Caymans Confidential

But what lax financial laws mean for the tourist is this: no obvious poverty, no begging, an extremely low crime rate (if you don't count white-collar crime), no desperate hawkers following you with trays of cheap jewelry, no obvious resentment from the locals.

Nearly all of the development here has been confined to the largest of the three islands, Grand Cayman. Even on Grand Cayman, construction is concentrated on a pristine stretch of sand called Seven Mile Beach. Anyone who likes the ritziest sections of Miami's Biscayne Boulevard will feel right at home along Seven Mile Beach.

But we're looking for cheap sleeps, and the Harbour View inn, at $75 a night, is one of the first places I call to check availability when I plan my trip. It has the advantage of being on the water, near the edge of Seven Mile Beach. The friendly island cadence in the owner's voice is a good sign. I imagine her as a motherly woman of ample weight who would smother you in a hug at the slightest provocation. I tell her I'll talk it over with my husband and call back.

Two weeks later, I do. She says she is sold out. "Oh," I say, "I'm sorry I didn't book when I called two weeks ago."

She has no idea I'm a travel writer, but she says she remembers that phone conversation and does have a room for me -- she's been saving it, waiting for my call.

Hey, even if the place turns out to be a dump, this is a woman to whom I want to give my business.

Budget Inn

We arrive at the Harbour View from the airport, and it turns out my mental picture of the owner was exactly right. She welcomes me with a hug before check-in.

The Harbour View is a complex of two buildings, a newish hotel of apartments facing the water and an older, one-story, motel-like property with a concrete porch. We're in the latter. A pan of water for rinsing sandy feet sits in front of each stoop. The room is a bit dark, and drab, but it is clean, the bathroom modern. There is just enough room to squeeze a cot beside the double bed.

A sandy beach, with palm trees and picnic tables, ends in a smooth sheet of rock a couple feet from shore. So what, we decide. We have our beach, and there are schools of fish around the dock and just beyond. We snorkel for hours, until time for dinner.

We eat in style next door, at a fancy restaurant called the Wharf. It's weird to spend as much for dinner for two adults and a child as we did for our room. But we're using our "savings." We even have enough left over to take a boat to Sting Ray City, which turns out to be the highlight of our trip.

There is no city in Sting Ray City, but there are stingrays. Dozens of them. Decades ago, when Grand Cayman was still a village of merchant seamen and fishermen, the daily catch would be cleaned at this offshore sandbar. The stingrays that surrounded the vessels for scraps either never forgot or are just happy to see tourist boats arriving with free sardines.

Divers play with stingrays deep underwater. But we are happy just to stand knee-deep on the sandbar and stroke the smooth, velvety skin of these alien creatures that resemble giant Portobello mushrooms. They fan their bodies against our legs, then surface as if asking to be petted. They eat from our hands. I hold out my arms just under the water's surface, and a stingray comes and lies across them.