A few years back, while we were living in the sun-scorched whirlwind that is Dubai, I launched a little diving venture called SCUBA DIVE SWIM. We specialised in training keen underwater explorers and whisking expats away to Musandam in Oman for liveaboard weekends. It was a great way to make friends and probably the only time adults willingly let me tell them what to do.
Then one day, I thought, Why stop at Oman? Let’s level this up!
Cue the bright idea: organise a full-blown, 8-day atoll-hopping liveaboard in the Maldives. Not a casual holiday oh no. This was to be the Great Northern Maldives Adventure. When the boat finally filled up, our merry band reunited at Malé Airport, buzzing like kids let loose in a lolly shop.
The weather, however, had other plans. With a few grumbles from the skies, we couldn’t push as far north as Hanifaru Bay the manta and whale shark holy grail. But honestly? It didn’t matter. We were back in some of the bluest, clearest water on Earth. The kind where visibility goes on forever, like an underwater highway to infinity.
Anyone who’s done a liveaboard knows the drill: Sleep. Eat. Dive. Repeat. It’s a rhythm you fall into with surprising ease. On one particular evening, after a full day of bubble-blowing, we were sun-soaked and half-sleepy, waiting for the night dive.
Suddenly, the call came: “To the dive deck!”
We wandered to the back of the boat, and there they were three Nurse Sharks cruising around like oversized, curious puppies. The dive staff gave the nod, tossed in a tag line (because the current had decided to flex), and in we went.
The sharks were delightful little busybodies. They wriggled between our legs, circled us like they were inspecting their new toys, and even posed for photos as if auditioning for Shark Idol. Donna my wife even managing to remove a fishhook from the largest shark. After a good while fighting the current and giggling into our snorkels, we’d had our fill and climbed out, ready for the evening dive brief.
As trip organiser, I was in full wrangling mode herding divers into the saloon like a schoolteacher with a whistle. The briefing started, but one diver was conspicuously absent: my wife Donna.
Then I spotted her… outside… strolling past the window with the boat skipper. Ten minutes later she reappeared, every finger on her right hand wrapped in bandages. I couldn’t help but smirk. Donna, bless her, is essentially a beautiful walking catastrophe. If there’s one banana peel on a clean floor, she will find it. So, seeing her bundled up like a cartoon character barely surprised me.
Turns out, if you think shark-nibbling happens in the water think again. After we’d climbed out, Donna was sitting on the dive deck with her feet in the water, happily minding her own business. The smallest of the nurse sharks decided now was the perfect time to pop up, grab her fingers, and test whether humans taste like chicken. She became, as far as we can tell, the only diver (apart from a fisherman) to be bitten by a shark while not even in the water.
With impressive bite marks, a healthy dose of antiseptic, and a dive glove crammed over her bandages, Donna didn’t miss a single dive. And to this day, she retells her “dry-land shark attack” story at every possible opportunity usually with great enthusiasm and the faintest look of pride.
