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Life’s more than just a beach on the Caymans. Or so I insisted, reporting from the Caribbean Club resort, upon my arrival yesterday. Arriving at the Club, what did I do? Hit the beach. Ahem.

Today, eager to explore, I head north to a very unique attraction — indeed, the only place of its kind in the tropics. The Cayman Motor Museum is the private collection of a Norwegian billionaire shipping magnate; opened in 2010, it boasts both the impressive and the odd. Auto museums like this can sometimes seem like borderline junkyards, but it’s immediately obvious that this one, housed in a brand-new building that includes strategic lighting and air conditioning, is a slick operation.

The collection is eclectic, to say the least. There’s a line of twelve Ferraris; various vehicles from old movies; a Mercedes 560 owned by Idi Amin during his years in exile; a Daimler DK 400 royal limousine used by Queen Elizabeth on her 1956 visit to Sweden; a Bentley owned by Elton John; the Batmobile from the original 1960s TV series (correct: every touring Batmobile you’ve ever seen at any North American convention was not this one) and, perhaps most significantly, an old-timey 1905 Cadillac — the very first automobile ever on the Cayman Islands. “We have something here for everyone,” says museum manager Peter Dresden, the billionaire’s former chauffer, repositioning ‘eclectic’ in more marketable terms. “Not everyone wants to go to the beach every day.” You’re preaching to the choir, Peter.

From cars to cartiliginous shells: I spend my afternoon with turtles, as I visit the largest land-based attraction on Grand Cayman: The Cayman Turtle Farm. Frankly insane (that’s a compliment), this place is one part theme park, one part environmental rescue organization. Credited with reviving endangered turtle populations in the Caymans and in a number of other countries, the farm has been mating turtles since back in the 1960s, resulting in hundreds of thousands of turtle eggs — and, consequently, many more turtles walking this earth. I stroll amongst the tanks, which house babies right up to breeders, and get a guided opportunity to touch the head of the oldest giant Green Sea Turtle. Strangely humbling.

And from humble to (you’ll pardon the melodrama) Hell? I assure you, the name wasn’t my idea. Really, my destination is just a nearby tourist area admittedly remarkable for its profusion of gray, spikey centuries-old dolomite. The nickname “Hell” is a natural: Squint your eyes a bit, and the stuff could look like brimstone. (Legend also has it that a former governor, upon losing a rabbit he was hunting among the rocks, cried out, “Bloody Hell!”)

Hell, I decide, looks cool and all, but doesn’t really merit a prolonged visit. I opt for Heaven instead — that is to say, I go back to the beach.

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Image courtesy of Jorge Quinteros.