STRANDED : The boat chugged away, leaving them alone on a desert island. With only basic shelter and provisions, and wild goats, snakes and bugs for company, they were free to shed their clothes and their urban stresses. It was a fantasy come true.

There we were, alone on a deserted island in the Bahamas, just the two of us, surrounded by a steamy jungle and a silky sand beach.

The ultimate escape fantasy had become our reality. For one week, we had Bowe Cay all to ourselves, a little piece of paradise for rent off the coast of Great Exuma.

Loneliness or boredom never proved a problem. An urge to form a government or establish a foreign policy never arose. Clothing soon proved optional.

Save for a few moments when Kendrick Halibut, our logistics man, came ashore bearing fresh water and ice, we saw not another soul on this 165-acre Caribbean island. Civilization lay an hour north by small boat--and we didn’t have one.

Hot days fused together, passing rhythmically with the sun rising in the morning, the tide ebbing in the afternoon, and the low stars shining brilliantly during the cool windy nights.

“Why didn’t you ever check in on the radio?” asked Luther Rolle, the cabdriver who met us at the dock at the end of our stay.

Why bother?

We had arrived in George-Town during the third week of April, after a quick flight on a small plane from Miami to Great Exuma, which skirts the Tropic of Cancer, along the southeast end of the Bahamas’ Exuma Archipelago.

Although we didn’t know it at the time, what was billed a “five-star jungle camping experience” would prove to be a piece of cake after our sleepless night at Great Exuma’s Two Turtles Inn. For $95, we got a room above a popular tiki bar; boozy laughter kept us awake till the wee hours, when the roosters took over.

The next morning, we showed up at Moss Town Dock, a concrete slab adjacent to mammoth piles of fossilized conch shells. The owner of the arid and sultry spit of land known as Bowe Cay (pronounced BOW KEY), Tom de la Rionda, stowed our packs in his barely seaworthy 16-foot fiberglass boat and took off, piloting us slowly through a series of narrow channels and the legendary Bahamian bonefishing flats, until we finally entered the crystalline open waters.

After nearly an hour, we rounded a rocky peninsula, cut through a gap in a jagged lavender-colored coral reef, and came upon a placid lagoon framed by a ribbon of sandand dark green hills--Bowe Cay.

Tossing anchor and jumping the gunwale, we waded into soothing, warm water. The three of us unloaded the gear and carried it about 20 yards from the water’s edge through a thatched hut into the campsite. It was surprisingly comfortable: a large platform tent connected by duckboards to a screened wooden cabana holding a picnic table and gas grill. A hammock swayed invitingly.

The privy and attached freshwater shower were discreetly located around the back, down a twisted path of rocks and gnarled roots. To me, an experienced camper, it was deluxe, the Laura Ashley of latrines. My wife, who calls herself “the designated Zsa-Zsa,” didn’t agree.

De la Rionda told us how to work the radio. Then, waving at an ominous-looking gnarled tree, he warned, “You might not want to touch that.” It seems that the peeling bark is poisonous--making human skin fade and blister on contact, something like lawn furniture sprayed with cheap paint. The snakes, on the other hand, aren’t poisonous, but they bite. The drug dealers waiting for airdrops don’t park their cigarette boats nearby--at least not anymore. As for the sharks, well, they’re small and supposedly friendly. At least that’s what de la Rionda said.

We had also signed on for De la Rionda’s treasure hunt. Thrusting the first clue into my hand, our host bade us farewell and sped back out into the Atlantic, waving and grinning.

*

Like so many other dreams, it had all started at the movies.

Out of high school and fed up with a dead-end job at a box factory in Hauppauge, De la Rionda couldn’t stop thinking about the movie “Swept Away,” Lina Wertmuller’s troubling tale of a wealthy yacht owner and her embittered deckhand being stranded on a deserted island.

“I saw the movie and everyday at work I kept obsessing,” De la Rionda said. “I made up my mind to go to a deserted island and get my life together. I caught on fire. I went crazy.”

By 1990, he and his wife, Christine, were ready to be swept away themselves. It had taken about 10 years of exploring the Caribbean and the Bahamas, but De la Rionda, a 30-year-old free spirit from Huntington Harbor, on New York’s Long Island, finally chased his dreams to Bowe Cay.

He and Christine got out of the computer business they were in at the time, hocked everything, and with the help of several Bahamians purchased a 15-year lease on the cay.

Now, when De la Rionda isn’t on his island, he rents it to folks who want to get lost--figuratively and literally--while experiencing what’s dubbed a “five-star jungle camping” experience.

Paradise did take some getting used to.

Urban paranoia is hard to shake. And as we watched De la Rionda’s boat become a blip on the horizon, we realized that the only thing that stood between us and some tropical Jason was a flimsy “No Trespassing” sign posted out front. When darkness fell, strange birds cried, twigs snapped, the jungle whispered and rustled. That first night, we woke to the sound of the crashing waves and listened to the eerie stillness. Was that a boat engine? Footsteps? The squawk of a parrot or the scream of a man?

Then there were the worst-case scenarios. We had signed a liability agreement that made us realize why 15th-Century European explorers declared themselves legally dead before heading to these parts. Back at home, it had seemed a mere formality. Now, however, nature became decidedly malevolent. “Injury and death” could come at any time through traveling by boat in such an undeveloped area. Other risks mentioned in the contract included “terrorism,” the ill-defined “forces of nature,” and accident or illness “without means of rapid evacuation or availability of medical supplies and facilities.” Gulp.

It was almost enough to make me forget that, in the words of our agreement, the “enjoyment and excitement of adventure travel is derived in part” from engaging in activities “beyond the accepted safety of life at home or work.”

But, by the end of the second day, we discovered that the only thing we had to fear was the end of the vacation itself.

*

We quickly established a routine. After breakfast, we would slather on equal parts sun block and bug spray and head to our lounge chairs at the edge of the surf.

My wife sat at the shoreline, reading novels in rapid succession, looking up from time to time with a silly grin on her face.

At first, I found myself paralyzed by a beauty so intense it almost seemed a cliche. Half a dozen shades of iridescent blues and greens--cobalt, emerald, aquamarine--shimmered and shifted across the sea towards the horizon before dissolving into the sky. Clouds billowed in the breeze that whistled through tall blades of coarse brown grass hanging off nearby cliffs. A rainbow corona encircled the sun.

But how could I relax? There was so much to do: a deserted island to roam. An abandoned well to find. Stone ruins to explore. Lobsters to catch. Poisonous trees to touch.

It was only after I strapped on snorkeling equipment and plunged into the azure water that such concerns drifted away. Once below the surface, it was as though someone had flipped a switch and Bowe Cay turned from living color to Technicolor. Schools of greenish, translucent, bottle-nosed fish gently waved by in the shallows. Huge rays with long dark rat-tails fanned across the top of the sugary sand. Crawfish lurked in the rocks where the current was strong.

Later in the morning, before the tide pulled out, I would put on sand socks and test my balance jumping across brittle brown coral reefs in search of a fishing spot. Fresh squid for bait, along with some luck, might put a fat grouper on your stringer.

When we needed a break from the outdoors, we’d lunch in the cabana. While our cuisine wasn’t gourmet, it was more than adequate. Back in Great Exuma, we had stocked up on about $120 worth of frozen meat, groceries, fruits and vegetables, gallon jugs of water, Kalik Beer and other staples, which we kept in two large coolers. On the gas grill, we cooked standard barbecue fare--chicken, hamburgers and hot dogs. But despite a shipment of fresh ice, the meat began to look a bit gamy by the fourth day, so we became vegetarians for the remainder of our stay.

Given the heat of the late afternoons and the complete isolation, after a few days my wife and I decided that the best attire for afternoon swims might be nothing at all.

In the evening, after enjoying cocktails while watching the brilliant sunsets, we’d sit around the table in the cabana, fire up smoky kerosene lanterns, pop some Jiffy Pop left behind by a thoughtful guest, and read aloud or play board games. It was time to turn in when the moon cast its glistening streaks across the water.

We put off the treasure hunt as long as possible. But with two days to go, I began a solo trek in search of clues across the cay’s rugged, bug-infested interior, on a course set by the sadistic De la Rionda. After a few false starts, a twisted ankle and a fleeting panic of being lost forever, I made progress.

*

I also discovered the island--the real treasure I was hunting. Even though the cay is small, climates and terrain vary markedly between fragile ecosystems. Stony trails lead through lime-colored lagoons bordered by white-sand beaches, mangrove swamps dotted by orchids and flowering shrubs, cool green hills overgrown with dripping vines and moss, bone-dry mini-deserts full of cacti, and stretches of razor-sharp black coral.

There is abundant reptile and bird life, including plucky little geckos and bright yellow finches. I didn’t see any other animals, though I was told later that the vicious wild boar I ran from in the jungle was most likely a goat struggling to find its way back to the small herd that inhabits a corner of the island.

Since the next day was cooler and overcast, I shamed my wife into going along--a decision she deeply regretted.

After filling our canteens and soaking ourselves in bug spray, we left camp and made our way into the hills. Although my wife smacked her head on a tree branch, and saw stars, just like in the cartoons, we pressed on, finding clue after clue, picking our way through the jungle and across an open area that looked like the surface of the moon. Our last clue took us to the island’s abandoned freshwater well, where we discovered De la Rionda’s peculiar sense of humor--and the answer to the riddle. For future takers of De la Rionda’s challenge, we don’t want to give away the riddle or our treasure’s hiding place. But the booty, when we found it, was a few pieces of silver from the Spanish galleon, the Atocha, that sunk on a reef in the Florida Keys in 1622 and has been salvaged by adventurer Mel Fisher. They were nestled in a brown felt bag, complete with a certification certificate.

All too quickly, it was over. Halibut arrived exactly on time to take us off the cay and back to Great Exuma. But not before one final adventure. The skies were clearing that morning, but the wind was up and small-craft advisory warnings had been issued by the Coast Guard. For the next hour, we endured a spine-jarring, teeth-chattering ride as Halibut did the best he could, blasting through the swells, sending the boat airborne, smashing it hard back on to the water again and again.

Finally, we made it back into calmer waters and arrived at the dock in Moss Town.

Clearly, those lacking outdoor experience may be daunted by Bowe Cay. Visitors should know that the trails are rough, primitively marked and difficult to hike. After it rains, the air becomes very still, giving rise to massive clouds of tiny sand flies. We came back with hundreds of tiny bites that still itched fiercely 10 days later. And while breezes keep the bugs away, heavy winds at night shake the entire tent violently, making it very difficult to sleep.

And there are interpersonal dangers. Common sense suggests that you only go to the cay with people you are very comfortable with. If you have any doubts about a friendship/relationship/marriage, this is not the place to resolve them. If two of you arrive on the island, and only one returns, the authorities are sure to ask questions.

But no one can prepare you for the hardest part: returning home and trying to get the island out of your head. Pictures fail to do it justice, but Bowe Cay lives on in the mind’s eye, haunting Monday morning with memories of warmth, beauty, privacy and profound peace.

GUIDEBOOK

An Island of One’s Own

Getting there: The most convenient service from Los Angeles to Moss Town Airport on Great Exuma is American Airlines, which flies all the way, connecting in Miami; lowest current fare is about $430 round trip, non-refundable, for midweek travel. Or fly any airline into Miami, changing to Airways International to Great Exuma; round trip between Miami and Great Exuma on Airways International is about $230.

How to reserve Bowe Cay: To share the fantasy, Tom de la Rionda charges $1,300 per week per couple, excluding air fare, or $500 per person for a group of four. If bushwhacking through dense marshy wilderness at your own pace isn’t enough, De la Rionda will throw in a treasure hunt complete with puzzles, maps and clues for another $350. Shorter stays may be available, and larger groups are accommodated.

The island has tents, a cabana, a VHF marine radio, first-aid kit, water pump and outhouse with shower. After a few days, extra water and ice is provided.

For more information, call (800) 992-0128 or (516) 424-8308, or write to De la Rionda at Ultimate Adventures, 5 Maple Lane, Huntington Harbor, N.Y. 11743.

Other island getaways: At Cat Island, also in the Bahamas, off Nassau, Tony Armbrister will fly you to the scattered dwellings in his Fernandez Bay Village, a retreat that has been in the family since 1780 but not opened to guests until 1981; cottages cost from $165. Tel. (305) 474-4821.

Guana Beach Resort & Marina on Great Guana Cay, off Abaco Island in the Bahamas, has eight rooms and seven suites and the world’s third-largest barrier reef just offshore; doubles from $105, tel. (800) BAREFOOT or (809) 367-3590.