Obviously, the dive boat did arrive, and it wasn't long before I found myself flying through the Addu Atoll Canyons inside the entry pass. I adjust my buoyancy to counteract the drafts in the current and settle myself facing forward to maximize the view. Andrew is flying next to me, eyes alight with his own buoyant giddiness. “Ting, ting, ting!” I tap my tank to alert him to the black tipped reef shark swimming in the distance.

The shark stops and floats in place, letting the current flow through is gills and watching us fly by. As I turn my face forward, though, I just start to see the front white, edge of a wave shape in the blue distance, a Manta Ray stretched from Wing Tip to Wing Tip. As we fly forward, it materializes before me to the solid state of a full being. He and I are exactly face to face, with my flying at him, he easily suspended against the current in the "Manta Spa” where hundreds of little fish nibble his skin to give him a clean.

I fin to my left and turn around, to resist the current, change course, and avoid a head on collision. Susan, not yet seeing the manta in the distance flies past my right shoulder. I ting my tank at her and point her to follow our guide mark to the left until we find a spot for ourselves on the wall. Poking my reef hook into a hole formed by dead coral, my body flies back in the current to the end of the tether, and now I can sit back and relax.

This manta is huge. His wingspan is easily as wide as Andrew's arms from fingertip to fingertip. The manta’s wings casually lift and lower, alternately right and left, making that beautiful “S" shape on the front edge. We are just to the side and forward of him. Quite close, and with the water clarity in the range of 20 meters, we could see every beautiful detail. He is completely calm, and doesn't seem to mind us there at all.

I, on the other hand, am so excited that even though we are hooked in with our reef hooks and not swimming my heart is pounding and my breath is too fast. I’ll go through my tank too fast if I don't calm down, but he is just too beautiful! The opportunity to sit and watch and be with him like this for this long is too awesome! This reminds me of the first time we did a blue drop/reef pass drift dive just like this in Fakarava of French Polynesia. Then, I was terrified, so new to diving. Not now. My heart is bursting with excitement and happiness, not fear. In many ways, they feel the same. And now, it was time to deploy the trick our guide taught me to slow my breath. I count to six as I inhale, then eight on the exhale, pause and hold at the bottom. Soon, I’m as relaxed as Mr. Manta.

As we finish the dive, we all surface cheering for Manta Rays, the novelty of socializing with other humans, and a refreshing hour of normal-life adventure. “So, are you guys going to stay an extra day?" Marc asks us.

Yes. Yes, we are.

We make a plan to meet for diving the next day: a World War II wreck and the vertical reef wall with several hundred vertical feet of soft, purple corals out and waving in the breeze of the current. “I promise, you will see nudibranch, caves, and giant turtles!” Marc says. I am so grateful I didn't have to leave the Maldives without diving.

We bring it in for a photograph, and I pause to experience the closest human contact I’ve had in months with people outside our quarantine anchorage.

“It’s okay Leslie, it’s okay, there is no Covid here….”

Such a normal picture, from a time so distant.

That night, we all head to town in high cheer, also being invited to a restaurant more in the center of things. As Masood had hoped, rumor got round quickly through town that the sailors are here, we came to dinner last night, and we are healthy and safe. So, with his excellent guidance again, we enjoyed a meal - this time of Addu’s local version of Fish Curry. Now, it stands to reason that there would be as many different curry recipes and styles as there are curry eaters to enjoy them. But, before I embarked on this trip, I’m not sure I realized how many different styles there are. Even local towns have their own curry. And there is no name or description for it other than “Addu Curry”. Okay. I don't think my curry palate is refined enough to distinguish all the ingredients, but I can tell you this fish curry is thick, creamy with a touch of coconut milk, chilis onions, cinnamon, curry leaves - it has a redish tint to it and seems more similar in sweetness and texture to Beef Rendang. I enjoyed it a lot. It goes into my list of favorite curries - though, admittedly, that list is becoming quite long.

The morning before departure, we met Masood one last time to pick up exit papers and test out a traditional Maldivian breakfast. Enjoying the shade and breeze through palm trees and umbrellas of an open air cafe, we sit among a relaxed set of Maldivians chatting together, eating breakfast, smoking.

“What’s in the box?” Pete asks, pointing to a wooden box on a table across the way.

“It’s beetle nut.” Masood explains. The Maldivians chew the dried, sliced nut along with mustard leaf, cardamom, and cloves. It adds a bit of after breakfast energy (like Coffee). Andrew and I have met “betlenut” in various versions since arriving in Papua New Guinea. The Maldivian betlenut is different in that they slice it very thin and let it dry, then enjoy it along side the spices and without the lime powder they add in Papua New Guinea that makes the spit from the chewing blood red. “We just chew it up and swallow the juices and the plant itself.” Masood explains. This curious oddity is enough to make all but Pete plan to give it a try - but only after breakfast.

Breakfast is a Maldivian special, and it opened my eyes to a breakfast I’ve been missing my whole life! Mas Humi. After receiving my plate, I realized that our Wild Greens Salad from Uligan is really Mas Humi, mixed with wild greens. Masumi is the concoction of freshly grated coconut, purple onion, chili, lime juice, curry leaf, and a bit of hot water to draw some of the milk out of the coconut. It’s served with roti and a fried egg, fried easy so the yolk adds to the whole mix. This has easily become one of my favorite breakfasts I’ve ever had, and in our days thereafter, I have made it myself for Sonrisa's crew over and over again.

By later that evening, we had tidied Sonrisa for sea. All her jerry cans were lashed down and tied on deck, Grin folded and stowed away, our sea berth prepared for our watch schedule. When we left South East Asia this year to cross the Indian Ocean, the Maldives was scheduled to be only a six week course, and instead we spent four full months here. Yet, we leave with a bittersweetness about this place. We know we didn’t see all we hoped. We didn’t swim with whalesharks. We didn’t visit the village that makes beautiful lacquered bowls, none of the ladies were able to teach us how to make roti, we didn’t get to have beach parties with village crowds of Maldivians or go lobster fishing with the gents. These are the things other sailors enjoyed while exploring the Maldives that Covid didn’t allow for us. And, as we all know:

Expectations - Reality = Disappointment

If these posts feel like a rush to skim the surface of what the Maldives are really about, it’s because they are. Three or four days isn’t even close to enough to understand and absorb a place. But, when we think about all the time we had to enjoy white soft sand, clear water, schools and schools of colorful fish, the beach bonfires, our dinners often caught directly from the reef, and the persistent efforts at hospitality despite the limitations Covid created, I believe we experienced the heart of the Maldives.

I couldn’t be more thankful to Asad and Masood for all they did to keep us safe, comfortable, and enjoying our time as best they could. When I think of all the sailors in countries where there are no agents helping during this time I’m overwhelmed with how much more alone we could have felt through this process. Nothing about the beginning months of Covid were easy, but these people helped us so much.

And so, with deep gratitude we say goodbye to the Maldives, and turn our faces to uncertain new opportunities a few thousand sea miles down the trail.

The anchor went up.