I step outside of Velana International Airport and breathe the thick tropical air. It took three flights to get here, and while I haven’t slept a wink for the past 30-plus hours, excitement courses through my veins like electricity. I’m in the Maldives, once a bucket-list destination I visited in dreams, now a reality. I’ll be here for the next 10 days to check out the dive scene with Spirit Liveaboards, a relatively new dive venture, as it wraps its inaugural year.

I’m also here to level up. Advanced certification is required for divers, and I don’t have it, so I’ll be wrapping up my PADI Advanced Open Water and Enriched Air Diver courses on board.

It isn’t long before I spot Joe Lum-On, clipboard in hand, here to gather the first wave of arrivals. Joe is one of the four dive guides on this trip. He’s all smiles and brimming with enthusiasm—and we’ll all soon learn just how infectious his personality is.

After a handful of other guests arrive, we board a dhoni docked nearby—it will also serve as our dive boat—and head to our home on the water, Spirit of Maldives, a 131-foot luxury yacht primed to escort us between dive sites in style.

First Impressions

“Goooooood morning, divers!” Joe’s voice spills from the speakers throughout Spirit of Maldives for what will become a morning routine beloved by all. Not everyone can pull off a 6 a.m. wakeup that people look forward to rather than power through, but Joe’s energy is palpable, even via loudspeaker, and nobody is late for that first dive brief.

Shortly after, we make our inaugural splashes into the Arabian Sea. Maagiri is the first dive site we explore in North Male, just south of where we boarded. It’s early December, barely outside of monsoon season, which means there’s still a fair amount of particulate obscuring visibility. On a good day here, it stretches 100 feet and beyond. Today, it’s down to around 60 feet, but I’m not complaining. The water is still a lush 82 degrees.

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The seabed materializes, and we’re almost immediately treated to our first big animal sighting. I look at Joe, and he pantomimes playing guitar. A giant guitarfish, resting in the sand! Another first for me—not surprising, as I’ve only been diving for a year. We linger for a few moments before moving on.

Minutes later, I see what appears to be a solitary stone on the sand… until an eye flickers. An octopus! One of Mother Nature’s best shape-shifters, here in the flesh. I had hoped I would be lucky enough to see one—my first—but I certainly didn’t expect it to happen so soon (and during the day). After a few lingering moments, I reluctantly move on. I can imagine its tentacles uncoiling dramatically, a cloud of sand puffing outward like a visible sigh of relief as these strange-looking guests depart.

We dive twice more that first day, and my list of first-time critters grows faster than I can keep up (and provides plenty of creature-identification fodder for my training). There were the octopus and guitarfish; giant Napoleon wrasse; clown, Indian and Picasso triggerfish; honeycomb eel; bluespotted cornetfish; and dozens of whitetip reef sharks. Plus, all the familiar favorites came out for the party: a half dozen green sea turtles, nurse sharks, morays, more sea stars than I could count and so many tuna. It’s no wonder the latter plays so heavily into Maldivian cuisine.

That night, I’m asleep the moment my head hits the pillow. Try to convince me diving isn’t the best cure for jet lag.

Song and Dance

At Fushi Kandu, we’re treated to a Lincoln Center–worthy dance performance starring the resident spotted eagle rays. Instead of cushioned theater seats, we’re tethered to the mouth of a channel about 100 feet deep. Two rays chase after each other in a graceful series of loops and swirls, momentarily dipping below the lip of the channel mouth, only to reappear seconds later, before they eventually fade into the blue without sticking around for an encore. Still standing ovation–worthy.

A sensation of drifting in a void. We begin a later dive at Dhiyamigili Corner deep in the blue to contend with the current. It’s a minute or two before any discernible shape appears—apart from fellow divers. I marvel at the top-notch navigation skills of our dive guides.

We reach the channel and slowly meander along its wall. A titan triggerfish appears, darting to and fro in an aggressive, abrupt manner. I know this species is keen to attack when provoked, but this is the first time I’ve witnessed it, and I wonder what has her so fired up. It’s not long before I get my answer: Joe directs my attention to a patch of pinkish gelatin—eggs! Despite her best efforts, various fish still manage to sneak past to munch on her precious possessions. But with roughly 800,000 eggs in the average nest, this mama has plenty more to defend.

A parent’s work is never done.

In Good Spirits

With three to four dives on most days, downtime on Spirit of Maldives largely revolves around two activities: lying down and eating. Thankfully, we’re never short of options for the latter. The small but mighty kitchen crew, helmed by Sri Lankan chef Nandana Kularathna—along with Romesh Kaludewa—churns out piles of some of the best food I’ve enjoyed on a trip, a mix of local flavors and dishes from home. (His, not ours.)

Meals on board are served buffet-style, a blessing for ravenous post-dive bellies screaming to be filled. I most look forward to breakfasts featuring mas huni, a traditional Maldivian breakfast made from equal parts of shredded tuna and coconut, topped with finely chopped onions and a splash of lime. It’s scooped up with impossibly delicate sheets of roti, a paper-thin flatbread. Simple but delicious, it’s a far cry from the typical breakfast dishes back home.

But it’s the curries that really make my palate dance. Chef Nandana masterfully produces some type of curry for nearly every meal—including some breakfasts. My favorite is del curry, a Sri Lankan yellow curry, perfectly spiced, sweetened with coconut milk and piled with melt-in-your-mouth chunks of breadfruit. If it’s on the menu, it’s on my plate. I make a mental note to ask for the recipe and hope the chef is willing to part with it.

One evening before dinner, the crew wows us with a sunset happy hour—on a beach sandbar in the middle of the ocean. I wander on my own for a bit. I need a moment alone to take everything in, to reflect on how incredibly fortunate I am to simply exist here, on this tiny pile of sand in the Indian Ocean with these people. The ocean snuffs out the dipping sun as our boat’s distant lights twinkle on. A postcard. I’m overwhelmed by emotions and allow myself a brief cry before I rejoin the others.

Related Reading: A Lavish Dive Haven in the Maldives

Good Morning, Divers!

Click here to hear Joe's iconic wakeup call, and get a peek of life aboardSpirit of Maldives.

Swept Away

“That was the strongest current I’ve experienced,” declares Joan, who will go on to celebrate his 400th dive (and 50th birthday) later in this trip. We’ve just surfaced after a dive at Vanhuravalhi Kandu that was as challenging as it was exhilarating. We dropped to depth in the blue, reef hooks ready, as we approached the channel mouth where we anticipated an inbound current that rapidly intensified—and did it ever. With quick and steady action, we secured ourselves to the reef—this is done carefully, without damaging the reef—while maintaining safe distances from each other to avoid collisions.

I’ve experienced current before, but this is the first time I really experienced it. It whipped past the side of my face, audibly howling with a force to rival any land-based storm in intensity. The sensation was overwhelming at first—think Helen Hunt in that epic final scene of Twister, without all the debris—but I quickly relaxed into the experience. I might have even fallen in love with currents.

“You looked like you were really enjoying that!” says Ke, one of the four in my dive group. She and her husband, Xiaogang, are visiting from Hong Kong. With Marco, my dive buddy who hails from Munich, Germany, we’re the less-experienced (but still strong, and more importantly, evenly matched) divers, grouped together under Joe’s watchful eye.

“I was low-key channeling Storm from X-Men,” I confess, laughing, not secretly hoping for more equally intense dives this week. Am I a thrill-seeker now?

I get my wish at Diffushi Kandu at Thaa Atoll. The only difference is that this time I know what to expect. We descend easily, the current announcing its presence while practicing restraint. We make our way to the channel mouth, hoping for another display of force from Mother Ocean—and she delivers.

Reef hook secured, I inflate my BC a skosh and relax into another inbound channel current. It’s wild to think that I’m finding such tranquility in what is arguably a fierce underwater tempest, but I am. Here, headlines don’t exist. Here, anxiety is on leave.

Here, I can escape into chaos’s embrace and, in it, find calm.

On Eagle’s Wings

It’s the last dive of an indescribably picture-perfect trip. We’re at Kandooma Thila in South Male, suiting up for our last dive of the trip. Enthusiasm remains unchecked, but energy levels are palpably lower than on day one—26 dives take their toll. I’m proud to say I only missed one dive, and that was because of a lengthy, wave-addled crossing between Laamu and Meemu atolls that tested my seaworthiness. (I’m sorry to report that I failed, but found a sort of perverse comfort learning I was in good company—the sea overwhelmed many diver dispositions that day.)

I’m thrilled to discover that we’ll be treated to one final powerful channel current. I leave my camera behind. I want to be fully present for this last venture into the sea.

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I JUST WATCH, REFUSING TO BLINK... IT’S THEIR FLEETING NATURE THAT MAKES THESE MOMENTS SO SPECIAL. AND I KNOW THIS ONE WILL STAY WITH ME FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.

We descend 100 feet and immediately secure our reef hooks. Moments later, heads turn. I follow suit and look up and over my left shoulder. Approaching us from behind is a small fever of spotted eagle rays. Before I can even let out a joyful squeak, my reef hook slips loose, and I’m on the move. The current swiftly carries me toward a rocky formation, and my only choice is to ascend just a bit, maybe 10 or 20 feet. I don’t panic. I trust my now-advanced training. (Thanks, Joe!) Instead, I remain calm, and in a few seconds, I’m securely hooked to the top of my former obstacle. I signal that I’m OK, and that’s when I lose my breath.

Immediately to my left are the eagle rays—and somehow my little snafu hasn’t spooked them. Against the current, they’re almost frozen in place, floating, their delicate wings fluttering ever so slightly. They’re so close, I can almost reach out to touch one. I don’t, of course. Instead, I just watch, refusing to blink, wishing this could last for an eternity.

But it’s their fleeting nature that makes these moments so special. And I know this one will stay with me for the rest of my life.