Venezuela occupies a perfect spot on the northern coast of South America, the southernmost edge of the Caribbean Sea. Despite the roar of the engines and the excited chatter of the passengers, I find myself calmed by the sight of its rugged coastline passing below—loden mountains tumble directly into the emerald sea, beneath a breathless blue sky. In the valleys, the russet hues of buildings and small factories clustered at the mountains’ base spill out to ship-filled ports.

The Venezuelans are a passionate people who seem to enjoy themselves no matter what they are doing. Proud, pious and boisterous, their passions take them many places. They are quick to boast about their women—Venezuelans have won the Miss Universe pageant more times than any other nation in the last 25 years. Casinos and churches share the landscape here, often next door to each other. Politics is a hot topic of conversation—the cab carrying me from the airport to the hotel was briefly stopped by a group of 100 to 200 protesters—banging pots to a samba rhythm, dancing and chanting their opposition to Hugo Chávez’s presidency.

The resort town of Porlamar, on the southeast corner of the island, embraces the protected stretch of water between the mainland and the island. Set apart from the rest of the resorts lining Avenida Bolívar, the buildings that make up the Hilton Margarita Hotel and Suites face out over a beach almost exclusively their own.

With 336 rooms and 11 one-bedroom suites, a casino, two restaurants, gym, sauna, spa, tennis courts, several shops and meeting facilities capable of handling groups of up to 1,400, the hotel is not what you would call petite. From the avenue, all that is visible—except for its glitzy Vegas-style casino with its glittering lighted signs inviting locals and visitors alike to try their luck—is its imposing back side, bold and fortresslike. I knew security was not going to be an issue here.

After check-in, a bellboy, clad in white shorts and short-sleeved shirt with aqua epaulets and trim and a silver nameplate that read “Domingo,” led me—more like guided me—down a corridor, out the door into an attractive outdoor shopping center, past the back entrance to the casino, up the stairs through a colonnade and onto a patio with a crystal pool that appeared to touch the lapis sea. In the distance, a craggy rock island perched fantastically on the horizon.

After a moment, I realized that I had stopped, and that Domingo, knowingly, had stopped, too, as if accustomed to guests coming to a halt when they first catch sight of the swimming pool and the Caribbean beyond.

“Does anyone ever go out to the island out there?” I asked, trying to figure the distance in my head and ruling out swimming. Without really answering, Domingo referred me to the jet ski rentals on the beach in front of the hotel.

From my balcony on the 14th floor, I could see the pool, a bright aqua river that snakes almost 600 feet around the hotel’s well-manicured grounds, descending to different levels by way of water slides. It was all too inviting. The next morning this 38-year-old found himself sliding down a water slide and startling the kids playing on the level below.

The sun set over the hotel buildings around 3:30 p.m. every day, so I made sure to plan things to do in the afternoons. I rented a car and checked out the island.

I was surprised by how much Margarita has to offer. So many beaches—El Agua, on the northern coast, where the calmer waters of the Caribbean meet the waves of the Atlantic, had some of the most beautiful vistas. I was also entranced by the pounding Atlantic surf at Parguito in the northeast. However, watching the sun set over the Caribbean from its historic hilltop fort, I fell in love with Juan Griego.

I didn’t have time to do it all. The lagoon at La Restinga, which is said to be like a live version of Disney World’s Jungle Cruise, the Museo Marino, where you can get a more in-depth look at Margarita’s indigenous wildlife through exhibits of dissected marine life and skeletons, and Parque el Agua’s larger-scale pools and water slides will have to wait for next time.

Not far from the hotel, rising over the neighboring rooftops with its circus-tent roof, I found Centro Sambil, a shopper’s paradise with stores such as Diesel, Guess and Tommy Hilfiger. With the favorable exchange rate, I couldn’t say no. In town, I browsed the street vendors’ ubiquitous shell jewelry and shark-tooth necklaces.

Before I knew it, I was contemplating the coastline again from above the clouds, rerunning memories, nursing a sunburn and planning my return.

Hilton Margarita Hotel and Suites, Calle Los Uveros, Urbanización Costa Azul, Isla de Margarita, Venezuela, tel. 58 295 262 4111 or 800-HILTONS, fax 58 295 262 0180, http://www.margarita.hilton.com Double rooms from $169