When did we forget how to go on vacation? These days, a week off means an opportunity to do more stuff. From paradise, we Instagram and tweet every last relaxing moment, never escaping long enough to untether from the chatter. What if there were a place somewhere at the end of the world where there is gloriously nothing to do?

Gentle splashes of fresh water sprinkle over the bow, reviving us as we breeze through islets—more like dollops of jungle spooned from a batter of rainforest than beachy outcroppings. Egrets soar past our path and skid into landing, loons drag their knuckles on the placid waves, and somewhere beneath, bull sharks silently drift along, having adapted to the lack of salt water over thousands of years. My husband and I are on a small skiff traveling through an archipelago of 365 atolls off the coast of Granada, formed from the last reaches of an eruption thought to have happened thousands of years ago, when nearby Mombacho Volcano blew its top near the northwestern tip of Lake Nicaragua.