A Return to the Blue

It had been five years since I traded the embrace of warm currents for the grueling discipline of cool-water channel swimming. My long fins had lain silent for four and a half years; the zips on my dive bag had rusted shut, mirroring my long-untouched certification.

My last encounter with the depths had been during my first summer in the UK. Wrapped in layers of black neoprene and weighed down by lead, I felt more like a piece of plastic-wrapped cargo than a creature of the sea. That lack of “water feel” — the raw, skin-to-ocean connection that makes me feel at home — led me to leave my gear behind. I continued to swim, but my diving soul remained dormant.

That changed at the end of 2025. Seeing my channel-swimming peers post ethereal photos from the Maldives, and spotting a trip led by my diving instructor Jason Yip, who is also a professional photographer, I felt a sharp pang of FOMO (fear of missing out). I joined the trip with a singular wish: to capture the “Waterman” in me. Yet, a nagging doubt remained — how much of that soul had survived four years of rust?

Journey to the Gateway of the Muslim world

Boarding the Qatar Airways wide-body aircraft felt like a threshold into another world. Unlike the cramped, utilitarian narrow-body flights I usually take for competitions or conferences, this was a vessel for a true holiday. High above the clouds, with the novelty of high-speed Starlink, I felt the transition begin.

Doha was my gateway — a labyrinth of modern architecture, desert light, and the prominent call to prayer. From there, I flew to Malé, watching the Arabic script fade into the rhythmic curves of Dhivehi. Stepping out of the terminal, the tropical heat hit me — a fierce, welcome contrast to the grey British winter I had left behind. Soon afterwards, the group from Hong Kong, including my dive instructor Jason Yip, who was the professional photographer of the trip, and other travellers, Jack, Crystal and Sherry, joined me to start our adventure.

Maldivian Realities: Beyond the Resort Bubble

We chose to live on a local island, Guraidhoo, seeking an authentic pulse rather than the sterile isolation of a resort. This decision offered us a glimpse into the local economy — a world of dual currencies and black-market dollar premiums. Since 2025, new laws had tightened the government’s grip on foreign currency, meaning our dollars were worth far more in the bustling streets (Rf. 20) than at official counters (Rf. 15).

The capital itself was a fever dream of motorcycles and dense alleyways — a classic developing-world energy. After a quick speedboat transit through the dark, we arrived at Guraidhoo, paid our “Green Tax,” and surrendered to sleep, eager for the morning.

The Disappointment of the Crowd

Our first day was a lesson in the loss of autonomy. Due to a communication mishap with the dive shop, we lost our private boat and were merged into a group of nine other inexperienced tourists. Chasing dolphins became a chaotic exercise in “jump on command.” By the time it was our turn to leap, the dolphins had vanished into the blue.

While the others, exhausted by the heat and the crowd, retreated to the hotel to rest, my desperation to be in the water was overwhelming. I went for a solo swim, only to find myself scraping against shallow reefs and barked at by resort guards for drifting too close to their “romantic” water bungalows — structures built on water far too shallow for a proper dive entry. Frustrated by the commercial constraints of a Friday in a Muslim country, we decided the next day would be different: we would dive from the shore.

The Shipwreck: My First Deep Blue Reawakening

The second day changed everything. We were told the position of a shipwreck just 20 m from the shore, its bow at 8 m and its stern plunging beyond 15 m. It was the perfect classroom for the abyss.

During my initial AIDA 2 training in Hong Kong, 16 m had been a frightening number — a frantic dash into the murk But here, the entire wreck lay visible in a single, breathtaking frame. To capture the perfect shot, I stripped off my gear and entered the water “naked.” I controlled the air in my lungs carefully for the dive, to stay effortlessly in the blue skeleton of the ship, not bobbing up or down. Despite the years of rust, I immediately rediscovered my inner self. In Hong Kong, 16m was a scare; here, it was a homecoming.

Currents and Comrades

The afternoon was more grueling. With the girls once again too tired to continue, only Jason, Jack, and I headed out. Battling a fierce current, I found myself towing Jack and his gear, utilizing my channel-swimmer strength while Jason forged ahead. That evening, we feasted on the fish Jason had caught — steamed and served as sashimi. It was a primal reward, yet Jack was so drained he slept through the entire feast, missing the very sashimi prepared for him.

The Pursuit of Depth

The battle with the currents eventually sent Jack to a clinic. Though ill, his spirit remained, even as he struggled with equalization. On the fourth day, after a spectacular morning with whale sharks, we prepared a weighted line for training.

With only fifty minutes before sunset, I pulled myself down to 10 m. I was perfectly neutral — hanging suspended in the void, neither rising nor sinking. It was a moment of pure physical truth. I then dived down to 15 m for the first time since my certification, but the time pressure triggered contractions on the ascent — a reminder of the body’s need for relaxation.

On our final dive day, we finally found the dolphins — not just one, but pods of them, dancing through the water. We went to a sandbank to take photos with stingrays, and visited another shipwreck, where a mastery of neutral buoyancy was essential for good shots at shallow depths. Despite the extreme exhaustion from sprinting after the dolphins, my inner waterman refused to quit. While the rest of the group called it a day, Jack and I returned to our 15 m line. Without the previous day’s time pressure, my dives felt fluid and comfortable. Though Jack’s illness kept us from my 20 m goal, watching him slowly regain his depth to 6 m felt like a shared victory.

Our Final Day in Paradise

Even on our last morning, as the group succumbed to fatigue, I couldn’t resist one last dip. We returned to Malé’s urban chaos for a final lunch and to exchange our remaining Rufiyaa. While we managed a fair rate in the city, poor Jack fell prey to an airport tourist booth, losing a large chunk of his money at a predatory rate of Rf. 23. It was a bitter end to his journey of physical and financial struggle.

Reflections from the Deep

I stayed with my group until they boarded their flights back to Hong Kong, while I waited for mine to Doha two hours later, chatting about places to go on future diving holidays. I left the Maldives without hitting my 20 m target, a small pity in an otherwise transformative journey.

On the long flights home, I watched a documentary on the Haenyeo (the legendary sea women of Korea). Seeing a celebrity struggle with a simple duck dive made me appreciate my own journey; for me, the duck dive and equalization were as natural as breathing.

Now back in London, I’ve joined a diving club to sharpen my skills, but I remain a creature of the warm blue. I have no interest in thick suits or competitive glory. I simply miss the immersion — the ability to lie on the surface or vanish beneath it, floating and sinking at the command of my own soul.

I yearn for the Mediterranean, closer to my new home. I am particularly drawn to Gibraltar; as a Hongkonger, its colonial heritage and the successful exercise of self-determination to remain British resonate deeply with me — a privilege denied to Hong Kong before 1997. To witness the total solar eclipse there on August 2, 2027, on British soil, would be a once-in-a-lifetime convergence of my history and my passion for the deep.