As the flight to Bequia nears its destination, an alarming question occurs to me: where the hell are we going to land? The tiny Caribbean island, a 45-minute hop from Barbados, is a paltry seven miles in length and less in width. The interior is in parts vertiginous, reaching a maximum height of 866ft, and ascends sharply from the shore. Not ideal landing territory. As it happens, the pilot of our 14-seater aircraft takes a sharp turn to the right to reveal one of the shortest runways I've ever seen, slows down almost to a hovering halt, and executes a perfect grounding. What was I worried about?
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