Still lovely isle, Grand Cayman awash in change

We recently returned to the Caymans, three islands southwest of Cuba, to visit our daughter, Megan, who is teaching school there. No longer “a hop” for us, there are nonetheless nonstop flights from Boston. With a tail wind on the way back, our flight took just 3 hours and 18 minutes.

During our weeklong stay, we marveled at new places and grieved others, some dispatched by Hurricane Ivan in 2004. The temperature was about 80 degrees, the ocean similar, and the skyline remains mostly palms and pines. But much about the island has changed dramatically, even its pronunciation. Those who live there, half of them expats, call it Cay-Man — rhymes with “hey, man.”

A big change are the coral reefs that make the island an international magnet for diving and snorkeling. The crystal-clear views of the gorgeous reefs and shipwrecks were spectacular, and on our honeymoon, we saw fish of every color and size, from deep purple to bright yellow, small angel to hefty grouper.

The turquoise water is still transparent, but many of the reefs have withered, attributed to global warming. “Well more than 90 percent of the once majestic elkhorn corals in the Caribbean are dead,” says David Arnold, a Boston photographer and journalist who is documenting the demise of hard corals through the use of then-and-now photographs of the Caribbean Sea.

And when Columbus discovered the uninhabited Cayman Islands in 1503 — the “Little Sisters” are Cayman Brac and Little Cayman — the waters so teemed with turtles that he named them Las Tortugas. The place where we honeymooned was the Tortuga Club.

At the beach near our daughter’s apartment, we swam with some of them in the early morning and late afternoon. They’re as big as hula hoops and as curious about us as we were about them. At restaurants, we did not order turtle stew. It seemed wrong, not to mention unappetizing, though some swear by the low-fat, high-protein meat.

The islands are a BritishOverseas Territory, and the cars drive on the left side of the road. Megan bought a (very) used car, which made me a (very) nervous passenger, continually looking the wrong way and bracing myself. Instead of “Yield,” the signs here say, “Give Way.” Instead of “No Passing,” it’s “Do Not Overtake.”

You’ll want to rent a car and explore the 22-mile-long island, which has a coastline of great beaches and local kitchens that serve up specialties such as conch fritters, jerk chicken, and mahimahi.

One of our favorites was Tukka, a casual restaurant on the East End of the island. Ron Hargrave is the chef-owner and an Aussie, and has things on the menu like conch and croc fritters and Walk-About soup. He also hands binoculars to patrons sitting on the deck, the better to see shipwrecks and their divers.

The legend of The Wreck of the Ten Sails is told on a restaurant storyboard. In 1788, so goes the tale, 10 merchant ships were making their way back to England from Jamaica when they ran aground off Grand Cayman. The locals supposedly saved all lives aboard, including the son of King George III. As a reward, the king granted the islands freedom from taxation, and that continues to this day.

Which has led to the Caymans becoming known as an international tax haven, er, “offshore financial center.” During the 2012 presidential election, Mitt Romney’s campaign reluctantly released tax returns that revealed that he had at least $30 million invested in the Cayman Islands, in at least 12 different Bain Capital Funds.

Mere tourists will also want to bring bags of money. Grand Cayman is expensive. Bear in mind that the Cayman dollar is worth $1.25 US, so if you order a $10 burger, you’re really paying $12.50. And that’s a deal here. When we were there in late October, regular gasoline was $7 (US) a gallon.

After lunch at Tukka, we continued along the East End in search of the Tortuga Club, where we had lazed in hammocks under palm trees, where Miss Cleo cooked up wonders in her kitchen, and where my brand-new husband, brandishing our tennis racquets, ushered a rogue crab from our cement-block room.

Alas, we were directed to Morritt’s Tortuga Resort, where we found general manager Willy Giger, who presides over a huge, peach-colored timeshare and condo complex with amenities such as a pool with swim-up bar, a spa, a fitness and business center, and shopping. He said nothing remained of the old Tortuga Club, not even Miss Cleo, who died a couple of years ago.

But we did find one familiar spot. On our honeymoon, we’d mailed cards stamped with the “Hell” postmark, and the tiny Post Office is still there, on Hell Road. The story goes that when a British governor arrived at the spot, he muttered, “Oh, hell!” and the name stuck.

Behind the Post Office, which is all there is to the hamlet besides a souvenir shop, sharp black rocks said to be a million years old jut from a pond, and there’s a warning sign: “The Removal of Hell Rocks is Prohibited.” My husband and I can now say we have been to Hell and back, again.

George Town, the island’s capital, was a sleepy place back then. Now, cruise ships dock offshore, and tourist joints have literally risen to the challenge, including a Hard Rock Cafe. Mostly, there are the tax-free luxury shops like Llardro, Rolex, Cartier, etc., etc., etc. I spent a buck on a conch keychain sold by a guy with a card table display.

We drove on to Seven Mile Beach, an expanse of sugary sand and gentle surf, the island’s best strand, where the upscale resorts are located. All beaches are public, so we decided to stop at the Westin Hotel for a bit of sun and lunch. It’s a beautiful spot with amazing food and service.

Morty Valldejuli is the general manager, arriving three years ago from New Orleans. “We have the largest beach here, with up to 1,550 chairs, and it still doesn’t feel crowded,” he says. Rooms start at $399 in the off season and $899 in the high season. Valldejuli says Christmas is booked a year in advance, and most of his guests are from the northeastern United States. We had lunch at the Westin’s beach bar: delicious fish tacos, ahi tuna, and a curried chicken salad, $53, including tip.

Grand Cayman is the only place in the world where the highly endangered blue iguana lives, and a rare chance to spot them is at the Queen Elizabeth II Botanic Park, where there are 40 of them “wandering around the park,” according to its brochure. Here I found my favorite island sign: “CHECK for sleeping iguanas under your wheels!” with a photo of an iguana underneath a car. But that was the closest we came to seeing one. The park is worth the stroll, for its hundreds of species of palm trees, its lily pad ponds, orchids, and a “colour garden,” named for its plethora of bright plants.

You cannot go to Grand Cayman without going to Stingray City, which didn’t exist on our honeymoon. Try to avoid cruise ship days, when the sandbar looks like a floating tailgating party. We booked seats on a catamaran, which took us out to a sandbar, where dozens of the docile South Atlantic Stingrays cozy up to tourists in chest-high water. Our guide told us to approach them gently and warned against lifting them out of the water. “No worries,” one woman muttered.

The guide said the rays feel “like a wet Portobello mushroom,” and he was right. They brushed against us and sucked squid out of my hand, something I would not care to repeat in my lifetime. And I’m not sure how I’ll enjoy eating Portobellos now.

Another fun thing to do with the kids is to take the Jolly Roger, a replica of an 80-foot Spanish galleon. “We are one of the last remaining wooden ships in the Caribbean,” says co-owner Chris Redlund, who is from Leominster, Mass., and has lived on Grand Cayman for five years with his wife and daughter.

The ship is a nod to the days when pirates used the island as their lair, and the modern-day crew — pirates and a wench — are entertaining and informative, staging battles and serving rum punch. The show includes tying up parents, much to their youngsters’ delight, and dousing them with ice water. Even my 28-year-old daughter delighted when I was drafted.

Rum is the Caribbean’s middle name, and the most interesting rum produced there is Seven Fathoms in George Town, so named because it is aged in oak barrels seven fathoms ( 42 feet) under the sea. It’s the only such distillery in the world. Its motto is: “At last, a rum with depth.” Jordan Telford, an island native who poured us sips, explained that the rocking of the ocean rotates the rum in the barrels, adding flavor when the rum is forced in and out of the oak pores.

October was restaurant month on Grand Cayman, where some places offered two-course lunches and three-course dinners at reduced rates. Our favorite was Grand Old House, a former plantation built by Boston businessman William Henry Law in 1908. The $25 lunch included a glass of good wine and delicious choices such as lobster strudel, mahimahi with crab, chocolate bread pudding, and mango gateau.

We loved the food and ocean view so much — and the waiter’s pitch that the sunsets were the best — that we returned our last evening for Happy Hour, where we drank rum punch and watched magenta rays vie with purple clouds. Our Cuban waiter, Edgar Allan Perez — yes, his father was a Poe fan — was right about the sunset.

Sipping my Cayman Mama, I marveled at the ebb and flow of life that had washed us up on this shore so many years ago, and then returned us to visit the daughter who had grown up hearing about the Cayman Islands.

We kissed that girl goodbye and, at the airport’s Duty Free shop, bought some Seven Fathoms rum. I have vowed to return soon, during our New England winter. After all, I’ve got a free place to stay, and a driver who calls me Mom.

Bella English can be reached at english@globe.com.