Read no further if vast expanses of crystal clear, glassy water, half-inch high turquoise waves and sand as refined as sugar are not your idea of, uh, nirvana. Los Roques, an extraordinary archipelago somewhere off the 2,000-mile-plus Caribbean coastline of Venezuela, is virtually impossible to describe without daydreaming.

Although fishermen have plied this region for generations, and still do (lobster is the prime catch), the islands have otherwise been relatively unharmed by human touch. A large percentage of Venezuela’s land surface has been preserved in the form of national parks or natural reserves. Every square centimeter of these 50-plus islands is protected and regulated by federal directive.

The main island or cay, Gran Roque, is home to several hundred fishermen and/or posada-keepers, a handful of liquor-license holders, two trucks for water and trash, and a golf cart. Here you swim, dive, eat, drink, dance and stay overnight. You can sail to another of a handful of other cays during the day to do the same. The allure of this azure locale is the ultimate retreat.

Boats—power and sail of every size and description—are anchored off-shore or pulled up onto the beach. Creature comforts are guaranteed by generator-provided electricity and a desalinization plant—both of which are well concealed. Only the burbling of the power boats and the occasional rumbling of the two trucks overpower the crashing sounds of the half-inch waves. Nay, I wax too idyllic; there is an airport too with an open-air terminal the size of a living room. Single and twin-engine propeller-driven aircraft—including a venerable DC3 that brings a smile to any inveterate traveler—can be noisy, but the trade winds seem to muffle those occasional daytime-only interruptions.

An hour after our arrival, my 20-something daughter, Kim, and I were skimming across the Caribbean’s shimmering surface from Gran Roque to Francisquí (Francis Key), which is just large enough to hold a few visitors. In moments, we could see only the tallest masts waving behind us and the mid-19th century windmill-like lighthouse crowning the hill behind the town. Above us, half a dozen pure white petrel-like birds kept pace, circling and swooping as if challenging our boatman to a race. What made us gasp, however, was their bellies and the underside of their wings which had taken on the exact blue-green brilliance of the water below them, as if they had been spray-painted from below. It was a truly stunning sight.

For many years, the island of Margarita, far to the east, captured the imaginations—and the investment of bolivares—of Venezuela’s tourism gurus, as well as a few extranjeros. Half a century of heady oil-generated revenue and its concomitant corruption, followed by a decade of real world wake-up calls, have left most of Margarita grossly overbuilt and underused, opening wide its portals to cheap foreign travel from Europe and elsewhere in South America. Meanwhile, the country’s coastline east of the capital city of Caracas all the way to the tip of South American mainland reaching northeastward toward Trinidad remains virtually pristine, albeit with a smattering of exceptions. In deference to local inhabitants—farmers and fish folk—much of this coastline is protected to some degree, as well. There are countless bays, coves, and playas coloradas to explore. Close-in islands, some near enough to swim to, add to this region’s charm.

But the cays of our inscrutable archipelago are unsurpassed, sprinkled jewel-like in their platinum setting. The government of Venezuela, its current monumental economic and political problems notwithstanding, is clearly committed to smiling back at one of God’s proudest creations.