I HAD NO CHOICE REALLY.
On the eve of jetting off to the Maldives many years ago, I made a rash promise – to comfort my distraught little boy, Tom – that when he was big and a surfer, I’d take him to the Maldives. Recently my surf-mad teen reminded me that I owed him one. So Maldives it was, but this time I wanted to go boating.
As we dropped through equatorial cloud on our flight, the Maldives first appeared like roughly circular pods of jellyfish floating serenely in an azure sea somewhere off the southwest coast of India. The sheer number of ‘jellyfish’ was staggering from the air and, as we descended, they sprouted palm trees, white sandy skirts and tentacles of water bungalows jutting into surrounding lagoons.
We exited Hulhulé’s airport into suffocating tropical heat, without one surfboard that was mistakenly winging its way to Paris. Sea taxis lined up at the quay to whisk their wilting passengers to a myriad air-conned island resorts. Our destination was Micah, a 15-metre Royal Cape catamaran bobbing in the bay. The foredeck trampoline didn’t go unnoticed by those with predominantly sunbathing intent.
‘So, where would you like to go?’ skipper Joe Streeter asked by way of a welcome aboard, as hostess-chef-surf-guide Michaela de Pinna distributed cold Lions and G&Ts. Where indeed, we wondered, for a 10-night live-aboard cruise in the North Malé Atoll with absolutely no plans, captains of our own itinerary? Micah has been plying the warm Maldives waters for four years, sometimes for specialised fishing or surf charters but mostly with families and small groups who just want to explore the archipelago.
Our extended-family group ranged in age from 12 to 58 – some of questionable surfing pedigree who were soon christened ‘Team Sharkbait’. The vague though not fanatical (for anyone except Tom) intention of our trip was surfing, with plenty of snorkelling, sailing and maybe a spot of fishing along the way.
‘Well, then let’s start at Cokes,’ suggested Joe. So we did.
Since waves were discovered here by shipwrecked surfers back in the 1970s, the North Malé Atoll has become the epicentre of Maldives surfing. Our northward cruise took us past screensaver-perfect islands hosting iconic surf spots, named with Australian lack of flair. There’s Honkey’s, Jails, Sultans (none in residence), Lohi’s, Pasta Point, Ninjas (the Japanese like this gentle wave), Chickens (you can’t be one when it gets big) and finally
Cokes, so called because its host island of Thulusdhoo has a beverage factory
– the only one in the world that makes Coca-Cola from desalinated seawater.
Cokes reef offered a small wave that had Team Sharkbait shrieking with delight to be surfing in bikinis in 30-degree water, backdropped by palm trees and watched by an inquisitive turtle. I snorkelled, and have etched in my brain the image of a unicorn fish fossicking nonchalantly on the coral while the knife-edge trail of bubbles made by the surfboard fins cut the crystal water above it.
Back on the boat, exhilarated by the watery delights of the Maldives, we had wraps for lunch in the cockpit dining saloon. Then the skies darkened, the wind picked up and the tropics unleashed a vicious squall. Surf season unfortunately coincides with cyclone season, but it was all over within an hour. We went ashore in the rubber duck and explored the sand alleys of Thulusdhoo, where bicycles, scooters and walking are the means of getting around. We left with a coconut coffee mug and two bright sun hats bought from a little island shop.
The next day the wind was up, so we hoisted the sails and headed west into the blue yonder of the atoll, destination unknown. Atolls, Charles Darwin would have told us (had he been sunbathing on the foredeck trampoline), are coral formations around the rims of submerged volcanic craters. But from a tourist’s perspective, an atoll is simply a necklace of islands encircling a sheltered lagoon. The Republic of Maldives consists entirely of atolls – 26 in total, encompassing nearly 1200 islands. These have been built up over millions of years by minuscule creatures called coral polyps. The industrious polyps built them beautifully but only two-odd metres high, which made me relieved to be on a boat when the big swells arrived later in the week.
After several hours of sailing – and a lunch of fresh-baked rolls – we dropped anchor at an idyllic, uninhabited islet that suggested snorkelling potential. Indeed, through a diving mask, the deep, dark water at our mooring graduated through various shades of green and turquoise as the reef edge rose in steps of vibrant coral to the island fringe.
While we were snorkelling, another squall hit. Rain pelted my back as I swam and our 23-ton cat was obliterated in a white-out of wind-whipped chop. Underwater was tranquillity itself. Moorish idols cruised through coral caves, parrotfish scraped the reefs, a shoal of humbug damselfish hid in the branches of staghorn
coral and skipjack tuna came hunting for tasty reef morsels. That night we ate fresh tuna kebabs braaied on the aft deck, while towering thunderheads of another impending squall obscured the sunset for a second evening.
In similar vein, the days merged into each other as the weather improved, our tans deepened and our checklist of tropical fish and surf experiences lengthened. A new day, a new surf break – this time we dropped anchor at Sultans. Tom hit the water first. Suddenly a speedboat piloted by a bikini-clad damsel stopped, loaded him up and sped off towards the horizon. Would I ever see my son again (although for a teenage boy there could be worse fates)? It turned out she was a surf guide from one of the other boats giving him a ride to the outer peak. They’re generally a friendly lot, the Maldives surf fraternity.
Nearby was one of our favourite snorkelling reefs because it always offered a new sighting. One day it was a poisonous lionfish, another time Michaela pointed out the spiderweb-like substance the parrotfish sleep in. Once a shoal of translucent baby squid swam past and a huge, deep-blue clam snapped shut at a gentle touch. On most outings, a turtle would come
‘DOLPHINS, TOO, WERE FREQUENT VISITORS, ONCE JOINING US FOR A FEW WAVES AT NINJAS’
to eyeball us before moving on to do turtle stuff. Dolphins, too, were frequent visitors, once joining us for a few waves at Ninjas.
June being squall season, we returned each evening to a safe anchorage in the lee of an island. Morning wake-up call was the clatter of the anchor chain being raised and the smell of coffee percolating in the galley. Then, jib unfurled, we’d set sail while discussing the weighty decisions of the day: to surf Cokes or Chickens, Jails or Ninjas, snorkel or stand-up paddle? Or was it a book-and-bikini kind of day?
Kira, my daughter, wasn’t leaving the Maldives until she had climbed a palm tree to pick a coconut. She did this on Himmafushi, home to the national prison and appropriately named Jails surf break. She soon had a clamorous audience of Dhivehi islanders, where the sight of a teenage girl shimmying up a palm is, I suspect, not common. Himmafushi is one of the bigger inhabited islands and offers some basic tourist lodgings. Friendly curio sellers beckoned us into Mango Shop, Big Bone and other island stores where we added sarongs, photo albums made from palm fronds, little tea chests and, of course, Kira’s coconut to our luggage.
On my previous trip, I’d stayed in the resort on Hudhuranfushi. Now I’d experienced this most-Instagrammable country by live-aboard catamaran. Both options have merit, and those water bungalows are certainly romantic. But, as a group, I’d definitely trade romance and rum cocktails for the flexibility of our ‘water bungalow’, which whisked us to any surf break, snorkelling reef, sandspit or island jetty our hearts desired. Micah was also the most cost-effective option I researched for this trip.
‘So you live on that boat and it takes you to wherever you want to go?’ asked an Israeli surfer I’d got chatting to. ‘That must be fantastic!’
It certainly is, I assured him. My only regret is that all those years ago I didn’t promise Tom a month-long surfing trip to the southern atolls too. That can be top of the bucket list for his own offspring one day.