There are three things about Barbados you’ll hear from the locals. One, Tiger Woods was married here. Two, you need at least two weeks to appreciate the place. And three, there hasn’t been a hurricane here since 1956.

My friend Lila and I are not here to get married. We’ve got less than a week. And we’re hoping to escape hurricanes of all sorts: in the past year, I’ve lost a dear friend; she’s ended a romance. Hello, tropical holiday. Barbados feels exotic and luxe enough to pull us out of our funk—plus mac and cheese, the ultimate comfort food, is almost the national dish.

Situated between the Atlantic and the Caribbean, Barbados’s eastern coast waves beloved by surfers. But it’s around the west side’s calm, flat waters that most of the hotels have congregated, where all-inclusive blenders whir for thirsty tourists.

Though I never refuse a frozen drink, we’re staying at the quiet, old-world Crane Resort on the south shore. The majestic colonial hotel has four-poster beds, beachy slip-covered sofas, a plunge pool on the balcony, a hot tub on our private roof deck and a view to emerald sea from every room in our suite.

We ease into tropical heat and girl-talk therapy by the Crane’s multi-tiered pool as rum punch, a gentle breeze and SPF 50 keep the hot Caribbean sun at bay. For saltwater therapy and a little ocean time, we wind down the cliff-hugging stairs to Crane Beach’s infamously gentle surf. Despite Lila’s initial hesitation (“I don’t do the ocean”), she’s soon gleefully body surfing and laughing like I haven’t seen in months.

As I enjoy a fresh coconut that a local kid has sliced open for me, I recall the Barbados ritual of the dear friend I lost back home, whose favourite moments on this island were spent floating in the waves, peeling an orange and savouring its sweetness next to the salty sea. I kiss an orange and toss it into the waves, watching it bob before disappearing from view.

The next morning we awake to an invitation for a gospel brunch back at the Crane’s open-air L’Azure restaurant, where last night’s dinner of lobster bisque and grilled mahi mahi sent us over the thrill mark. Over brunch’s French-press coffee, warm “bakes” (that taste like little doughnuts), fish cakes and poached eggs, we’re soothed by a cappella harmonies that welcome the sun and Sunday to these parts.

Oh, and we did find the best “mac pie” on the island: it comes from a stall at Friday night’s fish fry and dance in Oistins, a small-town party where flying fish are fried up and served on platters with breadfruit, coleslaw and that ubiquitous baked mac and cheese. Oistins also brings us to Miami Beach, an under-the-radar spot where the water is calm and warm, and the locals use the flat stretch of beach to run laps. Ever the activity junkie, Lila kicks off her flip flops and joins them, while I take the moment to allow myself to say a final goodbye to this place.

I’d expected the moment to be emotional but, toes in the warm water, I feel embraced by warm sea air. Rather than removing me from everything I left behind, Barbados brought it here, and peace along with it. Lila returns from her run, and, arms around each other, we toss two oranges into the sea. Behind us, a local walks into the water, her own orange in hand, peeling it back to enjoy the sweet fruit as she floats on the waves. We smile, and follow her in.