to arrive. I eyed them all closely to see if any appeared to have a strange talent (or some sort of murderous accessory) that would make them perfect henchmen/women. They didn’t seem to, but I’m sure it just wasn’t obvious to us.

Hopping on the tram. They did not honor my request to drive.

The staff waits at attention as guests arrive.

The resort was stunningly beautiful.

It sent me into the same fit of giggles that plagued me in the Kloof. I tried to pretend that I was fine, but the opulence of the place was absurd. I snickered and my eyes widened and when the gal who was showing us to our room had her back turned, I looked at Rand and mouthed the words: WHAT THE WHAT?

He nodded. What the what, indeed.

I mean, there are pools that wind around half the resort, with walkways that crisscross over them.

Servers head down these pathways, carrying cocktails or lunch to those sitting poolside. And the balconies of the suites in this part of the resort go right into the friggin pools. Look! There’s a ladder off the balcony so you can hop out of bed, put on a bathing suit, and WALK INTO A POOL without really leaving your room.


Rand had opted to get us a bungalow instead, which was in a much quieter and calmer part of the resort. It was no less gorgeous.

We walked around a bit, explored the grounds. We unpacked, had dinner, and watched the sunset.

And realized we were very, very tired.

I don’t think supervillains get tired, do they? I bet they don’t.

It’s probably best that I didn’t go into that line of work, because I’m fairly certain I’d suck at it. Plus, I have an overdeveloped sense of guilt, coupled with a complete lack of ambition. I just don’t have what it takes to be a successful evil-doer.

I don’t think I could cut it as 007, either: I don’t possess the suaveness or sexual fortitude required be an international spy. Lord knows I can barely drink a martini (I mostly just eat the olives and then ask the bartender for another round … of olives).

But maybe there’s some line of work that could be right for me. Perhaps I could be a super villain who doesn’t actually do any villainy. Who just travels the world and drinks cocktails and eats teeny tiny hamburgers in the company of her handsome husband. Together, they make out and hold hands and don’t try to conquer anyone or take over the nation’s gold reserves (is that even something we still have? I need to watch more current Bond movies. Seriously). They just sit around, and think about how damn lucky they are, and sip fruity drinks.

And maybe, every now and then, they let out an evil-sounding, maniacal laugh. But that’s just because they realize that sometimes life is so magical, so absurdly grand, that all you can do is laugh at it. Maniacally.

It would make for a terrible Bond movie, I’m sure. But it makes for a pretty wonderful life.

Leave a Comment

More from The Blog

On Instagram @theeverywhereist