KANUHURA, THE MALDIVES, Monty Halls
We're a hardy lot, us divers. Give us a leaky Portakabin with an Arctic wind shrieking through it, a crusty sleeping bag, a warm bacon sandwich with the rind left on, and a scarred and pitted plastic Thermos cup filled with festering coffee, and we're as happy as sandboys (whatever they are).
     But is there another way? Is there a different world out there, where staff-members aren't all giant bearded skippers with fists like mallets, on oily boats crewed by blond beach gods intent on deepening their mahogany tans immediately prior to pinching your girlfriend?
     Showing great unselfishness, I embarked on a mission on behalf of my fellow-divers. This mission had a simple aim - to find the most pampered diving experience on the planet.
     I wanted to wallow in fawning service, to have my buttocks caressed by calf-skin upholstery while my skin was kissed by the icy lips of air-conditioning.
     I wanted white-coated, gold-buttoned staff to pad up to me and supply exquisite examples of the local cuisine.
     Well, after scouring the world, my waistline increasing at precisely the same rate as my overdraft, I think I may have found the very place.
     Kanuhura Resort, located on the eastern rim of Faadhippolhu Atoll in the Maldives, was the brainchild of Sol Kerzner, the South African billionaire already responsible for a string of opulent resorts dotted around the globe.
     The company motto is "Blow the Customer Away", which is a slightly unfortunate catchphrase in the modern trigger-happy world of global terrorism, but one can appreciate the sentiment.
     Glance out from the seaplane as it whirs up to the island at the head of a feathering wake on the surface of crystal shallows, and you can see that Sol knows his onions. The resort oozes the sort of classy discretion that comes only with real investment - villas nestling in tropical shrubs, avenues of sugar-white sand as straight as Roman roads, and immaculately dressed staff waiting anxiously on the jetty for your arrival.
     Step out onto the weathered wood of the landing platform, and your experience begins as all holidays should - with a warm handshake from the resort manager as smiling staff relieve you of your baggage.
     The island is tiny, a mere kilometre long and 200m across. Yet intertwined cunningly with the local shrubs and palm trees cloaking the interior are havens of luxury and understated decadence.
     To achieve this level of effortless comfort and casual elegance takes big bucks. Everywhere I looked there seemed to be stylish couples in crisp YSL linen swishing past in a wave of giddy scent.
     The arrival of a smelly, unshaven dive journalist in the midst of this fragrant throng seemed to pass unnoticed, and I shouldered my bag (£8.99 from Millets) and shuffled to the end of the jetty.
     It is worth pointing out at this stage that luxurious living is by no means easy. Life becomes an endless series of decisions requiring a cool head and snap judgements.
     On arriving at my room (whisked there in an electric buggy, lest the walk sap my energy), I was about to have my first ever encounter with a pillow menu.
     This is a menu. With pillows on it. You can choose which sort of pillow you want - brilliant! Goose down (bit tickly), duck feathers (perhaps a tad firm), hypoallergenic (I am prone to the odd nocturnal snivel), or orthopaedic (don't need one of those quite yet).
     In the end I panicked, hid the menu, and plumped for my good old standard regulation pillow - a decision I still regard with lingering regret.
     The point here is that although you pay a hefty price to stay on the island, nothing - and I mean nothing - is left to chance. The dŽcor of the chalet was
     a symphony of dark wood and white drapes. To lie in a giant four-poster bed watching a wide-screen television, fruity cocktail in one hand, while the waves lap at your neatly raked personal beach glimpsed through discreetly shuttered patio doors - it's addictive stuff.
     The chalets have an outside bathroom with a huge stone bath and shower that looks like a fountain, demanding that you stand beneath it like a Roman statue in the equatorial sun. The shelves creak with bottles of exotic oils, potions and elixirs, and the minibar is crammed with delicate liqueurs and Belgian chocolates.
     The other thing to point out with some enthusiasm here is the service. There's a certain sort of service that claims to be the best, but is, quite frankly, akin to stalking.
     A friend of mine stayed in a resort where he had a personal butler who followed him everywhere like an idiot relative - not good. The service here, on the other hand, is enthusiastic and very friendly.
     Staff will saunter over for a chat, and shake you warmly by the hand while calling you by name. The only problem is that, after a few days, you begin to feel that you genuinely are an extremely funny chap (as everyone always laughs politely at your jokes) and, what's more, pretty damn popular too (as everyone always looks so pleased to see you).
     It was a crushing blow to return to the airport at Male and find that I was, in fact, just another sunburnt tourist.
     The resort also has a splendid spa facility where I had a deep massage so good that I had to be assisted from the building when it was over.
     There are also three restaurants and bars. Even at 100% occupancy it is never crowded, and is pretty much the last word in peaceful retreats.
     Sadly, at some point during my stay, I had to rouse myself to do some diving.
     I staggered heroically the 100m to the Sun Dive Centre, the large and well-equipped centre on the island, where I was met by the singularly enthusiastic owner, Voller.
     Voller told me just what it meant to be associated with the One & Only group. "The standards demanded are impeccable. We dive only with small groups - never more than six divers. The divers' equipment is carried to the boat for them, and removed and rinsed again at the end. Refreshments are provided between and after the dives, and each diver has a crew-member to assist in kitting-up."
     I was rather warming to Voller.
     "The centre also has nitrox and rebreathers, and is a PADI 5-star facility. We are the only dive centre in the Maldives to have been awarded the Project Aware Certificate by PADI for 2002."
     Voller and his wife Britta have been diving the islands for 10 years, and know the Maldives well.
     There are 40-plus dive sites within the vicinity of Kanuhura, covering encounters with manta rays (particularly good from September to November), sharks, and - unusually for the Maldives - two very good wrecks.
     Time was of the essence, as I had cocktails to drink, a Honey Citrus Body Bliss aromatherapy session scheduled for that evening, and at least three videos to watch on the wide-screen later that night. I suggested to Voller that we explore the wrecks, and he readily agreed. "These two wrecks were actually sunk in two separate incidents," he told me. "The biggest is an old fish factory ship that caught fire in the early Ô80s and drifted onto the reef. The second is a smaller trawler sunk deliberately as it was fishing illegally, that drifted to within 10m of the first wreck. For that reason we call the area the Shipyard."
     The site was located about 30 minutes away from the jetty, so I gathered my strength and carried my camera the 50m to the boat, where I slumped, exhausted by the effort, prompting a number of crew-members to bring me things ("Water, sir? Coconut? Fruit?").
     I waved them away with a languid hand, and drifted off to sleep as the boat muttered and grumbled beneath me. My dreams centred around a (genuine) incident in Swanage when a skipper punched me in the head because my feet were on the wrong rungs as I was climbing his ladder to exit the water.
     This horrible flashback to another life caused me to wake with a start, just as the boat engines stilled next to the large rusty bow of the wreck protruding from the water's surface.
     Realising that this was actually going to be a pretty good dive, I roused myself and struggled into my gear. One giant stride later, I was finning slowly towards the hull, watching as it disappeared into the sapphire gloom of 30m of water.
     On leaving the surface there were immense clouds of glassfish darting about the superstructure, as opportunistic lionfish hid in the nooks and crannies of the hull beneath, awaiting sunset and the hunt.
     Deeper yet, and the reef appeared. The larger vessel was actually balanced on the reef itself, so a diver could fin under the arch created by the hull. Swimming through this arch, I could make out the shape of the remarkably intact trawler 10m away.
     The trawler is small enough that you can take in the whole shipwreck as you fin towards it, yet big enough to make you work to explore it all in one dive.
     Encrusted with sponges and corals, the hatches and portholes are as black as eye-sockets, the hull remaining largely intact.
     On shining my torch in, I could make out several shadowy shapes moving within, although a quick glance at my computer, glaring at me accusingly with minutes to go until deco, meant that instead of venturing inside I swam up the superstructure towards the starboard rail. I began to fin back towards the original main wreck, glancing back to see my buddy soaring past the bow of the trawler.
     The deco stop was taken clinging to the superstructure of the larger wreck in the lee of the gentle current that had sprung up during the course of the dive.
     Here I was in the midst of the large shoals of glassfish, splitting into a million crystal splinters as the jack barrelled through their midst. Enthusiasm thoroughly fuelled, I cancelled my massage and dived again that evening, in a local spot called the Caves. Here, in a gigantic bite in the reef wall, are several overhangs worthy of exploration. During the course of the dive I saw more turtles than on any other dive I can remember, slotted into the underhangs and making the reef look like a gigantic dormitory.
     On being illuminated by our lights, they would blink at us owlishly and shuffle out into the darkness, drifting into the deep to leave us feeling guilty and slightly abashed for disturbing a good night's sleep.
     Sadly, my time on the island was brief, allowing me only a single further dive before the enforced 24 hours preceding the flight back to the UK the day after. This, of course, put a stop to any diving but allowed me to wallow in the swill of my own decadence.
     As the clock ticked down, it was a race to use every facility - I was kneaded, rubbed, plied with drinks and beautiful food and even had time for a game of football with the staff. A quick note here, the staff are universally nice people, but are not averse to the odd shin-kick and ankle-tap when you are thundering towards an open goal and glory.
     Kanuhura is a totally different experience for those of us used to compromising our standard of living to ensure great diving. The island has it all, and one could turn up complete with family and have them all purring with pleasure at the end of a week's stay.
     Of course, you pay for the privilege, but as I peered through the window of the seaplane as the staff waved from the jetty at the end of my stay, I reflected that, in this case at least, the experience had lived up the price tag.
    

The seaplane approaches Kanuhura Resort onFaadhippolhu Atoll


Time on Kanuhura passes slowly and luxuriously

FREGATE ISLAND, THE SEYCHELLES, Tim Ecott
"Good morning, sir, how are you today?"
     It was the hearty greeting that first set the alarm bells ringing, and the fact that the dive centre was unnaturally quiet. No ugly compressor noises, no clang of weightbelts against racks and no piles of dripping neoprene visible anywhere.
     The centre is a neat white cottage surrounded by neat lawns, and the man behind the desk is wearing a neat polo shirt. Edwin Muller, from South Africa, is the man in the shirt and he quickly relieves me of my fins, mask, wetsuit and the rather scruffy WH Smith carrier-bag in which I have my logbook and sun-cream.
     "Please take a seat in the lounge, sir." Edwin smiles.
     "Hi, I'm Tim," I respond, as we exchange firm handshakes.
     "OK, sir, I'll be with you in just a second for the dive briefing. Can I get you a cold drink?"
     I sip the chilled mineral water provided as we sit in cane armchairs in the lounge while Edwin prepares to brief me. In the marina I can see two gleaming Sabrecraft, a 37-footer named Little Frégate and the slightly larger Frigate Bird, both with twin 350hp inboards.
     On the wooden walls of the "club" there are framed prints of vintage racing yachts, and two large leather-bound photo albums on the glass coffee table in front of me. The albums contain pictures from the dive sites accessible from Frégate Island, a private resort in Seychelles where I am spending the week. It's very quiet. Too quiet.
     "Will there be other divers?"
     "No, sir, we operate on a private charter basis."
     Edwin's briefing is comprehensive. He examines my certification card carefully and asks me to sign the usual disclaimers. At the end of the briefing he tells me he wants to take me to Little Frégate - for a check-out dive. I know the site, and it's not somewhere I want to go.
     Edwin persists. It's clear that he wants to do a thorough check-out. I explain that I have made several hundred dives in the Seychelles and have just come from another resort where I have been diving for a week. I gently suggest that we might try Lion Rock, or Barracuda Rocks, which are clearly more interesting sites.
     "Well, sir, we could go there, but there might be a swell."
     In fairness to Edwin, there was a slight breeze blowing, and the water outside the marina is not completely flat. Indeed, some of the waves are two feet high.
     "Are the conditions dangerous?" I ask innocently.
     "Well, not dangerous exactly," Edwin says nervously. "But it will be a lot calmer on the lee side of Little Frégate."
     "I can cope with a little swell."
     "Yes, sir, I'm sure you can. But there might be a current under water."
     "A dangerously strong current?"
     "Not necessarily dangerous." Edwin is struggling to maintain his breezy demeanour now. "It's just that - well, sir, I don't know if you might get tired under water and then you wouldn't enjoy the dive so much."
     Somewhat reluctantly, he agrees to check out Lion Rock on the way to Little Frégate, and if conditions don't seem too arduous we will give it a go.
     In the marina, a man in uniform is swabbing the deck of Little Frégate, and I watch him carefully load two scuba cylinders onto the launch. I change into my wetsuit in the loo and when I emerge my gear, and the WH Smith bag, have been taken to the boat.
     "Are we ready, sir?" More smiling. I feel like a customer from Are You Being Served?, and I keep looking round expecting to see Mr Peacock, Mr Humphreys or even Mrs Slocombe.
     The ride to the dive site takes about 15 minutes. More mineral water is provided en route. I never see my kit until I am told to sit on the transom and my mask and fins are handed to me. My BC appears at my shoulder and I am instructed to sit still until the air is turned on.
     A tap on the shoulder is the signal for me to stand, while Edwin lifts the weight of the cylinder as I hold onto the ship's rail. I begin to feel infirm. Can I cope with this dive?
     My persistence is rewarded under water. The granite boulders for which the Seychelles are famous make for very attractive dive sites, and Lion Rock is a wonderful collection of nooks and crannies, outcrops and hideaways.
     We find a 2m nurse shark resting in a cave, two whitetips cruise nearby and there are a lot of fish. Snappers, big-eyes and goatfish hang in slivers of sunshine yellow, brilliant silver and iridescent blue. To my delight there is evidence of new coral growth, plaques of hard corals more than a foot across, none of them showing signs of bleaching.
     Unlike many dive sites in Seychelles, it seems as if the plateau around Frégate is showing genuine signs of recovery from the blight which followed the high-water temperatures of 1998.
     I spy a tiny, tiny speck of yellow motion within the spines of a sea urchin. It is a juvenile oriental sweetlips - no longer than my little finger-nail. Just as I am about to move away, there is an almost imperceptible twitch in the sand.
     I watch. Nothing. I wait. At last, another twitch and then it moves. A baby octopus, no more than 7cm long, moves into the shadow of a stone, melting along the sand in its perfect camouflage. I have called Edwin over as witness, and he gives me a joyful thumbs-up.
     As we surface the skipper is nearby, and we climb back onto the boat. My gear is stowed, my weightbelt put away and a bottle of water thrust into my hand. Fluffy fresh towels are produced. And back we go to the dive centre.
     Can I dive tomorrow? Only if I can go out at midday - other guests in this resort of just 16 villas have booked dives in the morning and afternoon.
     Can I share the boat? No, our clients don't generally like to do that.
     Later that night I meet Keith and Isabelle, an English couple with two grown-up sons.
     They have made two dives on Frégate so far and remark that they were looking forward to meeting other divers on the boat but, like me, they found themselves alone.
     "That's great," said Keith, "but we thought diving was a sociable thing to do, and thought we might have had some other divers to chat with."
     I must say that I enjoy diving on smart boats with good engines and attentive crew. I rather enjoy sipping iced drinks in smart yacht clubs too. But it comes at a price. At Frégate Island the cost of a single dive is $125 (about £83) per person. That's for a short-range dive; longer range excursions are $180, but 10-dive bookings attract a "package rate" of $900 (£600).
     It is probably the most expensive dive centre in the world. But then, that's hardly a surprise, as this is the island hired by Pearce Brosnan to celebrate finishing one of the Bond films, and this year it was where Paul McCartney and Heather Mills chose to spend their honeymoon.
     Did they dive? I ask, hoping for some show-biz diving gossip.
     Fortunately, Edwin's professional discretion isn't put to the test. "No, sir, I think Mr Brosnan's a sailor, not a diver."

The private island of Fregate in the Seychelles, where diving becomes a very private affair


Tim Ecott gets a boat to himself


dive centre in its own lagoon


things to do


private villa for the likes of Brosnan and McCartney

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