The 55-yacht Shellette. (Photo by Laura Bly, USA TODAY)

VIRGIN GORDA, British Virgin Islands - Their dinghy pulled up just before sunset, nuzzling our 55-foot yacht like a forlorn puppy. Lured by the prospect of cold beer and conversation, our neighbors at the palm-fringed anchorage clambered aboard, eager to swap stories about the joys of chartering a sailboat in one of the world's most popular cruising grounds.

But as our band of eight buccaneers had already discovered, life aboard the good ship Shellette is to the neighbors' 28-foot, sail-it-yourself sloop as first class is to steerage on the Titanic.

While they rustled up a dinner of boxed macaroni and cheese, we savored crisp South African chardonnay, artichoke dip and salmon fillets with mango-yogurt sauce.

As they huddled over nautical charts and debated where to head next, we strapped on snorkels for a prebreakfast swim through a shimmering school of minnows.

And when they were hoisting sails or grappling with a stubborn anchor chain, we were sprawled on deck -- content to let Shellette's accommodating captain and first mate, Mike and Pam Donnelly, do all the work.

The reliable trade winds, protected waters and ample anchorages of the 60-odd islands, cays and rock outcroppings called the British Virgin Islands have attracted old salts from Blackbeard to Jimmy Buffett. The archipelago boasts more boats per mile than any other spot in the Caribbean, particularly during the peak sailing season from December through April.

But prospective mariners don't need to know a mizzen from a mainsail to sample these islands' appeal. For an average $1,100 to $2,500 per person, per week, passengers can commandeer a crewed yacht to squire them from one idyllic cove to the next -- gourmet meals, open bar and nautical know-how included.

Scattered across the country from Sacramento to Atlanta, our gang of high school girlfriends and husbands had been considering a joint vacation for years. The promise of tropical sunshine, varied scenery and relaxed pampering -- without the structured itinerary of a cruise -- was seductive.

Capt. Donnelly, left, gets a hand from guest Gregg Samelson aboard the Shellette. More often the guests sprawled on deck and relaxed. (Photo by Laura Bly, USA TODAY)

Still, we had our qualms.

How well would the landlubbers in our midst cope with heaving seas and toilets that pumped instead of flushed? Would we get along with our crew or resent their constant proximity?

And while we were all looking forward to a journey that demanded nothing fancier than a pair of TopSiders, did we really want to spend seven days together with no shopping malls or shipboard floor shows as distractions?

Yacht broker Ed Hamilton, the combination travel agent, matchmaker and father confessor who arranged our trip, had tackled those kinds of worries before.

Hamilton insisted that Shellette, a catamaran with four equal-sizecabins, was a perfect choice for claustrophobics with weak stomachs, not to mention aging baby boomers who wanted to ensure some romantic privacy.

He raved about owners Mike and Pam, a convivial South African couple who'd built the boat in 1991 after sailing its predecessor around the world with their two young daughters.

And he wagered that a week under sail with no deadlines and no decisions would do more to cement our two-decade friendships than any megaliner could.

He was right.

Shellette turned out to be much lighter and roomier than we'd imagined, with a huge trampoline that stretched between the two hulls -- a perfect vantage point for long chats and midafternoon naps as the boat skimmed across the Sir Francis Drake Channel.

Decorated in pastel blues, pinks and grays, the double-bedded cabins were cozy but not confining, with small fans and hatches for circulation. (The boat is equipped with central air conditioning, but most guests prefer falling asleep to soft breezes and lapping waves.)

Two of the heads -- nautical lingo for bathrooms -- even boasted bathtubs, though Pam says passengers spend so much time immersed in the Caribbean that most wind up using the showers on deck.

Indeed, Mike had barely dropped the hook at Shellette's first anchorage, a deserted sweep of white sand and green hills on Little Camanoe Island, before we grabbed masks and fins and tumbled into the warm, gin-clear water. The refreshing ritual was repeated often as one balmy day blurred into the next.

While we drifted through kaleidoscopes of Day-Glo fish, took a turn at the helm or paddled kayaks into the Norman Island caves that inspired Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island, Pam whipped up a succession of elaborate repasts.

In a burst of health-conscious fervor (or subconscious self-consciousness about spending most of our time in bathing suits), our group had requested low-fat meals. But from jerk chicken Caesar salads to rum-drenched pina coladas and postdinner cordials, much of Pam's fare was unabashedly caloric -- and irresistible.

Along with the hedonistic, don't-lift-a-finger appeal of life on board, our group relished Shellette's unstructured and unhurried itinerary.

Since most of the British Virgins are clustered within a 10-mile radius of the largest island, Tortola, it was easy to spend a morning under sail, pull up to a Robinson Crusoe beach for an alfresco lunch and anchor off another cove by cocktail time.

We managed to tick off a list of standard attractions, from a jumble of massive granite boulders called The Baths to the wreck of a 19th century steamer, the Rhone (better known as the spot where The Deep's Jacqueline Bisset drew more attention than the underwater scenery).

On the tiny island of Jost Van Dyke, a favorite among area mariners, goats seemed to outnumber residents, and a clothing shop called Cocolocos posted a handmade sign: ''Hours: Inconsistent.'' Inside, the wares included a T-shirt that resonated with everyone on board: ''No Shoes. No Shirt. No Stinkin' Schedule.''

But at our hosts' urging, we scuttled a guidebook-recommended full-moon party at Tortola hangout Bomba's Shack in favor of our own celebration on Shellette.

As the moon crested the top of a nearby mast, we cranked up the soundtrack from The Big Chill and broke out another bottle of chardonnay. We toasted Mike and Pam, who'd become friends as well as caretakers. And we thought about those unfortunate, macaroni-and-cheese-eating souls in the cramped sloop.

They were probably dreaming of us.