So she rightly serves as the perfect mascot for the British Virgin Islands, a former pirate’s bay that loves them some Skull & Crossbones like the South loves their Confederate flaggage, albeit with a lot less hurt feelings (you’ll find the Jolly Roger everywhere, from cheapo souvy shirts to the tattooed ankles of edgy beach babes.)

On Anegada — the very flat, very salty-yet-lush member of the BVI entourage that sits in near isolation a few miles north of Virgin Gorda — you come for the endemic rock iguana, stay for the bonefish.

"Pit bulls of the sea" is how locals (all 250 of them!) refer to them. But even Michael Vick would have a tough time winning in a fight with one (he certainly couldn’t drown one, anyway) — bonefish are some of the most aggressive and evasive fish out there once they’re on the business end of a fishing pole.

Trying to actually eat one is no picnic, either. Most people don’t; the numerous tiny bones that give the fish her name can completely rip up your insides if not properly removed.

Bonefish are what Mother Nature has so cruelly invented as a "sport fish" ("trash fish" is the less politically correct term) — you catch ‘em, kill ‘em, discard ‘em. Rinse (the fish guts off), repeat.

This practice doesn’t exactly jive well with my ecofascist/radical animal-rights political streak. But on quiet, deserted Anegada, you either hunt one of these bad boys down or spend your day getting drunk on the yacht you day-tripped in on.

And I forgot my yacht at home.

So I tracked down Garfield Faulkner, the Ted Bundy of serial bonefish killers in the BVI, to take me out on his boat so we could have ourselves a good old fashioned murder-something afternoon. We left straight from the docks outside the Anegada Reef Hotel, which serves as the main gathering spot on the island for guests and non-guests alike (thanks in large part to the amazing lunch and dinner menu).

Garfield’s a Caribbean native and has been in the angling biz for decades. Because his guided bonefishing tours ain’t cheap — $350 for a half-day, $550 (CQ) for a full — he’ll all but guarantee a bite one way or the other. The closer to the reefs he brings you, the denser the fish populations down below become, and the likelier you’ll hook one. The sportsmanship of this "technique" is dubious at best, but since when has fishing been sporting?

Nevertheless, I tell Garfield there’s no way I’m taking the sadist/cheater’s way out. So we motorboat another 20 more minutes off shore out into now darkening, deeper waters. We get a perfect view of Anegada’s beautiful 15-square-mile treed silhouette against the setting sun — though it’s less out of Corona’s Christmas ad spot and more like a northwest forest (Australian pines have completely captured the land away from anything more palm-fronded).

I jump overboard and snorkel around a bit while Garfield mans the poles. Anegada is the only inhabited island in the BVI that’s of coral origin, not volcanic. And coral equals fish of all shapes, colors and sizes — literally, a snorkeler’s wet dream.

We move around a few more times and float past an island entirely made up of conch shells (bored fisherman have been contributing to this little pet project for years). Garfield cuts the engine. We bait our hooks and cast away. I’m sipping a Red Stripe, he’s chatting about his kids. It’d been a while since I had last enjoyed the heavenly idleness that’s 99 percent of "fishing".

Then my line tightens. Oh right, the other one percent. Garfield starts the engine again and whatever’s been duped by my mis-cast lure doesn’t like it. It’s fighting. Hard. The water’s too dark to make out a shape, so it’s not until the fish drags us into a shallower area that we realize it’s a giant sting ray. So we cut the line and let him go back to his wife and kids. You owe me one, big guy.

A few battles more result in nothing beyond stolen bait and broken lines — one gladiator, aptly named a jackfish, gets away with Garfield’s favorite yellow lure. He’s confident it’ll eventually float back to shore.

The odds of me catching a bonefish when I couldn’t even snag a grouper — the dumb blonde of the fish world — are looking grim. Garfield keeps insisting we creep closer to the reefs, but I stubbornly refuse.

Then, finally, what is clearly a silver bonefish takes hold of the line. While she lives up to the hype, her resistance, however admirable, ultimately turns futile. Somehow I managed to skewer the poor little gal’s brain with my hook, right up through the skull, like I was some kind of hockey-masked maniac and she a floozy Crystal Lake camp counselor.

The fish is thankfully (for me, not her so much) DOA by the time I reeled her onto the boat — I’m nowhere near the mental space required to beat a fish to death.

The down side was, I don’t like seafood at all — not even the "good" kind, like halibut or sushi or whatever you freaks eat. This was a pure bloodsport kill. I could only spill a sip of Red Stripe overboard in memoriam, and offer up her spiritually-emptied vessel to Garfield. I’m sure he sautéed her with reverence. So we sail back to the pier at the hotel.

I look over at the bar and remember that I, like a golfer who makes a hole-in-one, have to buy everyone a round of drinks because I caught one, emptied of core principles aside.

But then, worse karma kicks in. My face is burning like a leftover box of Chinese with a metal handle in the microwave. I’m a victim of the same sun that warmed the shallow water my gilled victim once loved.

Some visiting Italians, who come here in droves during their 30-day vacate-a-thon in August, have no choice but to goof on my North German DNA’s resistance to tanning.

Luckily, Susan, the co-owner and manager of the Reef Hotel, is there to cut me up some gloopy slices of aloe that somewhat kill the pain on my reddened extremities — but it smells wicked bad and stains my clothes.

Somewhere in that great aquarium in the sky, that bonefish was sneering down on me.

Nevertheless — best fishing trip, ever!

LOWDOWN:

GO: Fly to Beef Island via San Juan on American Eagle (aa.com). Then take a 15-minute taxi over to Tortola (they’re connected by bridge) and catch the hour-long ferry that leaves twice a day for Anegada on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays at 7:30 a.m. and 3:30 p.m. ($TK roundtrip, smithsferry.com).

DO: Fishing and snorkeling tours can be arranged with Garfield’s Guides, (284) 495-9569.

HOW FAR: 1,828 miles from NYC

CASH: US Dollar

ELEC: 110 volts

STAY: Rooms at the Anegada Reef Hotel start at $185/night with a meal plan (anegadareef.com). Neptune’s Treasure guesthouse, practically right next door, starts at $70 (neptunestreasure.com). Go with Cow Wreck Villas for pricier, long-term options (cowwreck.net).

INFO: bvitourism.com