By CARL SOMMERS

WE found our way to Palm Island Resort using the hopscotch method of vacation planning. That involves considering places and then hopping over those that don't seem right or, arbitrarily, those you've already heard of -- until you finally discover terra incognita that sounds promising. It can be a gamble, but if you have the right starting point and trust your instincts, you may land on a happy surprise.

Our hopscotch began in February, when, after getting our winter coats back from the cleaners for the third time, we decided to find a last-minute beach escape. We didn't want the bother of hunting for a house rental, so we decided to find a resort, and one we could reach in single flight; the hopping part was limited to the planning. We'd try southwest Florida.

We started with Sanibel Island. My wife, Susan, had heard from a number of people that it was nice. ''A number of people'': Hop.

North of Sanibel was Gasparilla Island. She hadn't heard of it, but I had (and the choices were pretty much limited to the pricey Gasparilla Inn or private rentals): Hop.

The next island north was Palm Island. New to us, unknown to our friends. The Palm Island Resort Web site made it look beachy and quiet: Hop, hop, stop.

An hour's drive from the Fort Myers airport took us to the little town of Cape Haze, at road's end on the edge of the Gulf Intracoastal Waterway. Within a minute, a ferry big enough for six cars slipped in. We told the attendant we were guests at Palm Island Resort, and that covered payment.

After maybe five minutes, we landed on what some navigation maps call Knight Island, but almost everyone now calls Palm Island, for the resort that was built on the once deserted three-mile-long barrier island beginning in the early 80's. Alighting, we obeyed the pelican-shaped wooden signs asking us to drive at a slow island pace. This road ended at the parking lot. From there on, it was feet, bikes or golf carts only.

After we checked in, a friendly fellow drove us and our bags on a cart to No. 3524, a one-bedroom condominium. It was roughly a quarter of the way along the two-mile string of 160 condos and 15 houses, most of them on the beach, the others just across a path,

and all only two stories tall. In Old Florida style, the buildings are all of an architectural piece in grays and whites.

Palm Island is a resort in that there is a reception desk (very low key, in a little house), bellmen, four shared pools, a restaurant, 11 tennis courts, a fitness center with an exercise studio and some weights and other equipment, a children's program and the word resort in the name. But it's really a collection of privately owned condos (they call them villas) and houses that visitors can rent. This isn't room service and drinks around the pool; it's cooking a frozen pizza (or steaks on a gas grill by the pool) and doing your own laundry and, unless you pay for maid service, your own tidying up.

Susan was told when making our reservation that the one-bedroom units might be a bit snug for the two of us and our 10-year-old son, Mitchell. But we were happy to find that there was plenty of room in our second-floor unit, at 800 square feet far larger than the typical resort hotel room. The big living area was done in greens and bright Florida florals and showed none of the tired quality that I've seen in some condo rentals. The sofa folded out to become Mitchell's bed. Our bedroom, roughly 12 feet square, con

Taking A Chance on Palm Island

The New York Times

TRAVEL

April 6, 2003

tained a king bed with floral spread, a television and plenty of closet and dresser space. The bathroom was basic but adequate.

On one side of the living area was a full-size kitchen adequately stocked with cookery and crockery (and a few groceries we'd ordered by fax before leaving home) and a dining table. On the other side, sliding glass doors looked out onto a screened porch and beyond that, dunes, the white beach and the blue Gulf of Mexico.

We went exploring, walking first to Rum Bay, the resort's restaurant, on the waterway side of the island (a couple of hundred yards from the gulf but high enough for beach views). I wondered if there was perhaps an Elderhostel group in attendance, as at 4 p.m., all the 15 or so inside tables were occupied by people who might qualify.  I asked a man at the grocery-gift shop next door if this might be so. He pointed to the words ''Sunset Special'' on the menu. Right. Florida. Early Bird Special, thy name is legion.  In fact, during our five days I saw clusters of retired residents who were happy to tell guests where they came from (Ohio was popular) and to gripe about management fees and so on. They didn't seem unhappy in the least, though.

Our next stop was downstairs at the ''recreation center,'' which consisted of a teenage boy behind a counter, a listing of prices for renting golf carts (for getting around; there is no course), beach umbrellas, bicycles, boogie boards and the like, and a soft-serve ice cream dispenser. Somehow we never managed to avail ourselves of any of it, except the ice cream. Though there were often golf carts whirring along the unpaved paths, we didn't need any more transport than a walk through the dunes to the pool or the beach beyond -- maybe 50 yards. The next afternoon, we took the ferry back to Cape Haze, and drove over a causeway to Boca Grande on Gasparilla Island. We had lunch on the patio of the Loose Ca

boose (once a train station), where Susan ate her second grouper sandwich in two days. I think of grouper as a semi-exotic restaurant treat. But around here, it was as ubiquitous as burgers, served on the same kind of bun and fried perfectly, greaselessly, as was fish (and chicken) everywhere we ate, humble or haute. They know how to wield a deep fryer in southwestern Florida.

Our dinner the night before at the Rum Bay had been a pleasant affair (including grouper sandwich No.1 and a good rack of ribs), but we decided that we'd branch out for future dinners. So we scouted the placidly charming small town of Boca Grande for dinner spots set among the genuinely Old Florida wood-frame houses.

The next day set the pattern for the rest of our stay: a morning beach walk to find shells, a short stop at what we called Pelican Point, a spit of sand where the brown pelicans stood around between flights and let us get quite close. Then we'd settle on plastic chaise lounges that the resort had spread out along the beach. We never saw more than a dozen others on the beach at a time, and there was always a free chair.

There we'd chat, build a sand castle or, flying feet-first, destroy someone's castle from the day before and wade in the cool water. Then it was back for time at the medium-size pool across from our cluster of villas (there are no private pools). When the breeze made swimming in the gulf daunting, the shelter of the pool's fence provided warmth, as did the hot tub. Again, though, there were never more than seven or eight others there.

Then it was tuna sandwiches in 3524 and back out for a good long beach session, Susan and I with our books and Mitchell with his Game Boy Advance. Mitchell, who had spurned the organized children's activities, announced, ''It's good to be lazy on vacation.'' He got no argument.

Dinners involved the 25-minute trip back to Boca Grande. We ate on two nights at a clubby, relaxed restaurant called Temptation, which served fish (snapper, grouper, shrimp, oysters) prepared however you asked, including fried, of course, and steaks. Desserts were tall, rich and available. (I had watched the culmination of ''Joe Millionaire'' the night before; sorry.)

Mitchell's frozen fudge ice cream pie inspired us to sing ''Happy Birthday'' to him a couple days after his actual 10th, and in his honor I didn't stab his hand with my fork when he reached for my banana cream pie.

Another evening we enjoyed dinner at the more elegant Pink Elephant -- after they provided me with the standard-issue sport coat.

On the afternoon of our last full day, the warmest and sunniest, with temperatures in the upper 70's, I was back in a beach chair. A dolphin was swimming close in, occasionally leaping above the waves. It must have been there for some good eating, because the pelicans were swooping all around about 30 feet above the water, to suddenly dive straight down into the gulf. I made a little boy's airplane-diving and crashing noises as accompaniment while Mitchell and Susan rolled their eyes.  After a while, they faded back to our rooms, but I couldn't tear myself away. This was an early bird special I could appreciate.

Our flight home was in the evening, so we decided first to drive to Sanibel. With its cypress swamp and tall trees, the island was far lusher than Palm and Gasparilla Islands. But the main road was packed with shops and cars, sometime bumper to bumper, and the two traffic officers were needed.

I'm sure there was tranquility off that thoroughfare. But having come from a place where there wasn't even a main road, we congratulated ourselves for having hopped to the right spot.  ◊