“Just don’t drown.” “Of course you don’t need to be a swimmer to do water sports. But, hmmm, well, it’s useful. Just in case… Anyway, I’m sure you’ll be fine.” “Have fun and don’t go in the water.”
Armed with these helpful nuggets of advice and bracing words of comfort from friends and colleagues, I landed in the Maldives. Swimming skills: 0. Fitness levels: Negligible. Enthusiasm and excitement: Off the charts.
I’d never been before, and I was convinced that those eye-poppingly blue blues had to be the result of a lot of time spent on Photoshop. I was wrong. By the time my seaplane landed at The St. Regis Maldives Vommuli Resort, I felt like I was in a Technicolor Disney movie, and for once, I wasn’t the sidekick, but the princess. Well, more the little mermaid, given the setting, complete with overwater villas spread into the shape of a manta ray and a spa built to resemble a lobster. At least that’s how the hotel staff treated me, all smiling and waving as the plane landed at the jetty, chilled Champagne ready and waiting for me. Would Ariel ever say no to bubbly before 11am? I didn’t think so.
By the time my personal butler had shown me around my plush, iPad-controlled Sunset Overwater Villa with a private pool (only 4ft deep, so even I could laze like a boss), the fantasy was complete.
Later that evening, I met some of the other characters in my Disney movie at drinks and dinner that included, but was not limited to, fresh crabmeat salad, tenderloin in port wine, fish fillet with carrot and vanilla purée, mandarin ice cream with digestive biscuit, vanilla cream, grapefruit orange salsa and fennel cress AND a sinful chocolate fondant with bitter chocolate sorbet, along with well-chosen wine pairings.
Mildly hungover but fully rested, the next morning, I woke up and reached the exercise room for an aerial yoga class to find rows of bright orange silk hanging like nooses in loops. The rest of my group began to warm up, performing lithe-looking lunges, while I subtly tried to find out exactly how much time I could spend lying in the corpse pose.
An hour later, my head full of tips and tricks from the instructor, I was swinging upside down and hands-free and whooping with delight. “I did it, I did it! Look at me, I’m aerial Ariel!” Giddy with excitement at both achievement and joke, I swung this way and that, trying out various twists and turns. (Of course, I had to book a massage at the spa later, but hey, who’s complaining?)
By dinner, so emboldened was I by my success (and by my perfectly spicy Island Mary, served in a seashell), that I ignored the voices in my head and signed away my life up to go parasailing the next day. Now, anyone who knows me knows I would rather eat my own arm than try an adventure sport, especially one that involves water, so this was extremely out of character. But what is travel for, I asked myself, if not to step out of your comfort zone and test yourself? Ariel was all about trying out new things and seeing a different world.
Cut to the next afternoon, on a small boat in the middle of the sea, where an instructor showed me where to grip the harness I was being buckled into and reminded me of the hand signals to use. Before me, another guy had gone up and thoroughly enjoyed his 15 minutes of fame, as the calm breeze made sure he had a smooth ride. But the thing about the Maldives is that the weather turns in a matter of minutes, so while I was beginning my takeoff, the boat suddenly lurched sickeningly to one side. “Relax, you’re fine,” everyone called out encouragingly, as I rose higher and higher, clutching the rope, swaying like a pendulum in the now strong winds, eyes squeezed shut, whimpering and thinking of my family. After about five minutes of being tossed about like a toy, 50m above the sea, I felt the wind calming down and was able to open my eyes and look around.
This is pretty amazing, I thought, as I took in the stunning 360-degree views of sparkling sapphire water dotted with tiny patches of green. One by one, I unclenched my hands and let go of the ropes to wave at everyone on the boat, letting them know I was fine. I stretched my legs and exhaled, finally enjoying myself. Just then, I felt a sharp tug to the left. I looked down and saw the boat tilt alarmingly. Grabbing the harness again, I yelled, then realised that no one could hear me, and steeled myself to stay the course and finish my session, thinking that it would calm down again in a minute. But then I was swung violently to the right, to the front and back, dancing crazily, like Voldemort had put a Cruciatus curse on me, and decided that thrills and bragging rights were probably less important than life and limb. I made the emergency signal and was brought down to the boat, swearing like a sailor, in another couple of minutes, to much supportive applause and admiring gasps. “It’s great that you managed, ideally you should be about double your weight to be stable in this weather,” the instructor said. Glaring at him balefully for neglecting to inform me of this minor technicality earlier, I put my shaky legs up on the seat and looked out as raindrops turned the fierce, sun-kissed blue a stormy grey and salty spray hit me in the face. I did it, I whispered to myself. I think Ariel would be proud.
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