It’s a modest first stop. Initially the unprepared islanders are in a tizz but delighted at the composition of our delegation: deputy education minister Zaheer Hussain, broadcaster Badrul Naseer, Unesco country chief Jeff Huntington and his wife Fran, my trouble-shooter, Hussain Mohamed, and me – the Unesco educational broadcasting expert. 

Out comes a motorised dhoni, about 18 feet long (I’m told it’s the only motor boat on the island), and into it we load the generator, party lights on an 80 metre cord and two portable tape recorders. In another dhoni, a 12 footer incongruously called Jet, we precariously balance our two reel-to-reel tape recorders across the hull,

Our intent is to record people being interviewed, narrating ancient stories, quoting passages from the Koran, and dancing, drumming and singing beneath the lights. Bandido has no electricity, so this impromptu event will be an occasion indeed. It also turns out the 400 people boast only five radio sets, three of which are working. So we donate two of our spare radios to the island chief together with a box of batteries.

Before all this begins, I take a stroll around the island - only 20 minutes. To my left are the wind-blown huts of the residential area and on my right the sea shore, where people are engaged in various tasks – scooping sea water into buckets, capturing tiny creatures for bait, the fishermen further out with lines and nets and, this caught my attention good and proper, people shitting in the sand – backsides to me. But unlike me, they have a great unsullied view across the calm lagoon and, beyond the luminous reef, the sun in its final throes of setting.

Simon, Sue, Keith and Sally head to the airport in a launch, Maldives, 1978

Our main interest, of course, is radio broadcasting. This is my second Unesco assignment after a stint in Indonesia and I’ve been allotted two years in the Maldives to upgrade the broadcasting system, human and technological, with emphasis on educational development.

My first port of call has been to the education minister’s office. I’ve read the project design, I tell him, and it’s fine. But is there something the minister wants me to do first? He tells me he’d like the women who work at Radio Maldives to learn how to write radio scripts and also to talk properly when they’re presenting programs. I say we can do that and we’ll get on to it when I get back from this trip to the south with his deputy.

So, on this eight-day trip, in addition to recording islands music, singing, stories and dancing, and taping as many interviews as we can for Radio Maldives' news and current affairs programs, I’ll plan a script writing course. I’m also monitoring Radio Maldives’ radio signals according to a planned rotation of its five transmitters scheduled at different times of the day so we know which signals penetate where and with what strength. At present the transmitters, both medium and short wave, are used according to a schedule that bears no relationship to their technical capabilities.

I’ve arrived in Male sans family to give me time to set us up home and office in what is considered a hardship posting.  I’ve been allotted a two storey building next to Radio Maldives and its transmitter farm with a view through the aerial structures of the airport island across the Huhule Channel. Like every other house on Male, this house is built with coral brick rendered with cement and a limestone wash. It's as good a place as the country could manage for me and my family – and I express genuine gratitude to my new Maldivian friends. That is, even though the water supply is a well situated over a wall next to the neighbour’s sandpit latrine. We’ll have to get used to three-step well water purefying - boil, treat and filter – if we wish to avoid dysentery and cholera.

Meanwhile, over on Bandido, just as we finish stringing lights around a cluster of palm trees, the rain comes. Badrul and Mohamed have located a large open-sided shed, which is now crowded with what appears to be most of the island’s population. After some false starts the generator is fired up to a collective ‘Aaah’ from the gathering as the lights come on, glistening through the rain. Now we’re ready to record and the singing and dancing can start.

I spend a pleasant hour so watching proceedings. Badrul is a masterful and amusing MC and Hussain his usual well-organised self. They keep proceedings moving and on track.But all the while the wind gets stronger and the rain heavier and I’m thinking more about the trip back to Silver Beam in a 12 foot dhoni with a couple of inches of freeboard.

Interviews are being recorded as I run across to the island chief’s house, where deputy education minister Zaheer Hussain has taken shelter. He translates while I talk with the chief about what needs improving on the radio. Pretty much everything, it seems, including acquiring more radio receivers.

Then, at around eight, we call it a night and start to load the dhonis and head back to Silver Beam no more than a few hundred meters across the lagoon—a 30-minute journey by oar. Only then do we fully realise our precarious situation: 17 people crowded into our 12-foot boat designed for far fewer, with barely two inches of freeboard in a dead calm sea. Which this is not.

Halfway to Silver Beam, the wind becomes more violent and the waves more stroppy. It’s like we’re paddling through waist-deep water. The diminutive craft is almost swamped and we all hope it doesn’t know that. Through sheeting rain and in pitch darkness apart from the bobbing lights of Silver Beam from some lamps on shore, I calculate what might be the shortest swim— to the island abeam of us or our boat ahead. Then somehow, we have made it to Silver Beam with nothing worse than a thorough soaking.

Relief proves short-lived. The wind and rain intensify into a fully-fledged storm, and an anxious Zaheer informs me our anchor is dragging and if this continues the reef will stop us. With catastrophic results, I add. Only now does Captain Maniku start both engines and activate the radar. He stares into its glow with great intensity; like a fortune-teller at a crystal ball convention.

I can see that Maniku is attempting to maintain our position in relation to the reef, represented by a blue dot, and the surrounding islets. By now Silver Beam has begun to pitch and roll quite viciously, and I'm anxious. Though my legs seem steady when I look at them, I feel they are trembling uncontrollably. Zaheer appeared close to tears. He believes he has put us in danger.

After an hour, the storm subsides and the anchor has latched on to something solid. Captain Maniku confirms we are secure for the night. I retire to my bunk in the galley, sweating from the heat and sheer cowardice.

We rise at five and return to shore at Bandido to retrieve our equipment. We then breakfast and depart for Thaa Atoll under pleasant conditions. By ten we are in the lagoon but our destination—Thimarafushi—lies at the lagoon’s southern end, twenty-four miles distant.

The weather worsens again. A strong westerly wind creates five-foot swells that batter Silver Beam head-on, tossing her around. The helmsman attempts to dodge the worst waves with mixed success. After two and a half gruelling hours—with Fran vomiting, Zaheer still ashen from the previous night's ordeal, and everyone else thoroughly miserable—we reach Thimarafushi harbour.

The reception compensates for our difficult passage. We walk ashore between two lines: officials who shake our hands and children who applaud enthusiastically. That night features a fine tuna meal and a spirited recording session of the Maldivian traditional boduberu drums and downtempo readings of ancient poetry.

Sea travel in small boats to exotic locations creates a curious disorientation. Time passes neither quickly nor slowly but mysteriously. After a quiet morning on Thimarafushi, we travel by motorised dhoni to Veimandu, the atoll chief's island. Like other Maldivian islands, its mosque stands centrally with a wide thoroughfare extending to each waterfront.

Before evening, we journey thirty minutes to another island, Kimbifushi, for a recording session. Under the string of lights arranged around an old school, we witness stick dancing and boduberu performances. As always, our small party receives royal treatment and the evening offers a pleasant spontaneity. We return to Silver Beam by sailing dhoni, though without sufficient wind. Fortunately, strong rowers and a favourable current get us back by half past midnight. Silver Beam departs for Ghaaf Alifu at quarter past four, while I’m still asleep.

Male today - in 1978 the highest building was three stories

I awake with an infected foot and a dicky stomach—inevitable companions on journeys like this. Early in our crossing of the One-and-a-Half Degree Channel, we encounter swells reaching 12 feet, though their rounded tops make them less threatening than they might have been. Under brilliant skies the sea eventually calms, allowing us a smooth, swift crossing of the channel except where we cross through the turbulence where the east-west and west-east currents run side by side. That said, we arrived at Vilingili an hour ahead of schedule at one in the afternoon.

It's Republic Day and we receive a special welcome and are paraded up the main street to the atoll chief's office between national flags and beneath wide banners tied to enormous breadfruit trees. These trees, more common in the southern atolls, create impressive canopies.

We learn that Vilingili has been a centre of dissent, with the most recent revolt occurring 12 years ago in 1965. Lingering anti-government sentiment remains and manifests in abuse directed at the atoll chief, including rubbish thrown at his residence each night. He confides in me his intention to relocate to Kolamaafushi, a friendlier and more attractive island. Late afternoon finds us there for Republic Day celebrations, where we received another momentous welcome—though we three Westerners decline the honour of being carried ashore.

The hospitality of these remote islanders is overwhelming. Various dignitaries whisk me from home to home for snacks, tea and dinner, treating me with extraordinary grace and respect. An evening concert shows promise but suffers from an attempt to replicate Male's aristocratic style.

We expatriates choose to sleep aboard Silver Beam. I awake still feeling unwell and remain on board for most of the day, venturing ashore in the evening for dinner and boduberu performances. For whatever reason, Kolamaafushi's residents did not excel at singing, dancing, or drumming. Or maybe feeling a bit sick is colouring my sentiment.

Midnight finds us undertaking another perilous dhoni journey across choppy waters. Although we commence well upwind of Silver Beam, the strengthening current and contrary wind complicates our approach. The helmsman, attempting to round her stern, realises his rowers can scarcely make headway against the wind and waves. After frantic efforts, we manage to grab a line and secure ourselves. Captain Maniku and his crew must be questioning our sanity—every midnight return to the boat has involved some degree of risk.

Our planned departure from Kolamaafushi is postponed when the refuelling vessel arrives late and then we're told the fuel is contaminated. Uncertain of whether fresh supplies await us at Laamu Atoll, we watch the weather deteriorate into high winds and a fierce chop, uncomfortable when anchored just one hundred meters from the reef.

By mid-afternoon, Captain Maniku, concerned about a repeat of the Bandido anchor-dragging incident, deploys a stern anchor through an intricate circling manoeuvre observed by a large crowd on shore. A dhoni dispatched to assist us only complicates matters. The lagoon's waters career chaotically, rain falls steadily, blustery winds continue and the air feels extraordinarily cool.

Our would-be rescuers come aboard, enjoy tea and paddle back toward shore. Then a gale strikes, tearing off our sun canopy at the same time as the rescuers in their dhoni lose headway, paddling in circles as they drift towards the reef. We float a fender in their direction, but they have abandoned paddling by this, raising a paddle in a distress signal as they approach the reef. We radio for a motorised dhoni to attempt a rescue and watch helplessly as they bump over the reef and drift out of sight. (Later we learn they have been recovered unharmed.)

The weather improves overnight, but Captain Maniku deems conditions still too unsettled for crossing the One-and-a-Half Degree Channel to start our journey home. I remain aboard, now accustomed to Silver Beam's constant motion, while others depart in the Canary for a picnic three miles away. Canary is an eighteen-foot harbour launch accompanying the larger MV Addu on its regular northerly return voyage from Gan to Male.

The bad weather returns mid-afternoon and Canary crawls back just as Silver Beam adjusts its anchorage and fouls the stern cable. Fortunately, no one is injured, and the cable is freed intact. Otherwise the day passes uneventfully, allowing me to update my journal and read.

But we're stuck. Three days pass and we’re trapped at Kolamaafushi: the winds always too high and the seas always too rough to cross the channel. We get news of a cyclone between India and Sri Lanka that seems to explain our situation. More sobering is word of an inter-atoll boat that departed Meem on Friday heading in our direction and has not been heard from since. Our food supplies have dwindled and cannot be replenished from the island, itself running low on essentials.

Zaheer and Captain Maniku discuss taking Silver Beam further south to Ghaaf Dhaal in search of food, but there's insufficient fuel for the return trip and this is ruled impractical. We now face imminent rationing of our remaining provisions. Meanwhile, Hussain ritually feeds the weather, literally offering food to persuade it to improve—another instance of the animistic beliefs that coexist alongside Islamic faith throughout these islands.

On our fourth day waiting for the cyclone to dissipate, I send a message to Sue via walkie talkie explaining we won't return to Male before Saturday at the earliest. The missing inter-atoll boat, Seamark, has reached Laam safely after sheltering at an uninhabited island.

Zaheer seeks permission for himself, the Huntingtons and me to return to Male aboard a South Korean fish collection vessel currently in the area and which is scheduled to depart Friday morning. The prospect of a straight twenty-four-hour run to Male by Saturday morning makes me hopeful and the day's thoroughly miserable weather no longer depresses me—I had moved beyond despondency. Reading helps ward off boredom as I periodically glare at the clouds and curse them. The animism is rubbing off. Late afternoon brings worsening conditions, forcing Silver Beam to manoeuvre closer to the reef once more. Tomorrow's departure across the channel seems increasingly unlikely.

Day five of our forced stay at Kolamaafushi brings developments but no progress. Permission arrives for us to travel aboard the South Korean vessel, now identified as Sugon, but its departure has been postponed until Saturday. Urgent efforts to expedite its departure foundered on communication difficulties. An impromptu radio network involving Silver Beam, Sugon, Vilingili, Raa atoll, Male, Kolamaafushi, and mysteriously, Vilingili tourist resort near Male, fails to function effectively. The local ICP Fisheries manager, we later discover, had been attending a party.

Weather conditions seem to have improved markedly—it's a lovely Indian Ocean day—but concerns persist about sea conditions in the channel. Then, after midnight, a tremendous storm erupts, seemingly ending any chance of Silver Beam's morning departure. Aboard Addu, carrying no fewer than eighty passengers, food supplies have dwindled dangerously. The island itself now faces severe shortages. Our own diet has contracted to noodles, curried tuna, flour pancakes, weak tea and, if fortunate, a banana.

Day six begins uncertainly, but one fact remains clear: Silver Beam will not cross the channel and tension aboard has become palpable. Contradictory information about Soo Gon (registered in Pusan) creates confusion until it unexpectedly appears on the horizon around 1100—a 450-ton vessel carrying 170 tons of skipjack tuna.

Captain Yu Yong Mon and his chief engineer board Silver Beam. The captain, overwhelmed by the garlic aroma that by now I’ve ceased to notice, felt ill after thirty minutes and returns to his vessel. By early afternoon, arrangements are finalised, and we leave our garlic-ridden boat by motorised dhoni to Soogon. After ten days aboard Silver Beam, the change in surroundings feels surreal.

We're soon underway and Soogon picks its way through Ghaaf Alifu's reefs—some appearing as mere streaks of emerald watercolour—and reach Vilingili by 1600. Badurul and Hussain have remained with Silver Beam to conduct recordings at Laam and Meem (or Vaav) if they have time on the way back.

Then, on Soogon, I enjoy my best meal since Male - Korean beef and onion soup - and note that weight loss reveals bones unseen for a decade. Also have my first taste of Sun cigarettes, apparently manufactured specifically for deep-sea fishing vessels. Leaving Silver Beam behind, Soogon makes her way through the narrow channel out of Vilingili and into the open sea. It's just before sunset.

Fifty miles east of Meemu Atoll and I’m awake, Soogon's rock-hard beds proving less comfortable than expected, though I have a four-berth cabin to myself. Later in the morning, at 1000, I’m on the bridge and the captain produces a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black, his expression clearly seeking a drinking companion. My response conveys willing participation.

By early afternoon, we have nearly emptied the bottle, using a world atlas as our common language. I gather that the skipper is married with two daughters and eagerly anticipates returning to Pusan after this trip. He's been five years as captain. He atlas-splains that, while some crew members exhibit eccentric behaviour—one of them is obsessed with throwing hens overboard—they maintain generally positive relations.

Mid-afternoon brings grim news. Before six this morning, Silver Beam departed Kolamaafushi on a single engine. Later radio communications reported that the other engine had failed, leaving her adrift and uncertain of her location somewhere in the One-and-a-Half-Degree Channel.

Immediately, Soogon's afterdeck floodlights are ablaze and soon every light on the ship shines, even though dusk is still an hour away. Through various radio channels, including Radio Maldives, Silver Beam has been instructed to look out for us. Round-the-clock lookouts are established while Silver Beam on walkie talkie, all it has, transmits a mayday every thirty minutes, which officers monitor to try to determine her position. Though the transmissions are strong, Silver Beam remains unsighted and night falls without contact.

Sunday morning finds the weather fine and us sombre. Where out there are our friends?  The sea is churning and foam sprays skywards as waves break across waves. No further reports have come from Silver Beam, which it seems had departed Kolamaafushi with only eight hours of fuel remaining—that’s over twenty-six hours ago. On Soogon, lookouts with binoculars scan all directions, with the best man stationed at the bow.

By now we understand Silver Beam has lost both motors and is drifting. At 1315, the bow lookout reports a sighting. I marvel at his ability to distinguish anything in this white-flecked ocean. Silver Beam's position is 3°25'N 75°E. By 1430 she is under tow, despite the captain's preference to evacuate crew and passengers. It was impossible in the rough seas. Our two broadcasters, my close friends Badurul and Hussain, are safe aboard.

All morning, Soo Gong has sailed a zigzag course east of the Maldives, beyond sight of its low atolls. Captain Yu Yong Mon correctly judged that Silver Beam had been caught in the channel's west-east current that runs north of its companion east-west current—a savvy assessment considering the boat supposedly ran out of fuel. I glimpsed her at 1330—a small white dot on the horizon, distinct from the flickering whitecaps.

With wind gusting past thirty knots and seas large and irregular, the towline was rigged with remarkable skill and speed. We proceed toward Male at half speed, then slow further as conditions deteriorate. Throughout afternoon and night, Silver Beam bucks and skews, placing tremendous strain on the towline, which I fear will break.

Our lost vessel had wandered much further north than expected and had caught the west-east current. The fuel estimate was inaccurate. Until the final moments, Captain Maniku believed he had sailed west of the Maldives. Thinking himself west, he had sailed northeast—away from the archipelago into open ocean—and was on this course when Soo Gong appeared. The South Koreans displayed exceptional navigational skills and judgment of their fellow seafarers.

At midnight, we heave-to in calmer waters eight miles east of Male. We resume at 0515, having drifted twelve miles northeast in a two-knot current before dawn. Male appears just before seven, and we enter the Hulule Channel around eight to find quite a welcoming committee—police, press, officials and spectators.

Silver Beam slips her towline and proceeds to her berth under her own power. Uh! How’d that happen? I feel disconnected, the past two weeks having alternated between excruciating boredom and intense activity. A car waits at the jetty to whisk Zaheer, the Huntingtons and me to our homes.

I’m beyond happy at seeing Sue, Simon and Sally. Sue, always calm, related how rumours about Silver Beam's mishap and our whereabouts had proliferated, making it impossible to discern the truth. Only one of my three messages had reached her—and that one garbled. Silver Beam's misfortunes and the dramatic search were big news in Male. Poor Captain Maniku had a difficult voyage and allowed instinct to override judgment during the final hours. But, I reflect, we all have our bad days!

The aftermath brings unexpected complications. Captain Maniku and Badurul are placed under house arrest, apparently for directly radioing President Nasir requesting intervention. His helicopter. Anything. I consider their plea reasonable, but the president—a petty-minded tyrant—has taken offence at the public nature of the appeal because it “failed to follow appropriate protocols.” He allocates blame swiftly and incorrectly. In truth, Silver Beam had been ill-equipped for this journey: only one reliable engine, mere walkie-talkies for communication, insufficient fuel and virtually no navigational aids throughout the country’s vast waterways. I resolved to intercede if necessary.

Epilogue

Intervention proved unnecessary. Captain Maniku and Badurul Naseer soon gained release from house arrest. While the captain's subsequent livelihood remains unknown to me, Badurul advanced through a successful broadcasting career, eventually becoming President of the Maldives Broadcasting Commission. I undertook two more official voyages in the Maldives. During the second, our boat ran firmly aground on a reef—but that’s a story for another day.